Amid the mess that is “The Crud” shine some gems of insight. Which is apt, since Buntport Theater’s latest, ambitious and absurdist performance piece takes on the stuff that humans keep — or, rather, shunt off to a storage unit we may or may not visit.
Last October, Buntport announced it was going to purchase a storage unit at an auction. “Yeah, like ‘Storage Wars,’ ” stated a later press release.
In that release, the company went on to lay out the artistic/philosophical parameters for its endeavor. “(W)e said that whatever we found in the locker would inspire our next play. We all knew that we didn’t intend to write a play about the original owner of the contents, but that this collection ― curated by a stranger ― would be a jumping-off point.”
I share some of the reasoning behind the entertaining albeit uneven show because it speaks to the personality of this always imaginative outfit. Because the Buntport troupe — Erik Edborg, Hannah Duggan, Erin Rollman, Brian Colonna and SamAnTha Schmitz (offstage) — most often operates in the “meta” sphere. Cogitate about, chuckle at and wrestle with human complexity is what the gang of five co-creators does with consistent and edgy aplomb.
And so “The Crud” finds three fanciful denizens of a pile of stuff contemplating … well, that’s the tricky part. Let’s say boredom, attachment, the waxing and waning value of “junk” for their owners.
Interceding from time to time is a white-clad fellow with a white plume atop his head. Portrayed by Edborg, the character “I Have No Name” is there to help Bearly Bear, Dear Dear and Broken Baby Doll Detective (and, more important, the audience) formulate questions about memory and forgetting, hoarding and letting go.
Off to one side of the stage is a pile of stuff that includes furniture, an old stereo receiver, clothes, a shoe here and there. It’s a “bunch of who-needs-it against a background of the same,” says I Have No Name at one point. making the comparison of the pile’s contents to those of our fading memory.
Behind a gauzy scrim on the other side of the stage is a white wall. Because the scrim acts as a screen for “surveillance” projections, the show’s visual field can be layered, disorienting or both.
The costumes, too, are bizarro. A pony head with antlers sits atop Dear Deer’s head. A wee toy man with no arms rests on Broken Baby Doll Detective’s shoulder. When introducing a hunch, the ultra-specific private eye (Colonna) presses “play’ on an old-style tape recorder. Out comes a sobering tune to loopy noirish effect. As for the kindly if dim Bearly Bear, Hannah Duggan makes a heckuva entrance (not to be spoiled here). Her pelt is made up of (mostly) stuffed animals sewn together.
Forget her moniker: Dear Deer (Rollman) isn’t very gentle. Aggravated by boredom is more like it. She does not respond favorably to Barely Bear’s sweet invitation to “go lick some batteries.” The only cure to her ennui: raspberry jelly, of which there’s a scant supply.
If “The Crud” sounds rather mad, it is.
The show has wit. When Bearly Bear gets hit with a wave of nausea, the audience guffawed. Some ender lines of dialog stick. For instance, “Let’s all hate each other is not as fun as it sounds.” And the repeated gesture of the characters greeting anxiety with “arms-open” is touching for its topsy-turvy vulnerability. As always, each cast member injects his or her performance with idiosyncratic verve.
What “The Crud” doesn’t have — and I want to say “yet,” because I can see how this show could become special in a future iteration — are some moments of empty space and quiet. Like the mix of treasures and rubbish Buntport purchased, the show’s ideas are strewn throughout the 75-minute piece.
The closest the “The Crud” comes to much-needed pauses are the interventions of Edborg’s character and the brief, repeated refrain “time passes.” It does, quite swiftly.
While a great deal of the clutter and breakneck pacing is intentional, the show would benefit from some deep breathes. Throw open that roll-up storage unit door! Let some air in!