Somewhere, 139 paces from the shore at low tide, near a tree stump, sits a still, an assemblage of sundry parts tended by Mary (Stacy Whittle) and Joe (Robert Sheire). The long-married couple, dressed in faded and threadbare clothing, seem to have divided the labor accordingly: Joe, who built the still, tends the fire, and Mary carefully walks to and from the shore, cupping the brine in her bare hands, to pour into the machinery. Mary and Joe aren’t making moonshine. They’re desalinating water. Climate change has so wrecked the environment that rain no longer falls on land, meaning there’s no water to support agriculture, and as the food and water supply collapsed so has any ability to sustain civilization.
When I wrote for the Boston-based publication The Arts Fuse, my editor, Bill Marx, often lamented how rarely theater paid attention to the threat of ecological collapse. Currently D.C. audiences are fortunate to see the subject receive an absurdist treatment with Australian playwright John Shand’s The Last Drop, currently receiving its world premiere production with Scena Theatre at DC Arts Center. While much of Scena’s reputation is based on presenting neglected classics of the international stage, director Robert McNamara and his longtime collaborators are also the ideal company to present Shand’s challenging new work and provide it such an intimate space that one is never more than four seats away from the end of the world.
After the water apocalypse, if society still exists somewhere, Mary and Joe are far away from it. They live close enough to the sea to use the brine but refuse to move any closer, due to Joe’s fear of being seen by nomads. With little memory of his past and no dreams to remember, Joe is focused solely on water collection. Mary still dreams and remembers for both of them when they first fell in love. The rest, however, is blurry.
Their day in, day out efforts are soon disrupted by the arrival of two more survivors: Valentino (Ron Litman), a self-described “businessman” in an orange-checkered three-piece suit and fedora, and Esmeralda (Danielle Davy), a sex worker in platform heels (not so practical after the collapse), fishnet stockings, and—perhaps the most inspired piece of dystopian chic that costume designer Alisa Mandel made for the show—a formfitting dress made from a burlap sack. The words LOVE ESME ME BABY are painted across the front. Potable water is an essential commodity, and Valentino offers Joe a night with Esmeralda in exchange for some. To Mary’s outrage, Joe, initially leery of the visitors, is quite agreeable to the offer. Mary is then left alone with Valentino.
The scene that follows is at once a dance, a seduction, and debate on what morality means in a world where society no longer exists. Litman and Whittle play it for brilliant satirical comedy. Mary may be revolted that Valentino is a pimp, and while the water she controls is essential for survival, the Scotch and chocolate that Valentino has hidden in his pockets are luxuries. He makes the case that a kiss is a luxury she controls. The blue bucket he has in his wheelbarrow isn’t a luxury but a means of greater productivity for the still.
By the next morning Mary is hungover, Joe is in a pit of self-loathing, and their visitors are gone. But after some recriminations and a wonderfully grotesque physical comedy routine involving impromptu dental surgery, they find a new sense of optimism and cooperation. As Act I ends, they see a new set of strangers walking up the shoreline.
In Act II, a disheveled Esmeralda and Valentino return to the site, finding Mary and Joe bruised and beaten and the still damaged. Contradictory accounts are given, but ultimately, these four characters have to decide whether rebuilding the still, and perhaps repairing the little corner of the world in which they find themselves, is worth it or if it is time to succumb to nihilism.
Back in present-day Sydney, Shand writes theater criticism as well as plays, and as with any critic who also practices the art they review, he has taken in a wide range of influences. His ability to skillfully weave a dramatic tapestry from these influences allows him to adroitly play on expectations. What at first seems like an homage to the apocalypses of Samuel Beckett, gives way to the dialectics of capitalism and morality a la Bertolt Brecht, while also bringing in over-the-top theatrical clowning. Other times the dark comedy is interrupted by even darker tragedy as with a powerfully performed monologue by Davy in which Esmeralda recounts the moment after the collapse that horrified her so much that she might not be telling the full truth of what happened.
Scenic designer Carl Gudenius, who created the titular vehicle for Scena’s adaptation of The Time Machine, has done wonderful work in creating Joe’s still: awkwardly assembled with a funnel, curling copper pipes, spouts, and vats. The contraption nonetheless looks like it might just work, and the simple sheet that hangs from the ceiling before spreading out upon the floor—upon which Kirk Kristlibas projects colors and abstract designs—gives the impression of vast emptiness even in the small and intimate space. The ensemble, along with movement coach Kim Curtis, have crafted a series of strange interludes that lead us from scene to scene.
Too often pop culture addresses our anxiety about the world’s end with outlandish fictions of zombies and asteroids, but a world without safe drinking water is tinged with an all-too-believable reality. Thanks to Shand and Scena, we can view the end of the world just three seats from the aisle.
Scena Theatre presents the world premiere of The Last Drop, written by John Shand and directed by Robert McNamara, at DC Arts Center. scenatheater.org. $25.50–$45
