Dead Drone is one of the worst shows I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen thousands of shows.
It’s the writing.
Even scripts this bad often start off with the best of intentions, of course. In Dead Drone, playwright David Mott takes on climate change, the toxicity of social media, addiction, and Covid-like isolation. It’s a grab bag. It’s too much.
And the story is incoherent.
We’re in the post-apocalyptic future. That much is clear. I knew going in that the premise is that environmental collapse has killed off all the bees, so humans have created human/bee hybrids called BEEples. If I hadn’t known that, nothing in the script would have enlightened me and I would have been as fundamentally confused as friends I spoke with afterwards. The program explains the BEEples’ slave-like functions. The script doesn’t, but it is clear that they are functionaries.
A BEEple named Wipple is a serious royal-jelly addict. Another, Nim, wants to transform — into what, who knows? — and leave the hive.
Nim and Wipple have gotten their BEEple hands on a surveillance drone that’s valuable on the dark web because of its data and especially because of its AI “brick”. Again, the program explains the nature of this value but, if you’re sitting in the dark in the theatre, the script isn’t going to shine any light on that either.
The environment in this world is so poisonous that citizens are forced to stay indoors. Travel between areas of the city is restricted — and under drone surveillance. Humans named Jenny and Sam are trying to conduct a romance that involves a lot of dog/cat roleplay.
And there’s a fifth character, The Mountaineer, who spends most of his time in a tower manipulating crude images on video screens. It took me forever to figure out that this guy is a social media superstar who holds Jenny and Sam in his thrall.
Besides the script’s impenetrability, it’s laden with goofy bee puns: Wiffle and Nim declare themselves bee-FFs. Everybody talks in a pseudo-poetic future-speak, and there are endless scenes of circular dialogue. My companion started checking his watch ten minutes in. I struggled to keep my eyes open.
Director Tamara McCarthy is also credited as being the dramaturge. If there is such a thing as a dramaturgical license, McCarthy’s should be revoked. Somebody had to tell Mott that writing endless dialogue isn’t all there is to being a playwright; you also have to create narrative tension and relatable emotional stakes. Somebody had to tell him that made-up language isn’t always poetic. Somebody had to tell him that this script is a mess. This is all the dramaturge’s responsibility and there’s no evidence that McCarthy did any of it.
To their great credit — and McCarthy’s — the actors commit themselves fully to this material and three out of five of them land in a consistent style. For me, Evelyn Chew is the standout as Jenny. She makes specific choices in the rambling material, commits herself emotionally, and finds the right pitch of heightened, almost parodic delivery, which helps the comedy land. Chloe Payne and Sarah Roa are also successful as the slightly robotic Wipple and the idealistic Nim. Paulo Ribeiro (Sam) doesn’t find the same sense of style, but he delivers a naturalistic performance, which is a reasonable fallback. Darcey Johnson (The Mountaineer) isn’t really called upon to act, so no harm done there.
One of the program notes declares that the show’s visual style is weirdcore. If weirdcore means sloppy and amateurish, they got that right.
If anything in this review makes you think that Dead Drone might be worth seeing, I apologize. That’s not my intention.
DEAD DRONE by David Mott. Directed by Tamara McCarthy. An Upintheair Theatre production. At the Russian Hall until April 19. (Tickets and information)
PHOTO CREDIT: In Dead Drone, Darcey Johnson plays a deejay/social-media figure called The Mountaineer. (Photo by David Mott)
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