"Beer" is a musical odyssey, where a ten-year-old boy named Boon and a puppet birthed from his own vomit, appropriately named Puke, must learn how to successfully brew beer in order to save the town from the evil Bud Miller, whose corporate concoctions have sullied the town to the point where personified beer ingredients must sing bad lounge songs to make themselves feel better. Helping these unlikely heroes on their journey are the Beer Geeks, musicians and eggers-on, whose knowledge about microbrewing runs deeper than all the political corruption in Illinois. With wildly imaginative puppetry, shadowplay and scenic design, the Neo-Futurists have turned Metropolitan Brewery into a certifiably awesome venue. The downside is that it’s freezing-ass cold in there. So leave the beer goggles at home, but not the earmuffs.
The comedy of Neo-Futurist productions has become a staple in Chicago theatre and was sadly absent from "Beer", which veered toward a kind of drippy sentimentality, long stretches of maniacal cackling and pointless trivia. Sure, audiences might walk away knowing now what the word “zymurgy” means, but on an entertainment scale, the writing was sorely lacking. The actors, however, approached their roles with robust enthusiasm, which made the play’s more sobering moments less, well, sobering. The musical affectations ranged from country to lounge to rap, and the Beer Geeks proved to be just as adept at making music as they were at puppet stage combat. The most impressive feat perhaps was turning yeast into a mad scientist character using old-school overhead projectors, which projected images onto what appeared to be a large bag of grain. The visuals, including the animation sketches, the cleverly crafted props and the use of a gigantic brewing vat hanging from the ceiling to portray a beer god, were all arresting, perhaps to cover up for the watered-down substance in the play.
While there’s nothing about "Beer" to get really hopped up about, this is creative theater that won’t cost you an arm and a keg.