The Hammer Trinity myth is based on two assumptions: First, that what we call "history" is actually nothing more than stories, their adherence to facts determined by the storyteller—ahem, historian—and, second, that the dramatic question of this story is that of how best to govern a country. If audiences approach Nathan Allen and Chris Mathews's high-fantasy epic with these precepts in mind, even playgoers unacquainted with the genre can retain their bearings amid its vertigo-inducing universe, where dragons, sorcerers, vikings, pirates and Old West gunslingers co-exist with colonial insurgents and industrial tycoons as well as perpetrators of genocide and holocaust. In fact, it might all start to look oddly familiar.
Our saga began in 2012 with The Iron Stag King, in which "storyteller" Hap the Golden helps to restore the monarch of an unnamed island-nation, following the collapse of a short-lived attempt at rule by republic. In 2013's The Crownless King, rival storyteller Irek Obsidian assists rebels in the pursuit of democracy, only to plunge the populace into bloody and brutal war, as proponents of the "Greater Good" clash with those of "Liberty." With the emergence of a third storyteller, The Excelsior King completes the trilogy to resolve the conflict through an uneasy accord precipitated by alliance against a common enemy.
This isn't some Tom Stoppard-style symposium, however. House Theater's well-earned reputation for spectacle mandates the debate's framing in a Tolkienesque yarn of a long-lost prince and a chess-playing warrior queen, their legacy preserved for future generations by a pastoral demigoddess. Supporters of this plan encompass Norsemen of fiery temper and unyielding principles, mercenaries haunted by guilt over past crimes, elderly survivors of fallen regimes, eager students, rowdy sailors and a cohort comprising eagles, foxes, crows, snakes and the aforementioned iron stag. Villains include assorted Macchiavellian power brokers and thuggish freebooters promoting scorched-earth agendas culminating in a full-out battle pitting swords, cannons and flying reptiles against zeppelins, torpedoes and World War I-vintage aircraft.
More than seven hours are required to recount the chronicles in their entirety, but the individual plays—which should be viewed sequentially for optimum effect—are presented as standalone productions on special weekdays, while the weekend performances are spread over nine hours to allow for generous intermissions, ensuring that neither actors nor spectators need fear succumbing to hunger or fatigue. Skeptics wary of the time commitment may also dismiss any doubts as to the worthiness of their investment. (Did I mention the maps pictured in the playbill, the thrilling action-puppetry, or Pulitzer-winning playwright Tracy Letts voicing the surly Obsidian?)
Anyway, where else will you find crowds cheering, waving, weeping and chanting, "Story save us all!" as they depart? For sure, it won't happen at a puny Netflix "marathon."
