In some ways, the most surprising thing
about Conor McPherson’s breakthrough play is how
un-spooky it is. It may take the
form of a collection of ghost stories exchanged in a rural Irish pub,
but the dramatic burden of it is not the eerie other world which
touches each of the tellers, but rather their tentative contact with
each other as a result of such shared experiences: it is as if they can
only live together in this world
through
that one. Josie Rourke’s revival – the play’s first major outing in
London since its 1997 premičre – does not bother ratcheting up the
“atmosphere”; she hardly even deploys any wind noises (for it is, in
best tradition, a dark and stormy night), and when a framed photograph
fell off the wall (I presume unintentionally) in the opening minutes of
press night, none of the audience seemed to jump.
Before
The Weir, McPherson
was known as a master monologist, but actually getting his characters
to talk to each other was in his terms a revolutionary move. They may
still be most in control when telling their respective tales, but in a
way that is the playwright’s point: how ill at ease they are when
interacting seriously with others. The banal banter is captured with
the keenest of ears, but when matters get any deeper… This is
especially apparent in the two main antagonists: Finbar (Risteárd
Cooper), a big fish in a small pool, and Jack, to whom Brian Cox brings
the same partial glimmer of embittered self-awareness he showed in
McPherson’s monologue
Saint Nicholas.
Rourke elicits more comedy than may have been expected, but this shows
the range of the writing rather than an inconsistent or misconceived
approach to it. Dervla Kirwan deploys an embarrassing girlish giggle to
counterbalance her character’s harrowing recollections; Ardal O’Hanlon
underplays beautifully, astutely rationing those blank looks at which
he excels; Peter McDonald has just enough room to suggest that it is
significant that barman Brendan is the only character without a story
of his own. This is one of those productions where having nothing much
to say about it does not mean that it is undistinguished, but rather
that no false note is sounded throughout its hour and three-quarters.
Written for the Financial
Times.