Malone is going to die soon. He senses death coming and, indeed, could die today if he were to make a small effort; but he no longer has the mental energy for that. His life has, in any terms he can conjure up, been futile. He was born grave, as some are born syphilitic, and developed into an archetypal outsider from the first burgeonings of intelligence, or perhaps only consciousness.

On his deathbed, he forgives nobody. Without passion or vehemence, he wishes his life's acquaintances the fire and ice of hell. He has never really lived, never understood the meaning of living; but in that case perhaps he did live, without knowing it? However, his time on earth held no joy, no worthwhile happenings, and he will receive his death without protest or regret.

Malone is, of course, the creation of Samuel Beckett in his novel of that name, and is embodied rather than played here by Conor Lovett of the Gare St Lazare Players. He begins and continues mostly in monotone, and with minimal vocal inflection and physical gesture creates an extraordinary portrait in depth of the character. Malone can often speak of himself only as a third person with another name, here McMahon, and his recollections are often droll, sometimes pitiful and occasionally horrifying.

As always with Beckett, the verbal and other images have such an intense focus that they communicate a bleak and distorted world in a way that impinges on the familiar. We understand him. Improbably, there is laughter in it too, and Conor Lovett, as guided by his director Judy Hegarty, locates this as well as the bizarre misanthropy in an evening of special theatre.

To April 28th; booking on 01-6795720