Hedda Gabler at Project Arts Centre, Dublin.

Hedda Gabler

Project Arts Centre, Temple Bar

By Fintan O'Toole

Anyone inclined to wonder why Hedda Gabler shoots herself in the head at the end of Henrik Ibsen's masterwork of 1890 has obviously not yet seen the new Loose Canon staging of the play. As the clock creeps past 11 in this slow-motion train wreck of a production, the case in which Hedda keeps her father's duelling pistols acquires an almost irresistible allure. The thought that with one click of the trigger it could all be over is unbearably tantalising.

To be fair, we have been warned early on. The opening scene of Hedda Gabler is a classic of naturalistic exposition. A few lines after her first entrance, Hedda complains that the maid has left her old hat on a chair in the drawing room. We know that this is in fact a brand new hat bought specially for the occasion by her new husband's fussy but kind-hearted aunt, who is still in the room. The tiny incident brilliantly illuminates the casually destructive personality of a woman whose frustration at the limits of her life will make her so dangerous to herself and others.

In this version, however, the aunt is absent. Hedda is talking to her on the phone. The hat, though, is on a chair in the room. When Hedda makes her remark about the maid's old hat, the insult is simply inexplicable. Why is the hat still there if the aunt has gone? How does the aunt know that the hat Hedda is looking at is her own? And why, in any event, does Hedda make her complaint over the phone to a woman she barely knows?

The entire scene is completely absurd, and the fact that director Jason Byrne has seen fit neither to make sense of it, nor to leave it out completely, makes you wonder why he has chosen to stage this text at all.

The next two and a half hours bring no answers. That the play has been torn from its naturalistic form and unfolds on a white floor with four modern chairs and two small tables is not necessarily problematic - so long as there is a coherent alternative style into which the minute psychological detail can fit. But when that style consists of an irritatingly arch indulgence in the full repertoire of bad mannerisms, it's very hard to know what's going on.

One assumes that there is a big idea somewhere at the back of it all, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it is meant to be.

Is the intention to create a farcical burlesque of Ibsen? Or to suggest that the other actors are grotesque puppets in Hedda's mind? Are the caricatures deliberate or accidental? Is it being played for laughs or is it merely risible?

The most obvious explanation would be that the young cast simply isn't up to the job, but that would be unfair. All five actors over-act in precisely the same way, with a similar range of flouncing, posing, mugging and tics. All have clearly been told to look past each other into empty space in a similar suggestion of dramatic thoughtfulness. All underline each sentence with elaborate gestures. This suggests that the director has actually instructed them to behave in this way, and that their names should be withheld to protect the innocent.

A programme note tells us that the aim has been to produce a "physical and vocal equivalent" of daily life "that might be comparable to the paintings of Picasso, Munch and Witkacy". The effect, however, is much more like what you might see hanging on the railings at Merrion Sq on a bad day.

Runs until June 7th.