Reviews of the Dublin Fringe Festival
Absence and Presence, Project ***
Our dead haunt us, particularly if we might have reason to regret them. In his multi-media production, physical and mime performer Andrew Dawson takes us into the world of his mute grief. While a hunched figure constructed from mesh inhabits the stage like a wraith, Dawson presents poignant images that remind us of how it is the little things - the pipe, the glasses, the lamp, the otherwise innocuous phrase in a letter - that sink their teeth into our heart when we are consumed with loss. His use of video (on a television perched on stage, also effective in presenting the symbolic minutiae of a middle-class household) and lighting on a spare set beautifully expresses the silent interior world into which mourning makes us retreat. The show does feel a bit long, and some imagery is perhaps so intensely personal that we can't follow it. (Until Sat) - Christine Madden
Automatic Bastard, Crawdaddy ****
The whiff of stale drink in a depressing daytime Crawdaddy helped Karl Schappell's monologue that pieced together snippets from darker times in his life. From under a pile of red paper, the coyly naked performer retches and emerges hung-over, admitting that these snippets don't necessarily fit together into a cohesive whole. But what you observe over the next 50 minutes does coalesce into a portrait of a person with idiosyncratic dreams and fears. Danced interludes within the confined stage area magnified the wracked limbs and straining muscles that seemed to silence inner expression. Continually engaging, Schappell's delivery veered towards the extreme, such as shouting into the microphone to show his passion like a stand-up comedian. But carefully chosen music and lighting changes demonstrated quiet consideration behind the scenes. (Until Sat) - Michael Seaver
From Dakota, Mill Theatre Lounge, Dundrum ****
Doug is driving toward, and away from, his destiny. 'Am I here?' he asks when he appears on stage, the tight muscles of his harrowed face and sinewy arms coiling and recoiling as he acts out the final moments of his life like a warped tape caught on rewind. Indeed this tortured Doug that we meet on stage is the physical embodiment of a celluloid Doug whom we are already acquainted with from the film Dakota, which is presented as the first half-hour of this live art performance piece. The angular wide-screen shot of the film mirrors the receding perspective through which Doug's dreams and nightmares are reflected and refracted as he journeys deeper into his own consciousness. If Colin Gee is convincingly naturalistic as Doug on screen, he is a haunting shadow of himself on stage, and Erin Gee's eerie soundtrack heightens the unsettling atmosphere. (Until Sat) - Sara Keating
Heaven Scent? Player's Theatre *
Beware: the clue is in the title. Audiences must endure regular spraying of potent perfume throughout this bewildering offering from Tu Pie Are, which resembles a student production gone very self-indulgent indeed. Where to begin? Adam (Ciaran Fitzgerald) and Eve (Eavan Brennan) in a box. A Serpent-Devil (PJ Dunlevy). Adam runs after Eve. Adam reappears in a dress. Adam reappears in a loin-cloth. Eve disappears. A woman dressed as a child in a nativity play (Maeve Fitzgerald) appears. They all talk a lot of nonsense about cloning and nothing happens. Eve reappears. The Devil-Serpent isn't the only one with horns - Eve wants Adam's "tinkle-winkle" in her "cavity"."Who wrote this shite?" newsreader Jonathan Delaney-Tynan asks rhetorically at one point. John Kieran, as it happens. Hats off, however, for PJ Dunlevy, whose deliciously camp and assured turn as the Serpent earns the single star for his performance alone. (Until Sat) - Rosita Boland
I Can't Handle Me, Samuel Beckett Theatre ***
Winding up a music box and staring, wide-eyed at a giant hoop that lifts her into the air, Chantale McCormick is a young girl whose emerging adolescence is unwoven in the dance aerial work, I Can't Handle Me. Initially joyful and child-like, soon a giant tampon descends from the ceiling, providing a prop which is conquered both metaphorically and physically. Hanging from its rope, then riding up into the air, her inner Britney Spears comes out as she dances through her teens. Harnessing the red fabric that spills from the tampon, McCormick uses amazing strength to wrap herself in and around the cloth, passing through womanhood to a final resting moment. She proves a captivating performer in a satisfying production, but some of the lengthier aerial parts were probably more fun for her to perform than for us to watch. (Until Sun) - Christie Taylor
Oz: A Fairytale Plot, Liberty Hall Theatre **
DoppleGäng, a company composed largely of disparate talents from Dublin's gay scene, have dared to follow many others in deconstructing one of their community's sacred texts. Or have they? Incorporating filmed footage and featuring a cast of dozens, this latest reinvention of The Wizard of Oz has some fun with the self-centredness of Dorothy and works hard at portraying the Wicked Witch as a martyr for the excluded. But too much of this absurdly overlong show is taken up with the cast miming to songs from the 1939 film, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and - to an outrageous extent - Stephen Schwartz's musical Wicked. To be fair, mouthing fabulously to playback is a legitimate part of gay culture and the piece might go down nicely in a small venue before an audience willing to sing along. Sadly, in the Liberty Hall Theatre it looks as misplaced as poor Dorothy. (Until Sun) - Donald Clarke
Prison Love: One Day International and Wraygunn, Spiegeltent **
Washboard, nail brush, horseshoe and a whole load of high lonesome vocals: Prison Love trade in high octane bluegrass with just the right tincture of trouser-hitchin' country. Georgia Love, Single Girl and a sizzling cover of The Balfa Brothers' La Danse de Mardi Gras set the bar high from the get-go. Matt Lunson's One Day International were all affectation and strife. Lunson's vocals hint at a cross between Jeff Buckley and Rufus Wainwright, but his high-blown romance ultimately drowns in a saccharine cocktail of grandiloquent piano and pedestrian lyrics. Portuguese gospel rockers Wraygunn finally turned up the heat, but only after an interminable sound check that saw a swathe of the audience exit stage left. A raggedy night of music, with little thought for the punters who endured repeated and unexplained delays. A fringe low-light. - Siobhan Long
The Bi-Annual Barbecue & Other Stories, Smock Alley Theatre ****
The UK-based Dog-Eared Collective wrest us from our artsy-fartsy fringe experience, plunk us down on Sea-Goat Island, and lead us a merry chase round a tale of one widow's struggle to memorialise her sea-captain husband's demise in the murky deep, via the bi-annual village fete, the politics of which are typical of any small town and involve a drug-addicted donkey, carny folk, and cross-dressing Morris dancers. The tale - early Joanna Trollope-esque vicar lit as filtered through music hall capering and physical theatre - is corny, ridiculous, and appears to be delivered sans post-modern irony, and as such, one might expect it to be cringe-worthy. It's not, due to the talents of Kathryn Hanke, James Huntington, Joanna Hutt and Jenny Thomson. Playing the characters that comprise the community, each are physically adept and perfectly pitched tonally, charming even the most reluctant audience into their quaint and whimsical world. Future endeavours might benefit from dramaturgical intervention to focus their narrative drive, but hopefully without losing their appealing guilelessness. (Until Sat: note: entrance on Essex Quay) - Susan Conley
The Little Death, T36 **
It's unfortunately impossible to give an accurate appraisal of this work. Coming from another country to take up in the melee of the fringe is difficult enough, and the locally unknown Marina Sossi Group had to present their show in a remote and very noisy space, which meant this piece, without a sound design, bravely performed in front of a minuscule audience, could gather little dramatic momentum. Performer Sossi presents a one-woman show in which she re-enacts a holiday one-night stand and displays its shallowness, desperation and soul-rending emptiness. It incorporates clever elements but felt difficult to follow - a sound design would have been hugely helpful in combating not only the noise from upstairs but also helping to engage the audience. The show could stand further development. Two stars, but Sossi gets an extra star for pluck. (Until Sun) - Christine Madden
The Rainstorm, Axis Theatre ***
A girl is found dead in a small American town. Overdose or suicide? Detective Salmon (Neill Fleming) investigates Chloe's life and death, by interviewing her friends and family, gradually piecing together a portrait of an impulsive, sensitive and troubled young girl. Chloe herself is intermittently present on a film screen, with silent clips of both her and things that were meaningful to her. It's a good, solid idea about interpreting absence from different angles, but it never really catches fire, and the plot is not helped by a pointless romantic sidetrack at the end. A tighter script would have meant a much sharper play. Best of the ensemble cast was Rebecca Guinnane, although the production was not helped by several accents regularly slipping from American to broad Irish. More distracting by far than this, however, was the near-frenzied and unnecessary rearranging of four armchairs after every scene. Less would have been more all round for a production that felt weighed down with an overlong script and too much going on visually. (Until Sat) - Rosita Boland
Star turns
***** Brilliant
**** Good
*** More good than bad
** More bad than good
* Bad
