Today Gerry Colgan reviews Faith Healer at the Belltable and Peter Crawley watched Witnness at the Fairyhouse Racecourse.
Faith Healer
Belltable, Limerick
By Gerry Colgan
Brian Friel's Faith Healer is seldom revived, perhaps because of producers' reluctance to be measured against the famous Abbey version with the late, great Donal McCann. Limerick's Island Theatre Company, in celebration of its 21st birthday, has now taken it on, and shown that more than one climber can conquer its peak.
From the moment that a corner of the dark stage is gradually lit to reveal a tall, gaunt man reciting a litany of obscure words, the names of small villages in Wales and Scotland, we are in thrall to his odyssey. He is the eponymous Frank Hardy, who became a healer not out of selflessness, but simply because he could. His gift doesn't always work, but when it does, it brings him exaltation.
Self-doubt is inevitable, and scratching out a poor living takes its toll. He drinks too much, and treats his two companions - his wife and a seedy business manager - badly. Their loyalty to him, rooted in their own compulsions, remains steadfast. But one day, he decides to return to Ireland to refresh his strange mission and, in the courtyard of a pub near Donegal town, his destiny consumes him. His wife commits suicide soon after his death.
The play is structured, long before it became a fashion, in monologues. Barry McGovern's Frank is a haunting interpretation, a voice from the grave. Neither author nor actor can explain the mysteries they relate so vividly; but they make us know what it feels like to be compulsively involved in them. This mesmeric performance is the rock from which the play takes flight.
Joan Sheehy's Grace is a sad, oppressed camp follower of a man she knows too well, and yet hardly at all. Michael James Ford is Teddy, believing himself to be a manager but really a confused acolyte on a vaguely spiritual quest. Both are very fine, and flesh out the cross-perspectives and dramatic values. Directed by Terry Devlin, this is a hypnotic production of a great play.
• In the Belltable, Limerick (061-319866) until July 27th, then tours Cork, Galway, Waterford, Portlaoise and Dublin
Witnness
Fairyhouse
By Peter Crawley
War is hell. If Saturday's mud-caked territorial skirmishes resembled scenes from Platoon (with the Upstage paddy fields rippling to the incendiary Chemical Brothers), Sunday looked like Apocalypse Now. To ram the comparison home, Witnness officially began with a booming excerpt from Wagner's Ride of the Valkyrie. I love the smell of fresh hay in the morning. Smells like cattle pee.
A peace of sorts arrived with the sprawling Polyphonic Spree, whose tabernacle rock orchestra was dangerously excitable, heralding the mysterious appearance of a flaming ball in the sky. It stayed there all day. Meanwhile Nina Hynes juxtaposed delicate folk with aggressive multi-instrumental humanism. A sticker on her guitar said, "Mean People Suck". Some say otherwise.
Propulsive Northern Irish hip-hop act Olympic Lifts were ones to watch, busting b-boy moves to amuse the Café tent. En route to the refreshingly self-satirising jock rock combo Hoobastank, Maria Doyle Kennedy swayed across the Jumbo Vision to a meandering psychedelic tune. Damn peaceniks.
The Libertines were all smoke-spewing attitude and super-fast guitar rock, while The Revs continued with bright but barely different punk tunes, such as Louis Walsh, which cut into an entertaining death-metal bridge and the insistent mantra, "Satan!" What could they be suggesting?
In cabaret, they call over-emotional numbers "torch songs", in rock they've made it a genre: "Emo(tional hardcore)". That's where Irish band Melaton found themselves, performing nice imploring, acoustic-guitar-guided rock in the Rising tent.
The Witnness cognoscenti, however, were watching Athlete in the Café, while Starsailor whined away on the Main Stage and the drearily wonderful Redneck Manifesto performed what sounded like the same song again and again. It was a good song, though.
Intriguingly, Sportz Metal wannabes A got better the further away from them you were - like another venue perhaps, where Mundy's soft twanging ditty Gin and Tonic Sky pleased a loyal crowd.
Liverpuddlians The Coral seem to have relaxed a bit. Their unpredictable interests were still thunderous, but James Skelly wasn't doing his "clockwork-soldier-on-speed" dance, much to my disappointment. However, the Scandinavian harmonies, rhythmic deviations and guitar squelch of their new song, Calenders and Clocks, were enthralling.
Gwen Stefani's belly button assumed a hypnotic quality as it weaved briskly from side to side. This was only one of several reasons that I couldn't leave No Doubt's wonderful ska-punk pop act. Their manifesto of fashion statements and the punchy gender politics of Ex-Girlfriend, Hey Baby and Spiderwebs made this a celebrated festival armistice. Stefani was clearly after my heart.
"You look absolutely gorgeous from up here," she told me from 70 feet in the air, scaling the steel frame of the high stage. Oh stop it Gwen, you mad, sexy fool.
Groove Armada's "live set" (as opposed to what, exactly?), managed to engineer a bass line that could rearrange your internal organs. The beautiful crowd's dancing suggested that large gestures were appreciated. Whistles were sounded, mine through my teeth.
Meanwhile, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club were coaxing huge feedback and glowing acclaim in the sunshine of the Upstage section. A menacing Love Burns, swaggering Spread Your Love and loping Awake celebrated their first Irish visit as a full band.
Gomez concluded their set with a rock-opera rendition of Whippin' Piccadilly that sounded like an angry disservice to a fun song, while acoustic chill-out was served in the Café by the Reindeer Section.
Simple chords, simpler vocals and an apparent affinity for doo-wop provided a welcome relief from the punk/rock/punk-rock axis.
Badly Drawn Boy just managed to skirt the "shambolic" tag with a performance that was only occasionally sketchy. Damon Gough's trademark tea cosy hugged the bridge of his nose as Everybody's Stalking folded into A Peak You Reach. Later, Silent Sigh was subtly moving, while Once Around The Block sounded briefly like Primal Scream whom I had missed.
In the Café tent, an expectedly besotted crowd heard their first bestiality joke of the festival, before the superb Hammell on Trial punished his fabled guitar on Going to a Meeting.
Dance boffins Basement Jaxx demonstrated what's good to move to and what's better to hear at Upstage, where Get Me Off and a suspiciously sequence-perfect but utterly incredible Where's Your Head At shelled the bruising sky.
"Exist", commanded a huge white-on-black sign behind the festival headliners, Oasis. They don't ask much from their audience, do they? Hordes advanced on the Main Stage as The Hindu Times' bending riffs rallied the troops.
Oasis make pub rock. Sometimes it's very good pub rock, as Don't Look Back in Anger and Cigarettes and Alcohol reminded, but too often Oasis stagnate into arthritic strums and senseless bombast. Not that it mattered to their committed fans, who, at this stage, really should be committed.
