Irish Times writers review events in Dublin and Belfast.
The Elves & The Shoemakers, Draíocht, Blanchardstown
Christine Madden
You always get a clear view of the action in children's theatre. Here, with even the seating a part of the set, the young heads were particularly close to the ground. This is Barnstorm's second year of productions for the very young - four to six years - and this play dates from its beginnings; it first produced it in 2001.
The set, of which the company is rightly proud, invites children into the fantasy world of the piece. After being seated, they are ushered into the shoemakers' house, as portrayed by the colourfully appealing 16th-century facade on stage. Inside the house, the atmosphere retains its early- modern-Europe feel; the audience surround the shoemakers and the unfolding drama as though they had come in for tea and a chat.
Róisín Gribbin and John M. Ryan play the destitute shoemakers who awake one morning to find a pair of shoes magically created from the leather they were too cold and hungry to work themselves. The elves they secretly watch are puppets, also played by Gribbin and Ryan. The shoemakers, in a departure from Grimm, make clothes for the elves, to thank them, then never see them again. This twist, although providing a happy ending, strips the story of much of its dramatic tension and its important message.
Although engaging and enjoyable, the production needed more of the elements that appeal to its target audience. Young children feel as if they are part of the drama - they call out and react to the action, even dance and sing - but here there were few opportunities for interaction. The children would also have responded to more music and songs. Gribbin and Ryan, perhaps used to older audiences, could have played up their roles more - as puppets, they were very animated, which worked well. Some of that in their human roles would have benefited the piece.
At Linenhall Arts Centre, Castlebar, tomorrow and Friday
Catherine Leonard & Julius Drake, Elmwood Hall, Belfast
Dermot Gault
Beethoven - Violin Sonata No 5 in F, Spring. Violin Sonata No 10 in G
This series of BBC Invitation Concerts, devoted to Beethoven's chamber music, continued with a recital of Violin Sonatas Nos 5 and 10. The former, Spring, is probably the most popular of the set, but one would agree with the programme notes' suggestion that No 10 is the greatest. It is certainly the most subtle and the most original in terms of sonority.
Catherine Leonard's playing was distinguished by scrupulous style and attention to nuance and detail. The tone was refined and beautiful; one just wanted more of it. She was, quite rightly, not afraid of playing quietly, but one wishes she could have allowed the instrument to sing out, as it did in the adagio variation of the last movement, more often. The opening phrase of No 5 is a gift to the violinist, but the playing didn't take wing as it could have.
A related but separate problem was that the tonal mass of the piano, with the lid fully opened, was too large. Julius Drake is an attentive partner, and his playing did not lack refinement either. The interweaving quaver-arpeggio patterns near the start of the first movement of No 10 were beautifully realised. But at other times, as in the succeeding dotted-rhythm theme, the effect was overbearing.
These were nevertheless distinguished performances. The second movement of Spring was properly inward, and the wit of the scherzo emerged all the more clearly because, for once, the music wasn't rushed.
Iron Maiden, Point, Dublin
John Lane
One of the most remarkable aspects of Iron Maiden is that the bulk of their oeuvre comes after This Is Spinal Tap in the heavy-metal time line. In their 1980s heyday, they were the cream of cheese metal, a genre that always raises a smile but was by no means the worst excess of that decade. Unlike Spinal Tap, Iron Maiden were defined by their total, irony-free love for the lore of the music: smoke and spandex, guns and bombs, swords and sorcery, warriors and myths, epics and history.
But the three generations of fans who filled the Point to see a recreation of that lore (it had been 10 years since Iron Maiden's last, disappointing gig) were about to be left mostly disappointed. Three songs into their set, front man Bruce Dickinson launched into the usual speech about how they don't care what people think, about airplay, about MTV, about how it's the fans who matter and, ahem, would we be so kind as to pay attention for a while?
In effect, it was a slightly grovelling apology-cum-introduction for what they were about to do: ignore their hits in favour of new material. Such meanderings don't inspire confidence: an audience should not be asked for their patience. And so a gig became a plug. The new stuff was greeted with respectful if bemused enthusiasm, while the band proceeded blissfully through 50 minutes of anonymous new material, oblivious to the frustration of the crowd.
For the encore, the throng was expectant; the band, exasperatingly, returned with five acoustic guitars and plugged some more, killing all hopes of a rousing end to the evening. Closing with The Number Of The Beast and Run To The Hills was too little, too late. You know you're in trouble when the band continuously talk about coming back next year to deliver the show everyone wanted. Spinal Tap would never do that.
