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Drama at Inish Abbey Theatre, Dublin
"We've had enough", says a character near the start of Lennox Robinson's comedy Drama at Inish, "of revolutions". When the play was first staged at the Abbey in 1933, this was demonstrably true. Fianna Fáil had made its peace with the Free State and won an election. The long period of upheaval was over, and the republic of shopkeepers, publicans and ranchers had no more need for riotous art. Drama at Inish is a brilliant fable on precisely this theme. It is also a sigh of resignation. It is the play in which the Abbey apologises for The Playboy and The Plough, and gives up on the notion of theatre as a potentially disruptive cultural force.
The fable is quite explicit. Hector de la Mare and Constance Constantia arrive in the small seaside town of Inish with their travelling rep company at the invitation of the hotelier John Twohig, and with the approval of the local TD and, more importantly, the Monsignor. Their job is to boost the tourist industry, to give Inish's summer season an edge over a rival resort. But their earnest presentation of the dark plays of Ibsen, Strindberg, Tolstoy and Chekhov has a subversive effect. The town's secrets are blurted out, there are suicide pacts and murder attempts, and the TD ends up voting according to his conscience and brings down the government.
The actors are banished - "too good for the likes of us" - the circus is brought in to replace them and everyone returns to bovine happiness. The independent young woman who comes to town as an accountant agrees to marry and settle down in a "dotey little house". This is a sharply insightful piece of cultural commentary and Robinson broadens it into a picture of Ireland that would have been rather controversial if it were not wrapped up in such gentle comedy.
The first secret that emerges is that the hotel's unmarried maid had been spirited away to conceal her pregnancy. The power of the Monsignor is felt throughout, though he never appears. The unhappiness and pent-up violence unleashed by the plays suggest a normality built on quiet desperation. Yet, in its form as much as its content, Robinson's play gives up on the possibility of really describing this world. Its banal adherence to the conventions of three-act drawing room comedy signals an acceptance of the diminished role of the theatre as a provider of entertainment.
The basic question confronting anyone producing the play now is whether to accept this surrender or to fight on. The latter option would require not just an exploration of the darker hues in the comic tapestry, but a restoration of the antic spirit of Robinson's imagination. Barabbas showed what can be done with Gerry Stembridge's marvellous production of The Whiteheaded Boy in 1998. In his production for the Abbey, however, Jim Nolan opts to pretend that the Barabbas production had never happened and that we do not, in the week of the Ferns report, now come to the question of small-town secrets from a darker place.
Bláithín Sheeran's set - a 1930s drawing-room surrounded by a multi-coloured frame - sums up the approach: safety-first realism dressed up with a few touches of motley. It is carried through with considerable efficiency but it lacks excitement.
This is sturdy, well-cast, conscientious comedy. There are fine performances from Kate O'Toole and Robert O'Mahoney as the actors, from John Olohan and Tom Hickey as the solid citizens, and from Aaron Monaghan as the gormless son, and a delicious one from Marion O'Dwyer as the lady of the house. The comic timing still lacks fluency, but it feels like it will come as the show settles down. As undemanding evenings go, all is pleasant enough. But it is hard to be entranced by a production that repeats in the 21st century Robinson's despairing 1930s acceptance that theatre can be no more than a harmless bauble.
Runs until Dec 31 - Fintan O'Toole
Frozen Project Cube, Dublin
When a play has a theme that touches individual and social nerves, it is already half way to success. If the theme is developed through a story with credible characters and events, its journey is completed. Bryony Lavery's Frozen fulfils both conditions.
The theme is whether paedophile murder is a forgivable offence, whether a crime deemed to be evil is symptom or sin. Ralph has killed many young girls, among them Nancy's 10-year-old daughter, Rhona. All Nancy knows for five years is that Rhona walked out of the house on a routine errand, and never returned. But the audience knows the truth from a series of cleverly interlinked scenes, and it is painful to watch her futile hope for her child's return.
A woman psychiatrist, Agnetha, arrives in London many years later on a fellowship, and her research thesis is a study of serial killers. She has concluded after scientific tests that abuse early in life has distorted the frontal lobes of their brains, and they are not in control of the deeds they commit as adults. Ralph, now in prison, becomes one of her subjects, and they form a spiky relationship. Nancy arranges a meeting with him, and manages to pierce his defences with unexpected consequences.
These three characters are real people, each with personal problems that become interwoven. Ralph, in a penetrating performance by Liam Carney, is ego-obsessive and precise, apparently beyond reach. Bernadette McKenna's Nancy returns from arctic grief to normality, and Elizabeth Moynihan is much more than an offbeat doctor; she too is wounded in her life and hopes. Directed by Patrick Talbot, these three bring vividly to life the play and its many issues, emphatically worth seeing and thinking about.
Runs until Nov 12 - Gerry Colgan
Turbulence Project Upstairs, Dublin
Shakram doesn't call itself a dance company, but rather a music and dance company. Choreographer Mairead Vaughan and composer Dara O'Brien have spent more than six years producing a blend of Indian-inspired collaborations, and Turbulence is their most grandiose statement to date. That's not to say it's the most successful, but from the first moments of the show, movement and sound are inseparable.
David Lacey's softly-beated drum kit is invaded by Olwyn Grindley's sweeping arms whacking a cymbal until she rests her head on one of the drums. Placing musician and dancer so close together suggests we closely observe the musician's movements. A backdrop of hanging instruments is complemented by microphones that hang above the performing area, suggesting a charged space humming with vibrations.
But there was not enough dramatic or emotional rhythm to sustain our interest. Some individual moments were strikingly memorable: a unison phrase swept across the stage under lighting designer Aedin Cosgrove's purple and lime washes, but instead of the expected repetition, the dancers stop in a line and slowly windmill their arms as the warm white light closes in on their upper torsos. Later a seductive sequence of ever-changing movement canons supported by jittery drums and O'Brien's vocalising harked back to some of Shakram's more comfy work.
In Turbulence they have sharpened a lot of the soft edge but things seem less certain. A roving guitarist moving instruments around the stage seemed to be done for the hell of it. But while music seemed subservient, Grindley, Avril Murphy, Jennifer Fleenor and Thomas Butler were authoritative with the meandering choreography.
Ends tomorrow - Michael Seaver
