Irish Times reviewer Peter Crawleyreviews The Big House at The Abbey, while Davin O'Dwyer,reviews George Michael at Point Theater and Andrew Johnstonereviews Ryan, RTÉCO/Houlihan NCH, Dublin.
The Big House The Abbey, Dublin
Set in a divided country, where mutually suspicious groups trudge beyond a defined period of conflict and wonder what kind of nation they will now share, Lennox Robinson's 1926 play The Big House has more than a passing relevance for Ireland in 2007. Finding, but not stressing, its "post-conflict" resonance, Conall Morrison's revival asks why Robinson's play - unstaged for 75 years - should have been so neglected. It also provides some very convincing answers.
Robinson's tale of an Anglo-Irish family uneasily purchased within an increasingly hostile indigenous culture, shows us one generation of the Alcock family clinging fast to the vestiges of Empire, while its younger branches threaten to go native. Condensing a five-year span (the end of the first World War, Irish independence, the tit-for-tat atrocities of the Black and Tans and the IRA, and the end of the Civil War), it is part historical drama, part identity crisis.
This is, essentially, Robinson's own story, whose nationalism as an Anglo-Irish Protestant seems complicated to the point of distraction. And to judge from the play's subtitle - Four Scenes in its Life - The Big House is intended to be as much of a character as a metaphor. Representing the threatened Ballydonal estate with a bare assembly of standalone, displaced emblems, Francis O'Connor's set exposes the dimensions of the theatre, but never quite suggests a life within it.
The play itself is less hospitable, its plotting dizzy with offstage events, its dialogue fretting through abrupt mood swings and constant reiteration.
The tone is so uneven - here drawing-room comedy, there tragedy, now melodrama - that a booming ghost may stalk through a world of straight realism. Chekhov's big houses had a bipolar atmosphere too, but at times Robinson's actually seems unhinged. This could be why Lucy Gaskell's Kate, the defiant Alcock daughter, is so extraordinarily manic. That is her character, but it is also the epitome of the play: fleetingly charming, gradually more hysterical, prone to sudden despondency and wild impulsiveness, and, in the end, almost intolerable.
There is a hectic energy in the performances - although Philip O'Sullivan and Marty Rea are very well-judged exceptions - and although opening night was conspicuously unsteady in places, there seems to be a broader pang of anxiety about the whole undertaking - as though dogged by the suspicion that history discards some plays for a reason.
For all its complex depiction of cultural schism and its optimism for a mutually tolerant pluralism, Robinson recognises that, in the end, Ballydonal must be levelled. Likewise, there are still useful ideas within The Big House, but they could have been seized from this charred shell and housed in a new and sturdier structure.
Runs until Sept 8
George Michael, Point, Dublin
The lights dim, portentous music begins, stars drift across the gigantic backdrop, and that unmistakable voice starts to sing "Here I am". The audience go collectively bonkers. And just as he is about to make his grand entrance . . . it all goes wrong. The sound begins to imitate mobile-phone interference on a grand scale. The house lights come back up. People boo. A muffled voice apologises and warns of a short delay.
Without even showing his face, George Michael is gone again.
Most of the crowd have been waiting to see the 1980s boyband icon-turned- superstar since he abruptly cancelled the second of two scheduled shows at the RDS in early June, also for technical reasons, apparently, so waiting an extra few minutes is hardly going to spoil things, but the drama of his arrival has been somewhat punctured.
However, when he finally does walk through that LED backdrop, bursting into Fastlove, the audience never look back. These rescheduled shows, and an extra date in Belfast on Saturday, are the final performances of the massive 25Live tour, celebrating a quarter century of masterful pop. With his image barely changed in that time - this tour celebrates the permastubble, shades and gold chains as much as the music - Michael has become his own, agreeable, cliche. Roaring through Too Funky and slowing it down for Father Figure, it's clear that while he might not be the most prolific producer of hits, he's got plenty of gems, and he's such a charismatic performer that even the less successful songs grab the crowd. He can still do that Wham-era wiggle, too.
His 15-piece band, including half a dozen or so backing singers, are arrayed on balconies behind the screen, and they play the songs so smoothly we could be listening to the CD. Or perhaps, given the monstrous video screen and Michael's fondness for audience participation, the whole production could be a giant karaoke machine.
After a midshow intermission the pace slows somewhat, with a few longueurs taking the edge off the hits, but not every artist has classics such as Faith or The Edge of Heaven to rouse a crowd with. Finishing with an exceptional encore of Careless Whisper and Freedom 90, it is clear that no matter how tawdry the headlines, George Michael will never become a victim or a laughing stock - he's got far too much class for that.
Tours to Belfast on Sat
Ryan, RTÉCO/Houlihan NCH, Dublin,
Securing champagne-like crispness from the RTÉ Concert Orchestra, conductor Robert Houlihan cast an interesting vividness on all the pieces in his programme. In Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite No 1, there was a fresh-air feel to Morning-Mood, an aristocratic fluency to The Death of Åse, and silken delicacy to Anitra's Dance. After a grinding start, each beat of In the Hall of the Mountain King seemed faster than the last, yet a certain steadiness remained to the end.
Though surrounded by a somewhat icy orchestral halo, the deluxe voice of soprano Rebecca Ryan exuded warmth in two extracts from Canteloube's sun-drenched Songs of the Auvergne. The languid monotones of Bailèro seemed aligned with the richest segment of her range. In parts of the Three Bourées, however, the forward accompaniment obscured Ryan's diction, suggesting that this broadcast performance might have been better balanced for radio listeners than for the live audience.
There were no such problems with the fizzier orchestral items, which included a bracing Gopak from Mussorgsky's Sorochinsky Fair, and an articulate, urgent account of Sibelius's Finlandia that revealed a vigorous side to his patriotism. Though the brass verged on the roisterous, their accomplishments in Walton's Façade Suite No 2 ranged from thrilling attacks on the high notes of Fanfare, through authoritative bugle calls in Noche espagnola, to sleazy wha-whas in Old Sir Faulk. Houlihan's reading was poised, with echoes of rather strait-laced chit-chat in the Popular Song. But on reaching Old Sir Faulk, he released the requisite jazzy swing.
Tic
Bewley's Café Theatre
Gerry Colgan
Elizabeth Moynihan's Tic is the third and last play in Tall Tales Theatre Company's lunchtime season of new works by Irish women writers; and it is also the least. Set in an aristocratic household in the late 19th century, it is centred on the lady of the manor, who is afflicted by a mysterious malady. She barks like a dog, utters unladylike expletives, is given to uncontrollable thrashing of limbs and other behavioural oddities.
For these aberrations, she has been banished to a folly near her home, a solitary prisoner. Some charlatan healers have attempted to cure her, in vain. Her husband's latest diagnosis is demonic possession, and a priest is due to tackle this. He does, leaving her with burned hands and her demon still in situ. A local doctor, called to treat her wounds, recognises her condition as a neurological disorder. He wants to take her away for treatment and, apparently, a partnership of sorts. It ends inconclusively.
There may well be a theme in the basic situation of mental illness wrongly identified as culpable aberration, but it is not developed here. The Woman comes across, apart from occasional yelps and a few pseudo-naughty words, as being perfectly lucid and attractive, the victim of an uncomprehending husband. When they converse, it is in unreal, over-elaborate dialogue, a defective vehicle for communication. Neither they nor the supporting characters are rounded people, but rather ciphers in a melodrama.
Alison McKenna plays the dominant role of Woman with professional control and presence, and Russell Smith (Husband), Denis Foley (Doctor) and Aoife Duffin (Servant) deliver their lines with clarity and commitment; more they cannot do. Geoff Gould's direction supports their efforts, but the result never achieves lift-off.
Runs until Aug 18
