IT'S NOT a criticism of conventional theatres, but I'm a sucker for the trend towards staging plays in historic ruins and monuments.
Among the leading exponents of the genre is the Ouroboros company, which left no Hugh O'Neill-related stone unturned with its epic recent tour of Brian Friel's Making History. So when the same people performed the playwright's masterpiece, Translations, up the road in Kilmainham Gaol this week, I just had to be there; and I wasn't disappointed.
It's true that the acoustic in the prison's East Wing, where most of the action takes place, is not ideal. Half-way up the bank of temporary seating, I sometimes struggled to hear what was being said. If you were at the back, apparently, it was worse.
Also, the company's understandable desire to exploit the setting - or maybe it was the museum's equally understandable desire to showcase itself - made for a questionable interlude during which the audience had to leave its seats and troop outside for a 15-minute open-air scene.
The route this entailed was certainly impressive. In one corridor, you passed between Parnell's cell on your left and, directly opposite, Robert Emmet's. Further on, a piece of graffiti scraped on the wall read: "M Collins".
But I couldn't say that an open-air scene added anything to the play, which is set in a Donegal hedge school in 1833 and, strictly speaking, is all open-air. The very brevity of the trip outdoors - which, short as it was, tempted fate in a typical Irish summer - made you wonder if it was worth the trouble of people not being able to find their unnumbered seats when they went back inside for the rest of the performance.
There was a sneaking suspicion that, under the guise of art, we had just been given a walk in the gaol's exercise yard. And sure enough, we had (the old children's yard to be exact).
Still, there's a lot to be said for theatre that takes you out of your comfort zone, physically and otherwise. And none of the foregoing subtracted from the brilliance and beauty of the play, which was as powerful as the first time I saw it, probably in the Abbey, back I don't know when.
The remainder of the run in Kilmainham Gaol is sold out, as are forthcoming visits to the castles of Kilkenny, Cahir, and Barryscourt respectively. But you can still see it in Muckross House, Killarney, later this month, if you hurry.
IN A programme note for the Kilmainham event, the eminent architect Seán Ó Laoire reflects that prisons are "the antithesis of architecture". He contrasts them with the great churches, which use architectural principles in the service of "transcendence" - whereas, as he explains, a prison is all about "the denial of light, space, and freedom." This is true enough. But it strikes me that, whatever about churches, conventional theatres and prisons have quite a bit in common. The audience of a play is certainly denied light, at least during the performance. Space is so scarce that, if you're more than six feet tall, there is often nowhere for your knees to go when you sit down. And of course, drama can have a correctional element too.
The best plays may succeed in reforming and re-educating audiences to some extent. A good night at the theatre can turn you into a better person, equipping you to make a positive contribution to society when you get out. A bad play, on the other hand, can be just old-fashioned punishment, serving only to deter you from coming back.
Then there's the trend towards not having intervals - something that, no matter how good the play, can be penal. I mentioned here recently that The Weir- now in its final weeks at the Gate - runs for an hour and 40 minutes, without a break. But I also said that, such was its excellence, you wouldn't notice the time passing, provided you hadn't consumed too much drink beforehand.
This provoked an e-mail from a reader, also called Frank, who remembered attending the play's London première some years ago (a) after having three pints of beer and (b) without being warned that there was no interval. Naturally this made the 100 minutes that followed seem like a custodial sentence.
"Despite heroic efforts on both our parts, it was [ my friend] who gave in first and went to the toilet in the middle of the final scene. I myself did the same after he returned. Do I have to tell you that our seats were right in the middle of the row, so making us interrupt the maximum number of people on our way to the aisle?" The subject line of Frank's e-mail referred to something called "The Wire", which at first I thought was a misprint. In retrospect, the allusion to internment without trial looks deliberate.
The play in Kilmainham Gaol the other night did not have an interval either - at least not a formal one of the kind where audience members stand around drinking and making witty conversation. In fairness, however, the interlude in the exercise yard was so designed that people could detour to the toilets en route. So maybe the scene was fully justified after all.
At any rate, I found the whole experience captivating; but only in a good way.