Julius Caesar Variety Show by Joy Nesbitt. Image by Eti *** There’s an urgent need for a play about the black lived experience in Ireland, with particular reference to black people’s experiences engaging with the arts. Alas, Julius Caesar Variety Show isn’t it. What it is, is a first year, Drama Soc experiment that misses as often as it hits. Disappointing given it features two rising stars of Irish Theatre; writer and director Joy Nesbitt and performer (but also a writer and director) Ultan Pringle. Nesbitt’s premise is simple. Three actors, a pianist, and a director from hell are workshopping an upcoming production of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. The building they’re in, a once venerated theatre, is about to be knocked down to make way for a Direct Provision Centre. Outside, a hostile, far right mob are loudly protesting, keeping the company trapped inside. Set-up laboriously established, what follows is a series of on the nose, subtle as a brick polemics via dull diatribes and dubious acting exercises, all designed to highlight the changing, and unchanging face of Irish society. Taking a scattergun approach, Julius Caesar Variety Show throws endless theatrical mud hoping something of worth will stick. Unfortunately, very little of worth does. Take the cliched characters. Three of whom are aligned with once famous actors. Pringle’s director and Daniel Mahon’s fawning Laurence Olivier clearly representing a white, male patriarchy. Even as Loré Adewusi’s Sidney Poitier and Pattie Maguire’s Marlene Dietrich speak to a liberal, pronoun positive women and immigrant cohort. Conrad Jones-Brangan’s musician sitting somewhere on the fence. Dropping more names and cultural references than a wannabe influencer, explorations of power structures between men, women and people of colour in the arts lead to an inevitably predictable ending whilst offering too little of insight on the way. Julius Caesar Variety Show , wanting to be of the moment, evokes the feeling of the moment likely to be long over by the time its endless discussion are done. Its dream of pronoun appropriate behaviour creating a new dawn looking more like power still corrupting even as it changes hands. Nesbitt and co reaching for low hanging fruit, the richer fruit seemingly out of reach. Yet every so often something drops from the higher brances, reminding you of what might have been. A pity, given Julius Caesar Variety Show is a labour of love that makes some important points. About colourblind casting, white male privilege, how right wing hatred might be a TV soundbite for many, but for black people it’s a viable threat to their lives. But it makes its points in juvenile fashion. ’But this is the Fringe, an opportunity to experiment with new ideas.’ Were this their first outing, you might tend to be more lenient. But Pringle and Nesbitt have a track record of far superior work. Like wearing your communion clothes on your first day of college, Julius Caesar Variety Show doesn’t fit anymore. They’ve outgrown this kind of student level production. One positive takeaway. Pattie Maguire’s passionate performance is a revelation. Like Nesbitt and Pringle, Maguire has the talent to be one of the best. She shows it here. You’ll have to look elsewhere to find Pringle and Nesbitt at their best. Julius Caesar Variety Show by Joy Nesbitt, runs at The New Theatre until Sept 14 as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2024 For more information visit The New Theatre or Dublin Fringe Festival 2024.

Bitch by Marty Breen. Imahe Sophie O'Donovan ***** If you don’t pick up on the subtleties in Bitch early on, it’ll likely tear your soul out. Even if you do Marty Breen’s  one person, musical monologue is likely to emotionally eviscerate you. It all looks innocuous. A cross between a show tunes singalong at Marie’s Crisis alternating with a stand-up comedy routine. Visually, it’s a little juvenile. Suzie Cummins’s cabaret pink lights for the piano and masculine blue for the comedy reinforcing Breen’s gender switching throughout. But hesitation as the cymbal fizzes and outbursts of excessive rage hint at bravado. At dark, unsettling themes. Themes that eventually come to the forefront. But by the time they become clear, it’s too late. Bitch has trapped you in a vice like grip you will not be able to escape from. Nor will you likely want to. Like a twenty-first century, R-rated Victoria Wood, Breen’s impressive musical and vocal skills sees them setting to song a variety of ideas and experiences. Juxtaposed and complimented by a stand up routine in which an incel looking, needs-to-be-more-masculine comedian talks about his love life. For a time, it feels like little more than a showcase reel to attract agents, highlighting Breen’s considerable musical, vocal, comedic and performative talents. But those early subtleties come back to haunt. Director Jeda de Brí doing a sterling job creating a safe space for Breen to flourish, and facilitating that challenging transition from lightweight to soul stirring. Bitch becoming a powerful exploration of sexual abuse, and of how women are conditioned to internalise blame especially for things they’re not responsible for. True, it follows the Netflix redemption formula with insight provided by an all knowing pain in the ass. Yet as the a cappella finale brings it all home, with its head nod to Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ Women Who Run with the Wolves, the hairs on the back of your neck rise as Breen bears their soul. Bold, brave, and oft times brilliant, Bitch is a blisteringly breathtaking experience. But Breen is even better. Not to be missed. Bitch, written, composed and performed by Marty Breen, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until Sept 15 as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2024. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre or Dublin Fringe Festival 2024.

Illness as Metaphor. Image by Edit Jason Booher **** Illness as Metaphor. The 1978 book by Susan Sontag exploring the difficulty we experience talking about illness. Written in response to Sontag’s own experience of dealing with breast cancer. Diseases like TB and cancer often romanticised or mythologised as barometers of personal worth. Illness a metaphor for punishment, self-inflicted injury, for weakness, secrecy or shame. Or spoken of through military metaphors; invasive, attacking, terminating. Dead Centre adapting Sontag’s book to speak to six people currently living with serious illness. Cabrini Cahill, Eamonn Doyle, James Ireland, Conor Lenehan, Una Mullally and Megan Robinson, along with director Brian Kidd, recounting their true life experiences as they try unpack Sontag’s musings. Lots of sickness and pain involved, suggesting it’s not a show that’s big on laughs. Except… Illness as Metapho r is very big on laughs, offering an intriguing interrogation of the biggest metaphor maker of them of all; theatre. What Illness as Metaphor is not big on is cheap sensationalism and lazy sentimentality. Its seven strong cast, gathered in response to a callout by Kidd, giving a no frills account of their personal experiences and their responses to Sontag’s book. Kidd, along with co-director Bush Moukarzel, keeping things thematically grounded even as theatrically things go through the roof. Throughout, metaphor is defined as one thing explained in terms of another. Facilitating a delicious conceit as each performer plays the person to their immediate left; acting being the greatest example of one thing playing at being another. Allowing stories to be told with detachment, puncturing the personal without ever denying it. Allowing for some hilarious moments of self-deprecation. Meanwhile, Kidd, as a chain smoking Sontag, reads from her book whose pages are projected onto the back wall. Soon to become a blue screen. Blue both a multi-layered metaphor and a device which allows bodies disappear, horses to appear, and an endless fall from the sky to magically occur. As videos go, Kilian Water’s DIY, shoestring style wouldn’t be Dead Centre’s best work by any distance. But it’s all part of a makeshift, meta-theatrical, self-awareness. Asking why do we need metaphor? Why can’t we just say what’s wrong with us? In the end, Illness as Metaphor is affected by the very disease it diagnoses; being unable to talk directly about illness. For this is never illness in its raw, unvarnished state. This is illness sanitised into art, avoiding difficult issues like the right to die, even as art is recognised as completely ineffectual in saving lives. Art might ease symptoms, but it cures nothing. Also, all language is metaphor, and literalism is the lowest level of meaning. Metaphor, at its best, is about saying more, not less. Of conveying something beyond the limit of language rather than being restricted by it. And some metaphors ring true, even in relation to illness. The metaphor that people managing illness are nicer, kinder, wiser human beings. On the evidence of the cast of this meta-theatrical delight, that very much seems to be the case. Not Dead Centre’s best work by any stretch, but Illness as Metaphor is arguably its most moving. Illness as Metaphor, by Dead Centre, runs at The Project Arts Centre until Sept 14 as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2024 . For more information visit Project Arts Centre or Dublin Fringe Festival 2024.

The Maestro and The Mosquita. Image Ros Kavanagh. **** Lights, music, sound, action. Core elements of any Louis Lovett performance, crafted and curated through an alchemy of magic and hard work. Like Bryan Burroughs, Raymond Keane and Mikel Murfi, Lovett is one of Irelands great physical performers. His signature style marrying clowning and tones of Commedia to facilitate unforgettable theatrical experiences. If you thought he couldn’t possibly get any better, think again. The Maestro and The Mosquita by Carmel Winters sees Lovett breaking through to even higher ground. Leaving mere mortals to look on in wonder as his irresistible spell seduces and enchants. Even if it slightly overstays it's welcome. In fairness, his collaborator’s must take some of the credit, and a little of the blame. Winters tale of a man, a mosquito, and the testing of their relationship is built around an impressive economy of text. Language riddled with hints and suggestions, saying very much more by saying so much less. Allowing Lovett’s Germanic tones, expressions and physical mannerisms convey humour, heart and deeper truths. Yet beginning with direct address to the audience, then shifting to a story that checks in with them now and again sees proceedings stumble at the gate. Not helped by the story being initially confusing and longer than it needed to be. Leaving Lovett’s expertise as the only thing to connect with for a time. No great suffering there, but good stuff slips through the cracks as you try to work it out. Directors Muireann Ahern and Stephen Warbeck managing visuals beautifully, but narrative not so successfully at times. Still, things eventually settle and in no time Lovett has you eating out of the palm of his hand as the maestro and his mosquito set about defining the nature of their special relationship. If Lovett is master of his craft, Sarah Jane Shiels is similarly so. Shiels possessing the ability to eclipse herself and allow the personality of the show or artist shine through. The only hint of her presence hiding in the sheer excellence of the work. Here clothes, shadows, footlights and mosquito flights are infused with Lovett’s boyish charm. Echoed in Warbeck’s stunning score and Carl Kennedy’s perfectly executed sound design. By the time the final lullaby arrives you are helplessly, eternally transported. Feeling like an improv exercise that goes on a tad too long, or a fairytale trying to be novel, The Maestro and The Mosquita is at its best when less is doing so much more. Even so, Lovett’s performance is a source of such joy you never want him to leave the stage. The Maestro and The Mosquita by Carmel Winters, presented by Theatre Lovett, runs at The Project Arts Centre until Sept 15 as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2024 For more information visit Project Arts Centre or Dublin Fringe Festival 2024

Eva O'Connor in Chicken. Image Paul Baker and Hildegard Ryan **** Aardman Animations get the live action treatment in Eva O’Connor and Hildegard Ryan’s award winning Chicken . A darling of the Edinburgh Fringe, this hugely inventive piece of storytelling theatre is surpassed only by the manner of its telling. Charting Don Murphy’s rise from mysterious birth to Oscar stardom via Michael Fassbender’s appendage. Followed by Don’s plummet from grace courtesy of Colin Farrell’s bad boy influence. Too much Special K and not enough self-respect finds Don shacking up with a performance artist. The first step to recovery as he returns home to star in Martin McDonagh’s latest blockbuster. Only to discover the glaring secret of his mysterious birth resulting in a rousing call to arms. Less Braveheart so much as Wallace and Gromit , Chicken is an absurd delight speaking to a plethora of themes. Made anthropomorphically marvellous by the fact Don is an actual chicken. Or rooster to be exact. One big, Irish cock. O’Connor’s one woman monologue playing with every chicken pun, and then some, as the aspiring ack-tor tells his story. A story funny, absurd and inventive, if not for all of the time. Relying on its magnificent visuals to carry the day which, though they do, come close to being a one trick pony. But oh, what a pony. O’Connor strutting and fretting her hour upon the stage in a superlative chicken costume. So convincing you begin to believe O’Connor must have chicken DNA in there somewhere. Cluckings, flicks, pecks and head bobs executed in the round under delicate lights delivered with unadulterated brilliance. O’Connor exuding a bold, confident authority, physically and vocally, and an undeniable presence that commands the space and everything and everyone in it. Even her je na sais quoi has je na sais quoi. Physically, vocally, O’Connor operates at a whole other level and is simply glorious. Chicken suggesting she might well be the next big, international breakthrough. Chicken delivering one of the outstanding performances of this years Dublin Fringe. Chicken by Eva O’Connor and Hildegard Ryan, presented by Sunday’s Child, runs at The Project Arts Centre until Sept 15 as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2024 For more information visit Project Arts Centre or Dublin Fringe Festival 2024.

Ebby O'Toole-Acheampong, Sophie Lenglinger, Kate Stanley Brennan in Afterwards. Photo by Patricio Cassinoni **** A polemic on abortion post Repeal The Eight, Janet Moran’s Afterwards resembles an educational, public information broadcast from the 1980s. Moran’s cookie cutter, tick box, stay on message script quickstepping around women still seeking abortions abroad. Narratively, little of interest happens; three women receiving aftercare in an abortion clinic in England relay personal histories and political highlights during an overnight stay. A rape victim, a one night stand, and a mother who doesn’t want any more children ensure all groups are represented. Like a twenty piece jigsaw puzzle, Moran’s neatly cut pieces are then assembled to match the prepackaged picture. History, activism, Ireland post Repeal the Eight, the various reasons and responses to abortion all discussed with no surprises, shocks, twists or really fresh insights. Not even the anti-abortion lobby protesting outside the clinic can raise a genuine stake. Slack action interspersed by Shadaan Felfeli’s Carry On orderly whose campy dispensing of bad scrambled eggs with a side of encouragement elicits a few giggles. Moran’s world one where male advocates of women’s choice are either gay or utterly gormless. David Rawle’s cringe inducing young man looking like he’d struggle to hold a conversation with a woman over the age of eleven. With stakes at a minimum, conflict barely present, the end always assured, the story goes the only place it could ever really go; nowhere. Yet all is rescued by three stunningly brilliant performances. Everything Moran reduces to cliche, Kate Stanley Brennan’s Cork mother, Sophie Lenglinger’s English woman and Ebby O’Toole-Acheampong young woman resurrect and revitalise. Each owning the stage at key moments, making humour richer and the dark undercurrents of pain, shame, judgement and despair keenly felt. Even if Brennan’s ‘Roman’ accent roams from West Cork to Trenchtown and across the Yorkshire Dales at times you forgive it given the integrity of her performance. Throughout, the camaraderie and chemistry of the three strong women signify where the play’s real heart lies. Dialogue whisked along by Conall Morrison’s direction, with Moran credited as co-director, foregrounding character over story, where Moran's humanity and humour is best realised. Even as Laura Fajardo Castro’s functional set and Suzie Cummins’ lights look like an easy day at the office. Along with Neil O’Driscoll’s pale projections which suggest aspirations towards a movie. If Afterwards , theatrically and themeatically, frequently underwhelms, its three central cast pump blood, sweat and tears through the plays clogged arteries. Moran’s song remaining the same, even as Brennan, O’Toole-Acheampong and Lenglinger sing it beautifully. Still, it always feels like a child coated in bubble wrap riding a tricycle on astroturf; playing it safe whilst thinking itself brave. The result a three star play elevated to a four star experience, courtesy of its five star performances. Afterwards by Janet Moran, a Once Off production, co-presented with the Abbey Theatre and Dublin Fringe Festival runs at The Peacock Stage of The Abbey Theatre until Sept 14. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre or Dublin Fringe Festival 2024

An Attempt To Talk With The Beginning Of The World. Image by Neil Harrison **** When Freud first posited the idea of infant sexuality, he was roundly dismissed by most of his contemporaries. An experience Anna Newell might well relate to. Take An Attempt To Talk With The Beginning Of The World, premiering at Dublin Fringe Festival 2024 before undertaking a national tour. A work that describes itself as ‘playful up-close dance, intriguing immersive sound and light, and many, many ping pong balls…for infants 3-12 months.’ Are we seriously expected to take this seriously? Infants as a target audience for artistic work? Even Freud might have struggled with that one, surely. Or not, as it turns out. For An Attempt To Talk With The Beginning Of The World is rigorously crafted, utterly engaging and of significant artistic merit. Newell, like Freud, proving herself to be something of a genius. Which is not to say you’ll necessarily subscribe to everything Newell and her collaborators are selling. But so you’re clear, what An Attempt To Talk With The Beginning Of The World is not selling is drama therapy, theatrical play dates, twenty minutes of creche activity or an adult and baby bonding session, even as it achieves all of the above as incidentals. No, An Attempt To Talk With The Beginning Of The World is a genuine attempt at art. At prompting curiosity and creativity. At striving for human connectedness. And succeeding beyond its own expectations. An Attempt To Talk With The Beginning Of The World. Image by Neil Harrison Which might be difficult to see at first given how simplicity often looks much simpler than it actually is. Newell’s dramaturgical rigour concealed beneath Sinead Lawlor’s darkened set containing six individual pods set in a circle, like lily pads around the edge of a pond. Each accommodating one adult and infant who, collectively, form a theatrical round. Overhanging each pod a soft, glowing globe softens the dark; Archer Bradshaw’s illuminations spellbinding as planets, plants and wisps of magic. The circularity of the pond, pads and globes a pattern repeated as ping pong balls, illuminated orbs, and several movement sequences describe circularity in flow. In which choreographer and dancer Hayley Earlam and dancer Jess Rowell interact, breezing in and out with swirling, soft motions like half feathered signets; Lawlor’s costumes also showing a deft touch. Throughout, movement set to an astonishingly impressive score and sound design by Isaac Gibson sees Harry Potter styled jingles juxtaposed with ambient grooves. Each scene an alchemic burst of light, sound and movement; always unhurried, ever moving yet never rushed. No forced concentration or demanding of the infant’s attention, but rather a cultivated fascination that endures the entire twenty minutes till it all explodes in baubles of delight. Throughout, there’s something of ANU’s immersive approach at play here. A challenge to notions of audience and participation and of the spectator’s relationship to the work. If, for infants, a show has no marked beginning or end Newell achieves constancy of engagement through inconstancy, by constant changes in sound, tempo and visuals. The now forever being refreshed. Key concepts, including beauty, the defining ingredient in Newell’s work, needing to be reframed. For this is no cold, Aristotelian notion of beauty, but beauty as experience. As aesthetic arrest. Opening out into awe and wonder, then curiosity, and from there to creativity. An Attempt To Talk With The Beginning Of The World’s true aim revealed immediately after the show. Adults, infants and performers gathered together on the floor in an unforced act of human connectedness. It being near impossible to tell who are the children and who the adults as they play together. Play the foundation of all great art. Forget the beginning of the world. An Attempt To Talk With The Beginning Of The World engages whole galaxies. Dublin Fringe Festival 2024 faciliating a truly unique work of art by a truly remarkable artist. An Attempt To Talk With The Beginning Of The World by Anna Newell Theatre Adventures, co-produced by Riverbank Arts Centre, co-presented by Draíocht Blanchardstown, ran at Draíocht as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2024 until Sept 11. It now tours to The Network For Extraordinary Audiences. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2024 or Anna Newell

Are Ya Dancin'? Image by Billy Cahill **** Women had it tough in 1960s Killybegs. Institutionalised misogyny, sent to England to hide shameful secrets, the indignity of being refused service in a pub. Compounded by marriageable men like Norman O’Gorman. A Mammy’s boy aspiring to be Elvis with a voice that could mangle metal. Or blow-in Tommy O’Neill. A gormless mope with the personality of a panic attack but a voice that could front a showband. Leaving the two most beautiful women in Donegal hankering after him. Good girl Sarah, too cute to be true, and modern minded barmaid, Mary, finding their friendship tested by the new arrival. By secrets. By Tommy’s rise to national fame with local showband The Stormers. All unaware that a new dawn looms on the horizon in which their world will recede as into the mists of time. In Are Ya Dancin’? a labour of much love by Carol Gleeson and Helen Spring , the vicissitudes of 1960s Ireland underscore the exhilaration, escapism and enduring love of the showband era. Delivering a delightfully entertaining, visually stunning and infectiously fun night. Helen Spring and Carol Gleeson in Are Ya Dancin'? Image by Billy Cahill It’s been a long road for Gleeson and Spring. Beginning in 2018 with The Voice Within . An impressive production that must now be considered Are Ya Dancin’s? first draft. The inspirational duo wanting to better tell their story of two women and a shy man and the people and music of the showband era. Nostalgia and history here made to play well together. Sentimentality, still there, but now honed by touches of an Edna O’Brien styled fearlessness concerning the plight of women. Infusing infectious song and dance routines with a bittersweet edge, especially during the final, roof lifting medley. Songs where life, love, hopes and dreams resided. If only for a Saturday night. Yet when it comes to the annoyingly gifted Gleeson and Spring, story is only the half of it, and arguably not the most impressive half. Jealousy wanting to really hate them when you discover they are also the show’s producers. And doing an exceptional job; naturally. Ronán Duffy’s set, part bar, dancehall, and star bright heavens, beautifully mixing realism with escapism. Delicate touches, like Sweet Afton cigarette adverts, employing meticulous detail to enhance an otherworldly era. Conor Sweeney and Aidan Cooney’s lights, along with Conor Wilkins and Ríona McElwain’s sound design evoking the texture and atmosphere of the time. Yet it’s Andrew Reddy’s meticulous costumes and Margaret O’Connor’s superb hair that best recapture the period with its panache and style. Echoed in Deirdre Browne’s superb choreography, evoking the school hall dance routine of Grease . Are Ya Dancin'? Image by Billy Cahill If Pat McElwain’s direction facilitates some curious choices, including endless waves of unnecessary dry ice, as a rule McElwain marshals his forces brilliantly. Not an inch of stage is left idle as composition, flow, and complex transitions are all masterfully handled. McElwain negotiating the uneasy demands between the script’s realism and its comic book stylings. If, mostly, he successfully negotiates the distinction between stereotype and archetype, a tendency to over egg the omelette in places, and undercook it in others, sees key moments and characters jarring occasionally. Helen Begley’s superb Bridget Mullins and Dan Ryan’s scene stealing Norman work well for being genuinely cartoonish. Yet a mostly impressive Hugh Gallagher as the band’s impresario Seán overworks the attitude till it feels like overacting or a caricature. Similarly Seán MacMathúna as Tommy O’Neill, Donegal’s answer to Dickie Rock. A one dimensional mope, MacMathúna shines brighter when honestly embracing his secret heartache. Electrifying during the final medley when the quiff sporting, hip swivelling singer reveals why sales of women’s knickers have doubled in Donegal. Seán MacMathúna and Paul Mescal in Are Ya Dancin'? Image by Billy Cahill Meanwhile Kevin Reade as guitarist Jim Brennan beautifully handles what is arguably the plays most complex character with a wonderfully understated performance. A superb Paul Mescal (no, not that one, his Dad) pure dynamite as the embittered bar owner Seamie. A grudge with a chip on his shoulder, Mescal’s Seamie grounds proceedings in granite stubbornness that defines the need for escape. Even Pat Breslin’s soft spoken Father Gallagher, and Rory Dignam’s local boy, Johnny, cower when Seamie passes. Yet it’s the women who steal the show. Along with a divine Begley as an uptight, upright paragon of virtue, Laura Gleeson as youngest sister, Tess, (rotating with Lynn Carter) brims with ingenue innocence and the voice of an angel. It almost makes you cringe to say Spring and Gleeson are both terrific, because clearly there is nothing these two women cannot do. But even they cede the spotlight to the vastly underused Bronwyn Andrews, adorably brilliant as Annie. A woman and wife with a love of life and voice to match delivering a performance of pure joy. Are Ya Dancin'? Image by Billy Cahill If the final scene doesn’t quite pull off escapism married with realism, it’s still a brave and bold choice that sees Are Ya Dancin’? refuse an easy, saccharine happy ever after. Even so, there’s still a musical big finish sure to have any audience singing, clapping and on its feet . Are Ya Dancin’? is not high art, rather it’s unapologetic entertainment that can border on pantomime at times. It’s not serious theatre, but often leaves serious theatre looking like the poor relation imaginatively and theatrically. It’s not even a musical, but rather a musical play where key songs like Sketter Davis' The End of the World are gorgeously realised. If you were there, there’s much to love here. If you weren’t, you might well find yourself wishing you had been. To go back for just one night. In which case, go see the eminently enjoyable Are Ya Dancin’? A joy from beginning to end. Are Ya Dancin’? written by Carol Gleeson and Helen Spring, presented by A Likely Story in association with 3Olympia Theatre, runs at 3Olympia Theatre until August 31. For more information visit 3Olympia Theatre

Garrett Keogh in Head Case. Image by Conleth White **** Dublin Old School meets Waiting for Godot in Garrett Keogh’ s absorbing Head Case. Like Emmet Kirwin’s energised tale, Keogh’s self-penned monologue arrives via free flowing verse. Like Beckett’s Waiting for Godot it’s all about waiting and the discrepancy between what is and what should be told through absurdist humour. Juxtaposing the horrific state of the Irish healthcare system with what most would consider basic standards of decency and dignity. Godot might never turn up, but the conditions in an Irish A&E unit are man-made, avoidable and solvable. A point Keogh doesn’t labour, even as he makes it plain by way of observational character studies as he waits in vain for a hospital bed. What brought him to A&E being a food fight that went too far. A suspected head injury resulting from a fired carrot that, like the proverbial butterfly’s wings, led to a tsunami of aggression on the far side of laughter. The dark stained story and its domino effect more a lynch pin rather than a through line. Something to set up observations of the people and practices that populate an A&E unit without sensationalism. The aggression and violence experienced by hospital staff hinted at by way of chairs welded to the floor and oppressive security guards. The tense calm when life threatening injuries take greater priority numbed by vomit stained soilings and eventual head x-rays as Keogh’s protagonist eternally waits. Garrett Keogh in head Case. Image by Conleth White If Keogh's observational detachment seems to pull its punches, it’s because he’s not dealing in realism. It’s the utter absurdity rather than the visceral impact of the situation Head Case chooses to foreground. Keogh’s clever rhythms and rhymes establishing pace as well as non-realist context. Music’s call and response convention wonderfully effective as Keogh’s absurdly sung call “I’m waiting” never receiving its response. Echoed in the intriguing use of inner and outer voices articulating the frustrated inner monologue hidden behind an outer reserve. Distracted from occasionally by Conleth White’s lighting design trying too hard to accentuate what was fine in the first place. Live music by accomplished pianist Hélène Montague yielding something of a pyrrhic victory. Reminiscent of a live score, with clumsy sound effects, being played during a silent movie. More often framing proceedings like an old time, party piece. One where the raconteur regales the room with a funny after dinner story told around the piano. Leaving Head Case most likely to speak best to an older audience. It’s easy to highlight all that Head Case is not, all that it neglects to address, all the punches it chooses not to land. But it bears restating, Head Case is not trading in realism. Surrender to its mild mannered, old school, absurdist charms and Head Case will give up its secrets. Absorbing, often charming, always engaging, Head Case might not kick you in the teeth, but it lands its velvet gloved punches with considerable panache. Keogh proving, once again, he’s a master craftsman. Head Case , written and performed by Garrett Keogh, with live piano by Hélène Montague, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until September 7. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre

Emma Moohan in Aileen. Image uncredited. ** The issues highlighted by Rachel Gunn’s deplorable breakdance routine at the Olympics echo similar issues in theatre. Is it enough to say you were expressing yourself when a show clearly doesn’t work as well as it should? Is citing your process, or having a go, sufficient excuse when an audience have given their time and money to come see your best and get something far from ready? Should funded artists or companies be allowed falsely cite sexism, racism, choose your own, to dismiss what are justifiable criticisms? Not that Emma Moohan is by any stretch a delusional Rachel Gunn. Or her one woman show, Aileen , a no points disaster. Moohan is clearly an actress of robust talent. Even so, Aileen doesn’t do her, or fan fiction, many favours given it's far from ready. Not helped by director Gertrude Montgomery failing to give it shape, despite an energised effort. If you’ve seen the 1979 movie Alien , you know what happens. If not, you could be forgiven for thinking it was an Irish Carry On movie with the cast of Dinner Ladies serving as the ships crew. The audience, set up as shareholders sitting in on a debrief, listen whilst Aileen Ripley recounts events on the Nostromo’s last voyage. Moohan’s voices and gestures from the Victoria Wood school of impersonation telling an exposition heavy story of a close encounter of the dull kind. Just one of many old school, variety show scaffolds supporting Noonan’s unstable structure. Ripley, like a hand-on-hip Deirdre O’Kane, strikes poses whilst reliving her encounter with lover Dallas, a strange distress signal, and a chest bursting alien in a retelling both underwhelming and overwritten. Meanwhile, hard working lights by Jess Fitzsimons Kane, and an equally impressive sound design and music by Brian Keegan, try elevate proceedings even as director Gertrude Montgomery seems intent on dragging them down to the level of Nativity play. Cute when it's five year olds, less so when you have to sit through an invested but unimaginative ninety-five minutes. Five minutes of which proves genuinely funny. Which is five minutes more than those that genuinely stand out. Ending with a song and dance routine straight from the Morecambe and Wise playbook, the room is spilt in two. Family and friends up on their feet cheering. The rest of the room grimly silent, as they have been for most of the night. If Aileen is a showcase for Moohan’s talent, it reveals an experienced actor with a commanding presence, but a comic writer with little understanding of comedy, economy or timing. From Dreamgun Film Reads to Rik Carranza Presents: Star Trek vs Star Wars , the latter currently at the Edinburgh Fringe, fan fiction is a hugely popular genre. One whose appeal is growing exponentially, and whose standards of excellence are rising all the time. Aileen , with its Irish references, might raise the odd giggle, but there’s not enough laughs, irreverence, or truly original subversions to practically or imaginatively sustain it. Still, Moohan always owns her stage and Aileen does have its moments. And it’s a million miles better than what’s passing for breakdance lately. Aileen , written and performed by Emma Moohan, presented by Venom and Duct Tape, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until August 17. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre

Naomi Louisa O'Connell in Mary Motorhead. Photo by Ros Kavanagh **** Two issues inform much of opera’s history; its tense relationship with realism and how best to marry a museum past with works speaking to a modern future. Both questions front and centre in Irish National Opera’s brave double bill Trade and Mary Motorhead . In which life’s gritty realism enjoys an uneasy relationship with realism as artistic convention. Composed by Emma O’Halloran, with libretti by her uncle, Mark O’Halloran, based on two of his plays, both short operas enjoyed critical acclaim when first performed Stateside in 2019 ( Mary Motorhead ) and 2022 ( Trade ). Receiving their Irish premiere as part of Kilkenny Arts Festival 2024, the O’Halloran double act certainly serves up something unique. Opening cracks in verismo that allows light stream through. Even as many might be left operatically underwhelmed. Naomi Louisa O'Connell in Mary Motorhead. Photo by Ros Kavanagh To some, the O’Halloran’s make for an odd choice, with neither particularly experienced in opera. Yet from the mouths of these opera babes spring truths and challenges. Beginning with Mary Motorhead , a modest character sketch about a woman incarcerated in Mountjoy prison for murder. A soliloquy in which a Midlands Mary moves to Dublin, makes a friend and marries a man named Red. Lyrics serving up retro exposition about her sex, drugs and a rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Emotional resonance achieved by way of powerful singing from mezzo soprano Naomi Louisa O’Connell, whose voice as expressive instrument and interpreter of lyrics proves breathtaking. O’Connell transforming Mary from bad girl with a half baked backstory into something exciting. But only up to a point. Like Emma O’Halloran’s eclectic score, informed by Alex Dowling’s electronic sound design and David Sheppard’s sound design, it all leans into safety. Utilising everything from tribal rhythms to goth styled, synth-pop, there’s little suggestive of that dirty, sexy danger of a magisterial Motorhead, be that Lemmy or Mary. O’Connell strutting like Joan Jett rather than Courtney Love. Dressed in Montana Levi Blanco’s leather trousered, goth queen black showing a flicker of prison blue chic. The result less Bad Girls so much as Jailhouse Rock . A wild tale in which wildness is constantly tamed. Director Tom Creed reining in what might have been better released, or allowed be a little louder, madder and badder. Creed never looking entirely comfortable in the heart of darkness as O’Connell’s rage rises to a threatening growl but rarely a roar. Yet another prison drama not seeming to agree with Creed. As with The Quare Fellow, set design by Jim Findlay and lighting by Christopher Kuhl escapes into cabaret sketch with kaleidoscopic lights, dry ice and comic book, crayon colours. Undermining realism’s physical and psychological potency. Flights of kitsch fancy sapping much of its power. O’Connell’s stunning singing and performance forgiving a multitude of such venial and mortal sins. Even so, if it came to a prison yard showdown, you’d still bet your cigarette ration on Electra. Oisín Ó Dálaigh and John Molloy in Trade. Photo by Ros Kavanagh If realism is again foregrounded in Trade , it struggles even as its conventions gain a more successful foothold. Often scored like a film soundtrack, Trade’s character study of an older man and younger rent boy meeting for sex sees talk of economy and silence proving somewhat exaggerated. Some judicious pruning of the libretto likely to have given music and singing greater impact at certain moments for letting the silence speak. Silence amounting to a lack of text and singing, but rarely, if ever, music. Emma O’Halloran’s score doing the emotional heavy lifting early on. Frequently coming in over the top of recitative-like singing as it reports a ton load of exposition. Establishing a hierarchy of music above text, with both towering over singing. A tension resolved by Creed who, as with Mark O’Halloran’s classic Conversations After Sex , excels with scenes of intimacy. Allowing sexual swaggering give way to uncomfortable honesty and connection. Creed frequently weaving music, lyric and voice into something sublime. Navigating the journey from recitative understatement to voices reclaiming full emotional expressiveness as efforts to talk it all better open old wounds. Delivering a bittersweet, gut punch of an ending having earlier landed several solid blows. Tenor Oisín Ó Dálaigh and bass-baritone John Molloy simply astonishing throughout. Their shy, understated moments more powerful for being contrasted with genuine snarls. Findlay’s design and  Kuhl’s lights hugely successful for adhering closer to the tenets of realism and finding its poetry. John Molloy and Oisín Ó Dálaigh in Trade. Photo by Ros Kavanagh If, structurally, Emma O’Halloran leans into soundtrack and musical theatre territory at times, especially in Trade , conductor Elaine Kelly is again extraordinary at plumbing musical depths with directness and subtlety. Ensuring Irish National Opera Orchestra’s amplified chamber ensemble unleash the full power of O’Halloran’s music. Never more so than during Ó Dálaigh and Molloy’s monologue styled solos which, musically and vocally, achieve that sought after frisson of music, text and voice in perfect accord. Yet, in both pieces, dramatic time and musical time don’t always play well together. Creating a weighted, ponderous feeling of motionlessness. Of going nowhere. Nothing much happening, in which recognised colloquialisms make for a surprise source of laughter. Trade and Mary Motorhead less musical stories so much as postcards from the operatic edge. Character or scene studies delivering gut punches after lots of standing around unlikely to win everyone over. As an operatic experiment, they yield much of worth, much to learn from, and some glorious, gorgeous moments. But do they speak enough to opera’s future? Is Mark O’Halloran’s trademark realism a good fit or too limiting? Is Emma O’Halloran music, which achieves moments of perfection with its loops, electronica and classical arrangements, capable of meeting the musical, emotional and lyrical demands of a full scale, modern opera? Right back where we started. Dogged by the same old questions. Though a betting person would put their mortgage on Emma O’Halloran making waves in the future. Trade/Mary Motorhead by Emma O’Halloran, libretti by Mark O’Halloran, presented by Irish National Opera, runs at Watergate Theatre, Kilkenny as part of Kilkenny Arts Festival until August 11 before undertaking a national tour Pavilion Theatre, Dún Laoghaire, as part of Dublin Theatre Festival, Oct 11-13 Cork Opera House, Oct 16 Siamsa Tíre, Tralee, Oct 19 Glór, Ennis, Oct 23 Solstice Arts Centre, Navan, Oct 26 For more information visit Irish National Opera or Kilkenny Arts Festival 2024

Shauna Brady, Áine Collier, Caroline McAuley, Anna McLoughlin in Sent. Image uncredited. Mean Girls meets meaner girls in Scarlet 4 Yer Ma’s rollicking Sent. A comedic car crash involving four girls, an anonymous social media account, and a queen bitch named Nikita who’s about to get her comeuppence. But Karma can be a bigger bitch with a few stings in her tail. Like TKB’s excellent Well That’s What I Heard , the murky morals of social media are explored in this dark, twisted comedy. Best when it leans into being dark and twisted, when it lets its laughs breathe, and when it marries timing with pace and stops rushing. Short, sweet, with a brilliant tribute to Britney Spears,  Sent presents a young company starting out in their raw, unvarnished state. Caroline McAuley, Áine Collier, Anna McLoughlin and Shauna Brady off to Edinburgh to hone their craft, test their mettle, see what works and what can be improved. Building on serious talent, a girl power camaraderie, some deft jokes and an abundance of that star power, je ne sai quai quality which sizzles and can’t be faked. Seen in preview, Sent needs work in places, even as Scarlet 4 Yer Ma embrace the playful irreverence of Smack The Pony. Suggesting they might well become comedy’s Spice Girls, only funnier and better singers. Catch them now, so you can say you saw them when. Sent by Scarlet 4 Yer Ma previewed at Bewley’s Café Theatre, July 27. It runs as part of Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2024 at Paradise in The Vault from August 12 to 17. For more information visit Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2024