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Welcome to Traumatraum. Image Al Craig **** Shouldn't we be allowed speak of physical trauma without having to speak of psychological trauma? Emotional trauma? Global trauma? Historical trauma? Trauma trauma? Post-trauma trauma? Isn't a lot of trauma talk dangerously normalising the overstating of harm as brilliantly diagnosed by Sarah Schulman in Conflict Is Not Abuse? What is trauma anyway? In the multi-disciplinary Welcome To Traumatraum, three interwoven, biographical tales explore how physical trauma impacts on lives and careers. Beginning with the charismatic writer Philip St John, who wanted to play for Ireland but was born with a club foot. Then there's dancer and choreographer Karen Gleeson, who struggled to overcome countless injuries. Finally, Lecoq-trained clown Michael McCabe, for whom back injuries could cripple a mind, body and career. All three, with co-creator and director Matthew Ralli, crafting a whirling dervish of magic and mayhem directed to perfection. With writing by St John and choreography by Gleeson, sharp dialogue and superb physicality brew up a storm of theatrical inventiveness evoking Alice's Adventures In Wonderland. Except this Alice doesn't appear to want to attend the Mad Hatter's tea party. Initially, action resembles a group therapy session from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Walking dully and aimlessly, McCabe, in clown regalia, along with Fiona Bawn-Thompson, Fiachra Corkery, Róisín Harten, Noni Stapleton and Matthew Williamson perform repeated movements as if holding private conversations with themselves, each barely aware of those next to them. A counter-clockwise spiral projected onto the back wall shows vague images suggesting the patients' meds, or mushrooms, have finally kicked in. Mushrooms more likely as they journey down a psychedelic rabbit hole where McCabe's Mad Hatter, one part Cabaret MC, one part circus ringmaster, leads his childlike troops on a journey through a now that isn't now. Only Harten's self-serious Alice doesn't want to play. Sitting in a martyred huff aside from the others most of the time, she relays her dancer's struggle as a distinctly separate choreographed story. Mayhem and choreography occasionally meeting, but more often looking in competition, even as such rare collaborations yield the most potent moments. The contrast creating tension but dividing audience focus. Harten looking less the team player so much as a dancer determined to have her solo. Meanwhile, everyone else parties through life's wilder side together. It's not that either is better than the other. Both dance solo and comic collective prove equally sensational. Fiona Bawn-Thompson's extraordinarily detailed performance a masterclass in physical comedy. As is Fiachra Corkery, with the ever-brilliant Noni Stapleton lighting up every scene. The abundantly talented Matthew Williamson proves easy to hate; the renowned dancer and performer adding comic presence and timing to his impressive repertoire. McCabe also delights as a nervous Master of Insanities. Against which Gleeson's choreographic lexicon, developed in response to her own condition, is sensationally performed by a sensational Harten, elevating sequences from the stunning to the sublime. Body taut, strained, sensual; it pushes, jolts and snaps in resistance to Harten's frustrated urgings. Harten endlessly renegotiating its refusals, or becoming malleable like a plasticine model, or as weightless as a ragdoll. The whole profoundly rich and moving. Harten never less than mesmerising. Yet when everything works together, greater richness and depth is achieved. As when the six cradle like a six-chambered heart, rising to perform a glorious dance sequence in which the interplay of leads shifts seamlessly. The distinction between experienced dancer and relative novice practically erased. Yet, too often, dance divides attention, pulling it from a hilarious rap routine, hints of rave, episodes of bullying or a superbly articulated teacher's race in Jamaica. Or else attention is pulled from dance and dancer. All the while projected animations add additional seasoning. Aside from the monotone Dr Karen, whose guided meditation is condescending, patronising and an utter waste of time. Astonishingly imaginative and excitingly playful, Welcome To Traumatraum's shifting between three narratives asks for a little indulgence. Especially as its discussions on trauma prove a lot more fun. Stapleton and Bawn-Thompson's argument on the nature of trauma a comic battle to behold. If the final homecoming brings everyone together, it serves to remind you of the person affected by trauma. Of their trials, defeats, compromises and victories. Their pain, embarrassment, humiliation and rage. Yet it's their resilience, persistence, courage and acceptance you remember. And their utter joy in the preciousness of life when lived in the face of adversity. Welcome to Traumatraum by Philip St John, presented by Philip St John, Karen Gleeson, Michael McCabe & Speckintime, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 at Smock Alley Theatre till Sept 19. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2026

Pretty Vacant written by Tom Swift, music by Daragh Dukes. Image Eoin Norton **** In the part of the city known as the Liberties, just off High Street, tucked behind a limestone entrance is a rather unassuming, easily passable building. It does not dominate the area, but reassuringly blends into its fabric, existing quite happily as Tailors' Hall — the oldest surviving guild hall in Dublin. A landmark of revolution, and now home to The Performance Corporation’s current production of Pretty Vacant. "The play starts before you even go in the door." So remarked Tom Swift, the show's creator: "…we're hoping that when the audience arrives, even on the street outside Tailors' Hall, a bit of the play will already have begun." And certainly it has. Historically recognised as Dublin's premier working-class district, the Liberties now exemplifies a familiar pattern in which commercial development places profit above the welfare of local residents. Here, councillors and communities continue to defend their right to shape the future of their neighbourhood. Deeply attuned to the idea that a place can be more than a source for a work — that it can become part of the work itself — the production sees Tailors' Hall, the Liberties, and its residents embodied by the audience and central characters. At its heart is a seemingly perfunctory community meeting, convened by an indifferent private property developer. Led by the ex-Eurovision star functionary Carmilla, played madly by Ruth McGill, the meeting's "measured discussion" immediately escalates as it becomes clear that people are wary of redevelopments that simply mean gradual dispossession. Catwalking the stage in a shoulder-padded rhino-leather pantsuit, McGill establishes an atmosphere of unremitting dominance and faux bonhomie. Deliciously hyperbolising the greedy, borderline-megalomaniac persona of a property-shark girl boss, she is scarily ebullient, scarily blasé — full of vibrancy and repellent personality. Brilliantly directed by Jo Mangan, the meeting turns into a kind of grotesque cabaret of corporate doublespeak met with fed-up refusal à la Jonathan Larson, accentuated by Sinéad Lawlor's impeccably eccentric costume design. The stage is modest, the props sparse, and the cast small. Yet the production creates a wealth of memorable set pieces: an entertaining nod to the titular punk anthem, brilliantly performed by Matthew Malone as a disillusioned and increasingly angry researcher; a revolutionary rap from Emmet Kirwan's Skippy McHugh, a wacky socialist TD turned reluctant moderate; and high-energy ensemble numbers, including a confrontation between a local culture-vulture artist (Camille Lucy Ross) and a struggling but imaginative resident (Aisling O'Mara). All unfold to Daragh Dukes' charmingly untidy score and Nanette Kincaid's choreography. A seemingly cut-and-dried story about corporate capitalism despoiling a community, told through song, Swift's musical satire manages to turn a moment of profound collective sorrow into its opposite, laughing through the darkness, before pulling back from satire at the last moment to address social reality. The Pretty Vacant project originally came to life after the team participated in Anthony Freeman O'Brien's In Our Shoes tour through the Liberties, which was so affecting that O'Brien was invited to join the play. Pulling back the curtain, O'Brien delivers a brilliant account of life in the Liberties, its residential hollowing-out, and the construction of two hotels threatening a cherished local space of remembrance and refuge: the Meath Street grotto. This is not a musical that gives its community a happy ending. The developer is not toppled, the Liberties is not magically preserved, and the struggles of gentrification do not end when the lights go down. There are excellent songs and laughs, followed by the less comfortable thought that the real fight is waiting outside Tailors' Hall, where developers may be less cartoonish, but are no less real. What the play does offer is the pleasure of sharing, together, in the experience of it all. Pretty Vacant, written by Tom Swift, music by Daragh Duke, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 at Tailor's Hall until Sept 20. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival

The Far Away Sun by KT Honan. Image Eivind Hansen *** A man crawls from twisted car wreckage in Deirdre Dwyer's compositionally unbalanced set. Slowly, he proceeds to undress down to his underwear. Meanwhile John Gunning's throbbing, orange lights echo the heartbeat from Carl Kennedy's haunting soundscape, reinforcing the connection between man and machine. You might think J.G. Ballard's Crash by way of Cronenberg's movie version. But KT Honan's exotic spectacle The Far Away Sun, directed by Luke Kernaghan, is a totally different beast. Kernaghan's daring blend of light, sound, smoke and shadow evoking the imagery and structure of a PC or console game. Including a lengthy, cinematic cutscene to deliver exposition and narrative substance. A brave and ambitious experiment that intrigues and delivers stunning visuals. Yet brave and brilliant as it is, the result falls short of its desired effect. A deeply human ending, touched by grace, redeeming the final moments and revealing Honan's real strength. Gamers will recognise themes and tones from the Silent Hill franchise, in which a man retreats to a seaside town following a personal trauma, haunted by memories of an absent wife and child. The town transforming between real and surreal spaces where days are dull and nights are full of sinister monsters. Similarities can also be found with Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice, which strives for psychological realism by utilising binaural 3D audio to simulate competing inner monologues and auditory hallucinations. The experience created through headphones as Senua battles psychosis whilst facing monsters from her past. All the above abundantly present in The Far Away Sun in which Rowan Finken's lost soul, Ralph, describes his struggle with a broken marriage, a broken mind and a broken life. Rowan Finken in The Far Away Sun by KT Honan. Image Patricio Cassinoni Whilst the effort is to be applauded, there are several issues. If visuals excite in gameplay, it's usually because they're the outcome of player's choices that fashion the immersive experience. Watching Finken jitter, submerge in water, or hearing him converse off stage doesn’t translate for being more akin to watching someone else play a game on Twitch. Visuals and audio might be curious or impressive, but you're forever caught up in the cold technicality of it all rather than the warmth of immersion. Dialogue, usually Honan's greatest facet, might induce momentary shivers, but mostly it's stripped back to a libretto-like stating of facts and details, as if not wanting to interfere with the visuals and audio undertaking the emotional heavy lifting. Unfortunately, they're not up to the task, reducing character to little more than a visual avatar. One without connection, or a connected gamer, whose days revolve around eating cornflakes, off-stage conversations and the walls of his mind collapsing. Generating no heat or real engagement, with no prizes for guessing where it's all going to go. As nights and days pass, loud animal noises, materialising small cars, a nosey neighbour and a shower of soft toys see Finken's avatar revert to childhood games. Ralph's imagination not running wild so much as getting a little boisterous. Tension resolved as headphones are removed to facilitate a heavy-handed reveal; a cinematic cutscene bringing it all home. The arrival of a superbly understated Stephen Brennan shifting action from inner to outer worlds, from isolation to the relational. If waiting for a kettle to boil aims to evoke a shift towards hyperrealism, the effect is theatrical dead air. But from here on in Honan's brilliance shines in a touching examination of masculinity. Brennan's older male may not know how to express himself, but he still turns up for his wounded son. A man internalising self-loathing and a crippling sense of failure. If Brennan's heartfelt stumbling is never enough to redeem Ralph as a character, his touching tenderness ensures you begin to consider him as human. Even if the end feels tidily convenient, Honan rescues Kernaghan's visuals by injecting them with life. Rowan Finken in The Far Away Sun by KT Honan. Image Patricio Cassinoni In the digital, multi-disciplinary, genre blurring twenty-first century theatre is faced with many new possibilities. That doesn't mean they all work. But theatre makers have an opportunity, and responsibility, to explore new and interesting ways of making and framing theatre. In The Far Away Sun, Honan and Kernaghan do just that and are to be richly commended. If it doesn't quite come together, it still manages to break new ground, paving the way for those who follow. The Far Away Sun by KT Honan, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 at Project Cube till Sept 19. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2026

Amilia Keating in Ross and Rachel. Image uncredited. **** It's said not even a great actor can rescue a weak play. Amilia Keating might beg to differ. In James Fritz's curious character study, Ross and Rachel, a solid idea married to humorous turning points gets bogged down in too much vagueness and too many big asks. Keating's energised performance injecting Fritz's troubled script with bolts of lightning. The unsteady monster stumbling around in the dark; Keating ensuring it stays upright. Fritz's dark comedy wanting to make you laugh and cry, but only managing to do the former. A one woman duologue, Fritz's blurred script proves heavy on generalisations. In which Keating shifts bravely, if unclearly at times, between two loosely sketched characters relaying dim details about their marriage with children and life in their forties. Let's call them Ross and Rachel. If the reference suggests a perfect couple meant to be together forever, it's overworked and undercooked. He's a possessive professor in love with his sister's friend destined to be his everything, his one trope mantra, "she belongs to me." She eventually becomes his obliging wife only to find him boring and herself on the verge of a work affair. Amidst the vapid padding that passes for their relationship matters take a turn when Ross becomes ill. Pushing him to ask Rachel a question to which everyone in the universe already knows the answer. By the time the final image arrives you might accept it in principle, but don't buy it in practice. Ross and Rachel, having earned its laughs, not having earned its pathos. Amilia Keating in Ross and Rachel. Image uncredited. Less a study of possessiveness, Ross and Rachel is more an interrogation of blinded loneliness. Of what it means to be in a relationship where there's the relationship first, then the partner, and coming in a distant third the person. Who either marvels at how wonderful life is, or wonders how the hell they got there? Fritz's taut, looping script failing to state either case convincingly. Observationally vague, snappily written and cleverly structured, with more allusions to Friends than is probably healthy, why Rachel married Ross, let alone stayed with him is never convincingly sold. Showing weak traumatic tension, comic moments land more solidly. Rachel's flashes of emotional honesty not enough to warrant real, dramatic investment. What elevates Ross and Rachel is Keating's invigorating performance. Like Howie The Rookie, merging monologues confuse initially and several details remain unclear (child or children?). Keating injecting humour, insight, and emotional integrity to fill in the empty spaces. Lee Coffey's direction ensuring pace, timing and energy keep the home fires crackling. Kevin Murphy's economy of lights and Jack Rogers' soapbox set adding minimal, but perfectly accentuated support as Keating paces, prowls, crouches, cowers, cries out and carries off a minor miracle. Fashioning Fritz's underwhelming script into an overwhelmingly enjoyable experience. Just as a stopped clock calls the right time twice a day, Ross and Rachel has its moments of truth. The rest of the day it twaddles along asking us to believe in a scenario it never convincingly sells. We compensate with personal projections, but it's not enough. In the end do we really believe what Rachel expresses in that final, poignant moment? Do we really care? Most likely a 'not entirely' to the first question, and a reluctant 'yes' to the second. But only because Keating makes us care with an impassioned performance. Ross and Rachel by James Fritz, presented by Bitter Like A Lemon, runs at The Civic Theatre, Tallaght until September 26th. For more information visit The Civic Theatre

The Boxes: Image, Amanda Braide *** Here you go There are some shows that are hard to review. The Boxes is one of them. According to the programme, the production is part of the Dublin Fringe’s ‘Home Ground’ initiative where artists included in the festival are invited to co-create spaces for the communities their work represents. The aim is to facilitate "audience take-overs" to create "safe, celebratory audience spaces" for key communities represented in Dublin Fringe Festival shows. As our review ticket was for the 12th, which is advertised as the audience takeover day, could a negative review break that promise of a safe space? If productions are there to represent, in the case of The Boxes our vibrant Irish-Brazilian community, should we manage our expectations accordingly? Ironically, expectations are a major theme of this almost wordless show which is billed as a fusion of dance and physical movement. Centering around the theme of masculinity, it asks: what are men forced to suppress emotionally in order to be seen as ‘real’ men? And what is the price paid? Co-created by professional dancer, Yves Lorrhan & the Inner Man Community, The Boxes expresses its title both metaphorically and literally. With set design by Bruna Alves and Iris Ferraz, the stage is littered with maybe a hundred cardboard boxes and, initially, we watch as a disparate group of men assemble and stack them with increasing urgency. The rhythmic soundscape by Mick Donohoe is key and a sense of the hardship of repetitive, low paid, mindless labour that numbs the soul is honestly portrayed by the eight men whose enthusiasm is undeniable. As the play progresses, their wordless activity on stage becomes increasingly feverish and, led by Lorrhan, the dancer/actors do their best to inhabit the emotion but their movements could have been more tightly choreographed and unfortunately, the power of this clever concept gets slightly lost. While Lorrhan’s physical prowess and undoubted ability is fascinating to watch, (one of the first things he does is twitch his pecks - with irony it should be said), the most compelling character is portrayed by Lino Bento. Bento somehow manages to embody a cross between a Brazilian Cathleen Ni Houlihan and a drag queen and their entrance mid-show wearing a traditional wooden mask and a skirt, is genuinely affecting. Proudly confronting established ideas of gender, sexuality and masculinity, Bento’s arresting baritone singing voice and tear stained face is a stand out moment but their monologue slightly lacks clarity which, again, undermines impact. Nevertheless, the group's central message of how hard it is to reconcile being LGBTQ+ with the macho customs and traditions of Brazil is expressed with unsettling lucidity, emphasised by the inventive use of ties in Julia França’s imaginative costume design. Horrifying statistics about the level of crime perpetrated against this community, and indeed women, are announced through voice over and there is such dignity, respect and camaraderie apparent on stage that, while the overall production falls somewhat short artistically, one cannot deny the show’s heart. The Boxes by Yves Lorrhan, presented by Yves Lorrhan & Inner Man Community, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 at Smock Alley Theatre till Sept 12. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2026.

Miss You by Chaos Factory. Image Laura Sheeran ***** You could be forgiven a sudden shudder of dread. Chaos Factory's multi-faceted Miss You serving up another female trauma play based on a Greek myth. Like writing or reviewing using AI the result is often a highly polished and convincing sham passing itself off as original work. Thankfully the multidisciplinary Chaos Factory are the real deal. Harnessing myth whilst actively puncturing artistic pretensions with real world kicks in the teeth. The myth in question that of Demeter whose daughter, Persephone, was kidnapped by Hades and dragged to the underworld with the permission of her father Zeus. Myth informing a simple conceit of three friends and the mother of a missing fourth gathering to make a commemorative film on the tenth anniversary of her disappearance. Asking how do you go on when you can't go on? How do you commemorate what's too painful to remember? Why must women internalise blame for what was never their fault? The answers might not be easy, or even forthcoming, but the result is some top drawer, high voltage theatre dedicated to women who go missing and are never found. Early signs are less than auspicious with the process of film making resembling a low budget, student assignment gone wrong. "Let's move on", the mantra for all three women (Fionnuala Gygax, Venetia Bowe, and Maria Oxley Boardman) stuck in a moment they can't get out of. Ten years on from the party where their friend disappeared, her body never found, relationships have soured and prickled. Laura Sheeran's superlative direction conveying the tetchy distance of nostalgic familiarity refashioned to razored resentment. They might be successful film makers, yoga teachers or mothers today, but the wound of that night still shapes and divides them. The arrival of the missing girl's mother (Úna Kavanagh) sees tensions turn volatile, erupting as self-tortured confessions. Sheeran's directorial excellence and Emily Kilkenny Roddy's sublime final movement sequence resolving distance in a tumbling image of palpable beauty. Crowned with a collective seeding of the faintest of hope in the face of the utterly hopeless. A memory play where nothing much happens, what makes Miss You so brilliant is the depth and power of its telling. Across the board it elevates sounds, sights, words and images both onstage and onscreen. Sabine Dargent's endlessly shifting set and costumes, Dara Hoban's lights running from rave ready to otherworldly, and Jenny O'Malley's evocative sound design less commentary so much as integral parts of the experience. Like Ovid, the focus is on transformation, with the shift from real to imagined, memory to present, the living dead and the dead still living beautifully conveyed. Highlighting the ineffectiveness of art to give voice to the unspeakable as it struggles to capture what cannot be said. Masks, veils and strewn sponge cake often more successful at showing trauma housed in the body and not just the mind. Mummified corpses, posing bodies, enfeebled smiles hitting with the force of house tracks when the beat drops, or the silence of an unanswered call in the dark when a presence is felt. If Gygax, Bowe and Oxley Boardman magnificently articulate a pained survival, it is Kavanagh who infuses Miss You’s emotional tones. That secret ingredient that elevates a dish to perfection, Kavanagh marries understatement with intensity establishing the backdrop against which all four women labour. A world in which desolation can become commemoration, defeat turned to a kind of triumph, resistance never futile even if only as a forceful howl of defiance. Miss You a drop kick to the soul talking to a terror every woman fears and most men never worry about. Stunning. Powerful. Not to be missed. Miss You by Chaos Factory, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 at Project Arts Centre till Sept 10–12. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2026

Daddy Issues by Brigid Leahy. Image uncredited ***** “The old is dying and the new cannot be born” Antonio Gramsci once wrote in the prison cell of the Italian fascists. Identifying the dangerous meaning-gap arising from social discontinuity and stasis. Now, in recent culture and politics, it has felt as though the inability to conceptualise the future has created insistence to rebirth the past. To mythologise and revert to traditionalism. The trad wife lifestyle emerged as one of such morbid symptoms during the quarantine. All over tik-tok women started discarding modern gender roles in favour of full-time motherhood and homemaking. A trend quickly latched onto by right wing politicians and pro-natalist tech elites, happily using it as a cultural vehicle for their agenda. In Brigid Leahy’s new play Daddy Issues this phenomenon is deliciously materialised as women become not simply symbolic vessels of their ideology and the past but the literal mothers of it. Abigail (Brigid Leahy) and Joan (Gemma Kane) are the stars of the new Amazon reality TV show “State of Gestation” documenting the highs and lows of two planned pregnancies. But these aren’t your typical buns in the oven. Abigail and Joan are carrying - yup, you guessed it: the cloned fetuses of Abraham Lincoln and Michael Collins. Prancing around in a mid-victorian floral gown and rifle, 2 examples of Dara Gill’s perfectly ridiculous costume design, Abigail first appears as a hyper-exaggerated representation of the trad-crop. Unlike the all-American beauty queens online however, she is forced into a simulation of Nancy Lincoln’s reality to assure clone-baby Abraham's proper development into the president America now needs more than ever. At least according to everyone’s favourite tech-billionaire and Abigail’s baby daddy: Jeff Bezos. And yeah, the creatively-impaired AI-fetishists turning to cloning next - seems likely. Since Irish corporate tax benefits are just impossible to pass up Abigail is cast to drudgery in a rustic Wicklow cabin instead of Kentucky, where she churns butter and shoots squirrels to eat. A lifestyle closer to Wolverine’s exile than the gilded cage Ballerina Farm. Abigail's consequent unraveling is played to perfection by Leahy herself, both highly comedic and curiously sincere. Abigail operates under unblinking insistence that she is saving America. And if that means living to breed and die, that is her patriotic choice, right? But of course as so often in choice-feminism, it’s a false one, here easily traced back to the psychological leash held by Abby’s denim-clad conservative single father (David Michael Scott), who happily profits off selling his daughter to public consumption. With Abigail aiming for his approval rather than celebrity. Encountering her with pity and ridicule, (although definitely relating to the Daddy Issues) Joan’s reason for becoming a clone-mommy is however just that. Explaining she wants to give Michael Collins a second chance to possibly redeem the great betrayal, she is mainly self-promoting her future biography about raising him. Having chosen this single-mother persona over her ex-husband (Gabriel Adewusi) she happily reduces herself to the manufactured mouthpiece of working-class women. Reciting these polemics like slam poetry, hilariously delivered by Kane, who fills the character with enough personality to make up for Joan’s shallowness. Although treating Abigail like feminism’s foe, Joan quickly assumes the arc of the now outdated girl-boss. Aspiring to break glass ceilings but really just climbing the ladder and pulling it up when Abigail needs her most. It is this core conflict between two failed models of contemporary womanhood that ground the play in emotional sincerity throughout rib-scraping comedy, skilfully directed by Jeda De Bri. Clare Barrett brilliantly embodies the blundering stereotype of a studio executive about to crack, with line deliveries I deeply wish I could replay. Similarly manic, Sean Burke’s show host, who is also the cloned JFK, evokes the rictus laughter of Jimmy Fallon and uncanny patience of Chris Hansen. Manifesting a sanitised optimism that masks a vape addiction and the possibly strongest case of the titular daddy issues. Both Barrett and Burke beautifully exemplify the banal horror of the American culture industry. Perfectly conjured by Mar Parés Baraldés’ Reality TV Set- and Hannah Bevan’s Lighting Design. Leahy demonstrates a distinct understanding and perspective on our cultural moment. And since keeping up with the absurdity of reality is becoming increasingly difficult for satirists, Leahy is getting edgy and really, really weird with it. Crafting a play that is too ridiculous to take seriously and too serious to be ridiculous. Uniquely depraved and disaffected but also genuinely heartfelt. Reminding us that where it feels that reality devolved to worse than impasse, turning to past mythology is the greatest absurdity. Daddy Issues by Brigid Leahy runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 at Smock Alley Theatre till Sept 12 For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival

Gleek of the Week by Conor Burke. Image Fnati.c.ph **** Glee. A jukebox musical, TV series that ran from 2009 to 2015 promoting compassion, inclusion and acceptance. Then there's glee, described as opening yourself up to joy. Finally, twee, a sugar-rush sentimentality trying to pass as heart. Evoking the hugely popular "aw" response, as when looking at a doe-eyed puppy shivering in the rain, begging you to love him. All three in evidence in Conor Burke's suspiciously autobiographical Gleek of the Week. A modest musical, with modest songs by Shauna Carrick, whose "aw" quota is so pervasive that criticism is apt to be seen as kicking said puppy. I assure you, no animals were harmed in what follows, no matter what they say. If Conor, in the script, is all about the theatrical, Conor, the writer, could benefit from some dramatic know-how. With little conflict, less at stake, no action, motivation or objective worth the tension, Conor's memory play about a self-closeted teenager is less a journey so much as a lovable whine. An encounter with a self-obsessed character sitting in his bathrobe in his childhood bedroom whose life seems over at 30. Talking to himself about himself, for no other opinions matter, the eternally stuck perma-child is nostalgic for his teens with its bullies at school, his failed YouTube channel, and the fact he was gay and wouldn't admit it. Donning his old school uniform, Conor relays the unexciting events of his seventeenth year, punctuated with the occasional song and endless comparisons to Glee. The TV series having saved him by making him aware there were other troubled souls like him. Conor soon to reveal he's completely insensitive when it comes to other troubled souls like him. In a world populated by weak, supporting walk-ons, Conor stands centre stage dodging PE, wrestling with his bad singing and learning to accept that his worse self is really his best self. Meanwhile, Myles the cool American, Jimmy Joyce the Newbridge bully, and a variety of teachers unintentionally reveal why Conor might not have friends. Not because Conor's gay, but because when confronted with another's secret struggle with their sexual proclivities understanding and compassion are practically non-existent. Eager for them to leave, it becomes clear that unless the word "self" prefixes everything, Conor isn't interested. All that matters is his musical, little big finish. The penultimate image overflowing with all the "aw" of watching your favourite child have their moment onstage. If only you knew how the next thirteen years would work out. For them and the secret sharer. Less a play so much as a blinkered character study, Gleek of the Week suffers from its characters' blind self-centredness. Neither timely nor timeless, its retro fixation and notions of "my truth will always dominate your truth" feel dated and out of place amid competing notions of acceptance and inclusion. Not helped by Carrick's songs being adequate at best. Carrick's latest offerings, like Conor, seemingly stuck in unearned nostalgia and self-obsession, sounding like they're playing it safe. Not because of Burke's brave singing. Indeed, Burke proves terrific at being adorably funny, owning the stage with compelling presence. Burke brilliantly supported by the unsung hero that is designer and director Lianne O'Shea. O'Shea's bedroom set smartly engaging with Glass Mask Theatre's intimacy, whilst snazzy direction shows top-level pacing and composition. Conor McGowan's lights and Mark Leahy's sound design bringing additional layers. Yet it's all about Burke. If Conor the character is loveable but not always likeable, Burke is simply irresistible. As Conor retreats into his bathrobe and boxsets, the difference between glee and twee, between life and fiction, is painfully evident. Glee opens you up to joy. Twee imitates it. Joy is not just your own — it's joy with, in and for others. Ensuring you might write a play about it. Share it with the world. Give them so much "aw" they'll be smiling and wiping tears from their eyes. Just make sure there's meat to go with the sweet. Here, Toto, come on in out of the rain. Gleek of the Week by Conor Burke, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 at Glassmask Theatre till Sept 12. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2026

The Act of Existing by Croí Glan. Image uncredited ** Choreography gives way to durational performance art in Croí Glan's The Act of Existing, choreographed by Philip Connaughton. Its advertised fifty minutes running well over seventy. It's not the vomiting, the spewing, the spitting, or the drooling that's the problem. We've seen all that before. It's not even its playful cursing at the audience or watching the cast waterboarding each other with milk. No, the problem is its cynical manipulation to make the audience seem like they're doing something they're never authentically doing. Its faux premise of independent choice nothing more than a game rigged to specific rules, pre-determined choices and certain outcomes, despite claims to the contrary. Less 120 Days of Sodom so much as one hundred and twenty minutes too long, The Act of Existing commences with a human klaxon. The Ben Bob rapid rotation warning you to flee the building, if only you knew it. Yet as the Fringe programme never hints at what follows, and as it's Croí Glan and Connaughton, you play along at the expense of trust. The audience responding to various choices presented by performers Bobby Byrne and Ben Sullivan. Spin or run? Solo or something else? Wear this or that item of clothing selected from two dishevelled piles. Some poorly choreographed recoils, a Buffalo Bill pose (think Silence of the Lambs not Wild West), and a red dress rendition of The Cowboy Junkies' Witches hint at something to come. Instead, it flips into raised hands allowing the audience to stop what's happening onstage or allow it to continue. Never knowing the follow-on action, informed choice gives way to an uninformed guess as repeated sequences of slapping, spitting and so on begin to loop. Change selected most often when performers appear in physical discomfort. The audience, still voyeurs, now doms issuing blind prompts to two compliant submissives who choose what they'll change to. Usually change is for the worse, culminating in several artificial tirades on how the audience could have chosen something better and on the low standards of what passes for entertainment. The Act of Existing consciously aware it proves the latter point. Never seriously challenging systems of seeing or engagement, or of the body as a site of intertextual representation, The Act of Existing over-relies on physical abuse that amuses more than it intrigues. Not so much turning objects of vision into subjects of vision as straitjacketing the observer into a streamlined engagement under the illusion of greater agency. Yet like the projected image of an ugly, big-eared dog, it's stuck. You could leave, but it's mildly humorous, the provocations tame, and you keep hoping it's going to surprise, delight or go somewhere interesting. Like a slapstick version of The Stanford Prison Experiment, when the lights finally come up it feels like a reprieve. The most prominent bruises likely to be those of the audience punching themselves after realising they could have picked something else in the Fringe to go and see. The Act of Existing by Croí Glan, choreographed by Philip Connaughton, presented by Croí Glan, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 at Project Arts Centre till Sept 11; 30th September at Backstage Theatre Longford 7th November, Uillinn West Cork Arts Centre for Uillinn Dance Season For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2026

Mercurial by Rosaleen Cox. Image Julia Salkin **** It could be a sexual role-play. It could be a Tinder date. It could be a Tinder sexual role-play date. Whatever it is, this one-night stand looks like it’s been stood up. Two anxious people arguing about sex whilst not actually having any. Meanwhile, an apocalyptic din regularly crashes from outside the bedroom. In Rosaleen Cox's sexually charged Mercurial, the charge might be weak, but a flurry of comic complications proves utterly irresistible. Cox's battle of the sexes, or battle for sex, a comic collision of relational opposites. Cox, both writer and performer, striving for the best of both worlds and delivering. A talent so vibrant and versatile it shows all the hallmarks of a superstar in the making. A mismatch made in hell or do opposites truly attract? Are they even using their real names? As juxtapositions go, Cox’s pair make for the perfect couple. When it comes to sex, both are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. She swears by the freedom of being single, he promotes the joys of relationship and intimacy. She likes a little bit of rough to bring on the wonder stuff, he's more into roughage so his bowels remain regular. Her body count is 57, his is between 5 and 7. A brilliant misunderstanding three-quarters of the way through sees comedy taking on shades of drama. In which sex games give way to what's real, which might prove to be the greatest sex game of all. With its flying sparks more Ross and Rachel than 9½ Weeks, Cox's orgy for two is built on a divine misunderstanding, alpha-versus-beta tendencies, and a cringe-worthy need to be sexual. Cox's supple script, padded with cinematic references, more a stretched-out sketch than a full-fledged play. It's merciless killer joke, you'll know it when you hear it, confirming the truth. Oisín Kearney's perfectly paced direction unpacking nuance and depth that informs and enriches, highlighting a woman looking for a man to have fun with rather than a boy to take care of. A boy who likes his women faithful and exclusive. Detailed performances from Desmond Eastwood and Cox vibrating with joy. Eastwood having the harder task of being straight support to Cox's sexually adventurous woman. A woman who wants a man to tug her hair at just the right time and in just the right way instead of combing it. Eastwood exceptional at asserting his presence whilst supporting Cox's stunning comic performance. Cox's jittery, energised portrayal one part Yellowstone's commanding Beth, one part painfully unsure of who and what she truly wants. All parts magnificently irresistible. A lightweight, sexual comedy more sketch than play, yet with more going on than at first appears, Mercurial's snappy dialogue and chemistry-infused performances prove divinely enjoyable. Yet if Mercurial is terrific, Cox is a revelation. So shamelessly talented she might well be the next big thing. Mercurial by Rosaleen Cox, presented by Rosealeen Cox, Serpentine Productions & 19th Street Productions, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 at Smock Alley Theatre till Sept 11. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2026

Kafka's Doll by Theatre Lovett. Image Alisa Iakimanskaia **** They say never let truth get in the way of a good story. The same might be said of theatre. The story in question claiming that in 1924, seeing a young girl crying in a park having lost her doll, Franz Kafka wrote her a series of letters purportedly from the missing doll. Letters recounting adventures from the doll who had decided to travel the world. Kafka, approaching death, presented the young girl with a new doll whose differences, he claimed, were the result of her travels. The girl apparently bought it. The story subsequently alleging that, many years later, the young girl, now a young woman, found a note from Kafka tucked inside the doll: "Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way." A lovely story, but most likely untrue. Current evidence suggesting it was likely spread by Kafka's lover, Dora Diamant. The story providing the foundation for Frances Kay's problematic Kafka's Doll. Presented by Theatre Lovett, themes of transformation and metamorphosis loom large. But Kay's stories-within-a-story come in a distant second to Theatre Lovett's scrumptiously gorgeous theatricality. From its signature programme to Jamie Vartan's wonderland set, from Nicole Clifford and Theatre Lovett's pink/red, black/grey snappy costumes to Susan Crawford's gorgeously detailed props, from Nico Brown's atmospheric compositions to Carl Kennedy's superb sound design, from Sarah Jane Shiels' impeccable lighting to Alisa Iakimanskaia's extraordinary dolls, and not forgetting Cormac O'Connor's mood-darkening AV, Kafka's Doll is a visual, audial and theatrical tour de force. Its tone and textures steeped in German Expressionist cinema. Muireann Ahern and Louis Lovett's astute direction engaging with a Babel tower of theatrical languages; cabaret, circus, street artistry, juggling, puppetry, opera, musical, slapstick, add your own. It's all there, wonderfully realised through four excellent performances from Lovett, Charlotte Cleary, Emely Tenhagen and Cormac Mohally. What isn't there is an engaging narrative through-line, or very much of either the little girl or Kafka. If theatricality is astounding, Kay’s overwrought script coughs and sputters but fails to sustain life. Events relayed by direct address either sung, spoken or delivered in rhyming couplets. Inside of which three tales reside: one concerning the doll's trip to New York and her encounter with gangsters Delaroche and Robinson, the second about a Monkey King and the third referencing Kafka’s classic shorter story Metamorphosis. Yet through all the glorious slapstick and shenanigans the young girl is barely a sketch and Kafka even less so. Instead of characters we engage with actors performing caricature. And while wonderful to behold, it's not enough to pluck the heartstrings Kafka's Doll strives to play. Instead, we catch the occasional note, chord or phrase, but the song never quite materialises. A cabaret act disguised as a play, Kafka's Doll never realises its story despite rich veins of humour and genuine sentiment. Yet its production values and performances are gorgeously, gloriously sumptuous. A work of intricate, richly textured detail, its heart pulses but never beats consistently with that propulsive force that blows you away. Still, Kafka's Doll is a joy to look at. Though dramatically weak, for those seeking a masterclass in theatrical excellence, you need look no further. Kafka's Doll by Theatre Lovett, runs at The Peacock Stage of The Abbey Theatre as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026 until Sept 12. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2026

A Recurrence by Sophie O’Toole and Trudy Nolan. Image Vlad Gurdis ***** In A Recurrence, D'Girlos Theatre Company returns to the Dublin Fringe Festival with a gripping new three-hander following three working-class Dublin women across a 1930s tenement, a 1990s flat, and a modern council house. Co-written by D’Girlos co-founders Trudy Nolan and Sophie O'Toole, this rich and tender play traces their lives through the sudden realisation and struggle of unplanned pregnancy to an ultimate intergenerational reconciliation of the lives that are lived and the stories they become. Although cornered in the close and dark quarters of a tenement, Minnie brims brightly with imagination. With no option but to stay in the place where she was born, to marry, raise a family, she revolts through a reveling in small pleasures and private moments. Erin Murray Boyne embodies this girlish excitement not as naive fragility but a thick skin protecting her body and heart, concealing a secret that she refuses to be victimised by. 50 years later Jasmine refuses to bear Minnie’s story as a warning but rather carries it as part of herself. Much like all the people in the Fatima Mansions. Even those that were carried away. Pregnant with her late friend Brandon’s baby, she attempts to reconcile her despondent grief with a genuine craving for the world and her blossoming queer sexuality. Sophie O’Toole delivers a dazzlingly electric and vulnerable performance. Making words cut like knives whether softly spoken or fiercely cried out. Achingly alive as she desires to numb herself and discovers a desire that might make the numbing futile all together. Coming from a modern council house, Grace carries her roots and ghosts with softness and pride but refuses to be defined or limited by them. Submerging herself in college life she breathes the exhilaration of possibility, but simultaneously the loss and split in her life. Ciara Byrne brings a fierce determination and Gen Z post-irony to the character. However never concealing the grieving and yearning wound beneath. Struggling through loss and hope it seems that both Minnie and Jasmine breathe through her. As she carries her roots not as albatross around her neck but through her sorely beating heart. Together, they create an unforgettable portrait of what it means and costs to be a working-class woman in Ireland. Uncovering the cyclical, shape-shifting nature of poverty and emphasizing the refusal to let complex lives be reduced to cautionary tales. And as the girls teeter the bounds of what is desired of them and can be desired from life, they dance themselves clean, quite literally. Bodies moving in distorted accordance as though they’re possessing each other. Perfectly supplemented by Megan Murphy’s haunting sound design, that weaves shreds of memory into electric beats throughout. Exemplifying that however divergent their paths, their stories echo and remain interwoven. Speaking not directly to, but through and for each other. This emotional journey and severed dialogue actualised through Vlada Hrytsenko’s lighting design, lifting the girls in and out of the spotlight. Making her directorial debut, Nolan proves to have a highly political and passionately aesthetic sensibility, managing to bring alive a century through 3 lifetimes of love, joy, death, tragedy and humour in one play. Announcing herself as an incredible talent amongst an equally impressive cast. Leaving the Civic Theatre audience puffy eyed and anxious to see what D'Girlos give us next. A Recurrence by Sophie O’Toole and Trudy Nolan, presented by D’Girlos Theatre company in association with The Civic Tallaght and part of Dublin Fringe Festival, runs at The Civic Tallaght, Parthalán Place, until September 13th. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2026

Gaja Masciale in Mirandolina by Marina Carr. Image: Serena Serrani. ** Like The Gate's seasonal Christmas Show, an annual Marina Carr production at The Abbey, directed by The Abbey's artistic director Caitríona McLaughlin, has become something of an unquestioned fixture over the past decade. Carr's work occasionally great, McLaughlin having her good days too. But it bears repeating that no playwright should enjoy that degree of favouritism no matter how good their work, especially at a national theatre. Carr's latest, Mirandolina, suggesting the practice not only has a negative impact on opportunities for others, but possibly on the writer. Like an ape dressed in Armani, Mirandolina appears to be trying to hide an identity crisis behind Italian chic. Mirandolina's polemic against violence towards women challenging our callous desensitisation. Even as it’s laboured, cartoon clichés suggest a theatrical multiple personality disorder. Massimo Scola and Gaja Masciale in Mirandolina by Marina Carr. Image: Serena Serrani. Following the big-budget lacklustre that was The Boy, Carr shifts from Greece to Italy for her latest source material. Mirandolina, adapted from the 1753 comedy La Locandiera by Carlo Goldoni, originally focused on an innkeeper with a coquettish nature. Goldoni, a contemporary of Mozart, Casanova, and Lorenzo da Ponte, is perhaps best known for his Il servitore di due padroni reimagined as the hugely successful comedy One Man, Two Guvnors. In contrast, Carr's tabloid twist on Goldoni's La Locandiera flips comedy into tragedy with weak results. Written originally in Italian, here translated from English by Monica Capuani back into Italian (employing English surtitles) further compounds the sense of an identity in crisis. Gaja Masciale and Riccardo Gamba in Mirandolina by Marina Carr. Image: Serena Serran As does Mirandolina's generational ghost story. Supernatural foreshadowing establishing otherworldly connections to ancestors as expositional spirits. Sensed beings who move through the world charting a frayed thread more than a through line. Beginning in Italy and ending in a cheap Dublin restaurant, exposition proves mostly decorative. In which Irish sensibilities disappear next to Italian. Despite the Irish location Mirandolina always feels set in Italy. Where cartoon gender polemics play out as four lewd misogynists, with a collective IQ of seven, live out their fifty-cent lives as barroom experts swilling last rounds or sniffing coke. Daily declaiming on the flights, fancies and failings of women and their roles and responsibilities as mothers, virgins and whores. Beginning with Massimo Scola's Fabrizio, an adopted brother who wants to marry Mirandolina. Followed by Riccardo Gamba's Rip, a disdainful bore with no interest in women. Finally Denis Fasolo's Fiori, a loudmouth abuser, and Andrea Tich's Alba, an unquestioning enabler rounding out the village idiots. Meanwhile, Gaja Masciale's vibrant and youthful Mirandolina, researching her feminist thesis on Virginia Woolf, navigates the men's inescapable attentions. Tired of Rip's vilification of women, and of being seemingly immune to her charms, Mirandolina decides to make him fall in love with her so she can break his heart. Only now does something resembling action begin. Yet given the crassness that follows you almost wish it hadn't. A twenty-minute monologue about a gang rape, followed by two unconvincing seduction attempts ends with a groan-inducing descent into Carmen. Taking us right back to where it all began with the feeling you've just been played. Denis Fasolo and Gaja Masciale in Mirandolina by Marina Carr. Image: Serena Serran A litany of trauma triggers set against comic, cartoon reductivism, action is often offset by several spoonfuls of sugared humour to help the trauma go down. Keeping it down proving something of a problem. Under McLaughlin's lacklustre direction, the whole suffers a staid, dull heaviness. McLaughlin's smart, feline slinking evoking liminal suggestiveness soon giving way to clichéd slow-motion in blurred, shadowy mists. Paul Keogan's lights working vigilantly to enrich a myriad of real and other spaces, which Katie Davenport's set valiantly tries to realise. But the wide-open restaurant always looks like its sprawling to fill up the stage, the ever-present train track painfully draws attention to itself. Gaja Masciale and Massimo Scola in Mirandolina by Marina Carr. Image: Serena Serrani. If Mirandolina were an entry level, educational introduction to issues affecting domestic abuse you might forgive it more. It's not the message that's the problem, it's the medium, which risks undoing the message's impact for looking cartoonish. What elevates and captivates in Mirandolina are its incredibly detailed performances, despite some self-conscious shouting, informed by a heightened naturalism beautiful to behold. At the centre of which is Masciale's Mirandolina, along with Giancarlo Previati as her great-grandfather who steals his scene. Masciale a magnetising presence. A performer who could recite the Bible in Klingon and still make it sing. For long time fans, all the Carr tropes are present: family, history, incest, the supernatural, ridiculous men and exciting women some say are mad, bad and dangerous to know. Even so, theatrically and thematically, Mirandolina falls considerably short of Carr’s better work. Mirandolina by Marina Carr, after Goldoni, translated by Monica Capuani, runs at The Abbey Theatre until September 5. Mirandolina is a co-production between the Abbey Theatre (Ireland), Teatro Stabile del Veneto – Teatro Nazionale (Italy), and Croatian National Theatre HNK Rijeka (Croatia). Part of the cultural programme for Ireland's Presidency of the Council of the EU, it premiered in Treviso in February 2026 before touring Italy and Croatia. Women's Aid is the production's charity collaborator. Performed in Italian with English surtitles. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Vincent Patrick, Adam Redmond, and Lacy Moore in The Pitchfork Disney. Image James Donnelly **** Art manifestos. Or Mission Statements as they're currently called, in keeping with a business-like approach to theatre. Declarations of intent outlining a company's artistic vision. Like Judder Theatre Company and their vision for Techno Theatre. Described as combining elements of DIY with electronic music culture, atmospheric sets, no-holds-barred source material and visceral stage performances…representing a turn away from elitism and the dissolution of distinction between spectator and stage. Tall statements. Little of which is in evidence in their current, conventionally staged production of Philip Ridley's seminal The Pitchfork Disney. What is in evidence is a determined, independent company operating without financial support trying to fashion an identity and create interestingly refreshing work. Their inflated manifesto somewhat at odds with what's presented, with what they present proving far more impressive. Part of the problem stems from Ridley's play from 1991, a foundational work of the In Yer Face Theatre movement. An extension of the Shockabilly, Damien Hirst, British arts scene of the period, claiming to offer a no-holds-barred approach to art. A style which hasn't aged well, proving far less shocking than it promoted itself to be. Minimally visceral, mostly voyeuristic, its all bark and nipping bites saw many desensitised audiences wondering whose Victorian grandmother this was intended to upset? An audience who'd grown up on plays like Edward Bond's Saved with its pram-stoning scene in 1965 found little that didn't feel gimmicky. Despite some enduring classics, In Yer Face’s popularity quickly waned. Vincent Patrick in The Pitchfork Disney. Image James Donnelly The Pitchfork Disney is further hampered by trading in caricatures rather than characters, always harder to care for. Caricatures like brother and sister twins, Presley and Haley. Childlike orphans living on a diet of chocolate and sleeping pills, whiling away their days in dubious conversation. Twenty-eight going on eleven, they isolate themselves in a Beckett-like room from which Presley looks out from the top of a ladder onto a sexual and physically threatening world. Fear and self-soothing their primary motives. The arrival of the duplicitous Cosmo Disney, later followed by the Bane-like Pitchfork Cavalier, upsetting their already unstable chocolate cart. As Cosmo tricks Presley into leaving him alone with the heavily sedated Haley, matters finally come to a head with minutes to go. A mad dash for an underwritten ending sees action cease like a flicked-off light switch. In between, memory lapses, devouring chocolate, insect eating, vomiting, a two-finger rape simulation and lots of damp, verbal pyrotechnics put in the time. Looping passages of dialogue covering homophobia, sedation, not being touched, dead parents, friendship, various snakes and being attracted to violence and ugliness as its own kind of beauty. Reminding you Ridley is, first and foremost, a visual artist. His stage images, along with his use of language, evoking abstractions open to a myriad of interpretations. Begging the question; how do you present something so malleable? Which brings us back to the aforementioned manifesto. Vincent Patrick, Adam Redmond in The Pitchfork Disney. Image James Donnelly Visually, the result is a mixed bag. If costumes and performances highlight childlike, cartoon exaggeration, the sense of otherworldly Wonderland isn't consistent. Darcie Faccio's proscenium-styled set might be richly detailed, but it makes for a striking contrast. The atmosphere more kitchen sink realism than liminal, immersive otherworld (hinted at by small tokens of chocolate), reinforcing conventional spectator dynamics. And an unconvincingly tidy room it is too for such childlike slobs. Who live up to Judder's claims of strong performances, more physical than visceral. Lacy Moore as pyjama-ed Haley being wildly impressive, evoking Harley Quinn's impetuous dumber sister. Vincent Patrick's Presley, like Dumb and Dumber's even dumber brother, a masterclass in controlled idiocy. Against which Adam Redmond's Rutger Hauer, ‘Allo 'Allo, Nazi-styled Cosmo is both a homophobic delight and a theatrical frustration. Redmond's Cosmo, a Quadrophenia cool, blond-haired devil absent an ounce of charm or grace, leans too much into one-dimensional villainy. The manipulative Disney might be wonderfully evil, like a cartoon Skeletor, yet greater nuance, subtlety and vulnerability could have made Cosmo truly terrifying. As for Gavan O'Connor Duffy's towering Pitchfork Cavalier, his unique take on singing has to be heard to be believed. Under Shaun Elebert's excellently paced direction, the cartoon ethos pays huge dividends if also diluting something of the play’s power. Elebert making strong compositional choices, some begging a little indulgence. Like monologues, mostly delivered as direct address to the audience, playing the soliloquy rather than the scene. Which can restrict others onstage, notably Redmond's Cosmo. Seated, shifting his laser-piercing stare from Haley lounging lifelessly on the couch to Presley's tiresome tirade, Cosmo is compositionally hamstrung when he could have brought so much more. Luckily Redmond's effortless cool and Patrick's impeccable delivery compensate, but there was greater impact to be had here. Lacy Moore in The Pitchfork Disney. Image James Donnelly In the end, The Pitchfork Disney proves less techno so much as ambient house or psychedelic trance. Judder Theatre's theatrical walk far richer, and smarter, than the talk it talks. If some areas, like Einne O'Connachtáin's warming lights, need better execution, others, like its terrific performances, and Carrie Kinahan's exceptional costumes prove utterly superb. The gifted Kinahan announcing herself as a seriously talented costume designer. Presented at The Teacher Club, there's a sense of the English Theatre Club of the 1940s and 50s where shows banned by the Lord Chamberlain were privately staged as a way of getting around the censor. Whilst unsure of the politics and protocols of the Teacher's Club, its theatre is a superb venue where other independent companies might well hone their talent. Creating work like The Pitchfork Disney which, warts and all, would have done exceptionally well at Edinburgh Fringe. Judder Theatre Company, who've been around awhile, revealing they're here for the long haul and capable of tackling significant challenges. The Pitchfork Disney a strikingly impressively production of a complex and controversial work. The Pitchfork Disney by Philip Ridley, presented by Judder Theatre Company, runs at The Teacher’s Club Theatre, 36 Parnell Square, until September 5th.

Liam Wilson Smyth and Molly Downey in Synapses. Image uncredited. **** In Liam Wilson Smyth's disjointed Synapses, Emily and Mike negotiate a new normal now their strained marriage has ended. As Mike repairs a broken light socket, they talk to achieve a workable understanding for the sake of their unseen six-year-old son; less a child so much as a dramatic device to highlight the impact of separation on children. Emily, as insufferably dull as a legal document, controls the conversation, setting the rules as to who, what and how they talk. Their conversation as much a contest of wills as a process of conditioning. Against which Mike might charm with boyish, immature playfulness, but his little boy lost routine, begging Emily's approval, is a million miles from emotional maturity and one step away from Incel. Self-obsessed, judgmental, the emotionally constipated Emily and emotionally incontinent Mike autopsy self-justifications to avoid addressing the real issue at hand. So why spend eighty minutes in their company? Because underneath the tidy mess that is Synapses there's a fantastic play trying to get out. One dealing with pressing themes, often beautifully performed and smartly directed. One skirting close to hard truths yet, like Mike and Emily, seems scared of what it wants to say. Dealing in humour and psychobabble to avoid immersing itself in the blood, sweat and tears it really wants to tackle. A screenplay masquerading as a play, Synapses makes some structurally smart decisions. Long duologues interspersed with a series of snap, fragmentary scenes offering flashback as exposition. Images, closer to screenplay visuals than stage images, being excellent throughout. Yet what works on screen often suffers lag onstage; performers resetting too short scenes frequently compromising their impact. Evident in the final run-in when a genius use of a single light achieves the desired effect far more effectively. Ciara Meehan's evocative lighting, Daniel Montague O'Brien's cracking use of sound and Iris Liange's economical, yet astutely detailed set offering a masterclass in how to fashion story through sound and image. Molly Downey and Liam Wilson Smyth in Synapses. Image uncredited. Yet economy doesn't translate to text. Smyth's gift for the witty remark and natty sentence enlivening a strained conversation that takes forever to get where it's going. Talking in order not to talk, whilst claiming what they really want to do is talk, dialogue constantly loops back on itself. Abstract, piecemeal, trapped in a cul-de-sac of avoidance, Smyth's vaguely described world comes to substitute for Synapses' central issue. For despite pretensions to the contrary, conversations are never about intimacy, honesty, communication, or the nature of their relationship. Nor are they about raising their child, or the much disputed sex and washing up. In Synapses, conversation is about power. Conversation is power. Who has it, and who wields it, being Emily. Mike dismissed as an inadequate lover, husband and parent, despite Emily's reasons for leaving having nothing to do with him. Ruthlessly manipulative, Emily deliberately keeps him in the dark yet makes him feel he's to blame. Revealing Mike as too needy to be anything more than another child for the reluctant Mammy to mind. The type who, if he discovered his girlfriend had an affair with another woman, rather than a man, would find it less offensive because it doesn't puncture his masculinity. The type who, if shot walking down the street, would lie screaming in a pool of his own blood pondering "why did they shoot me?" rather than removing the bullet. Meanwhile, the real issue Synapses points towards flickers in and out of focus. Paradoxically, herein lies Synapses' strength; recognising the problems couples face trying to move on when relationships break down; remain friends when feelings get messy, raise a child together, forgive the unforgivable and address contemporary concerns many modern couples encounter. Ideas palpably felt, if inadequately articulated. Director Paul Meade's excellent direction releasing real emotional resonance. Hurts and insecurities topped off with Smyth's deft comic touches. Smyth compelling as the desperate Mike, turning in an invested performance. If newbie Molly Downey holds back due to inexperience, there's evidence in her tear-strewn expressions of a huge talent and terrific presence bubbling beneath just begging to assert itself. Molly Downey and Liam Wilson Smyth in Synapses. Image uncredited. Opening to Ella Fitzgerald's Every Time We Say Goodbye delivers a double-edged gut punch. Marking not only the end of Mike and Emily's troubled relationship, but of Gúna Nua Theatre Company after twenty eight years. Synapses their bittersweet swan song. Yet another company (venue, artist, tech person, add your own) disappearing on account of Ireland's pathetic approach to arts funding. Most notably theatre, which hasn't received a workable increase in funding in well over a decade. The hope should have been that Smyth takes the lessons learned from staging Synapses and develops it with continued support. Alas, hope is the first thing to go. Then faith, followed by opportunity and potential. All that remains is charity. Which is what arts funding for theatre feels like. Hopefully, newly appointed Arts Council Director Shona McCarthy can do something about theatre being treated as the runt of the artistic litter. We wish her every success. It's too late for Gúna Nua. The impact of their demise, along with countless others, poignantly captured by Ella Fitzgerald. Who could well be singing on behalf of Irish theatre; "every time we say goodbye, I die a little.” For twenty eight years Gúna Nua have provided artists like Downey and Smyth with somewhere to hone their craft and talent. To draw on the immeasurable experience of artists like Meade. Offering countless opportunities to learn, grow, and experiment. Whether socially conscious works like 2021's Stronger, joyous delights like 2023's excellent Magic Play, or works in development like the hugely promising Synapses, Gúna Nua have enriched Irish theatre. Founded in 1998 by David Parnell, Meade and Éadaoin Glynn, Gúna Nua leave behind an incomparable legacy. Their loss incalculable. The cumulative loss in recent decades of artists, venues, and companies like Gúna Nua devastating. Something has to change. Synapses by Liam Wilson Smyth, presented by Gúna Nua, runs at The New Theatre until August 21. For more information visit The New Theatre

Geraldine Hughes, Matthew Broderick and Max Baker in Ulster American. Image by Carol Rosegg **** In David Ireland's perceptively brilliant Ulster American, Irish Americans enjoy nothing more than talking about themselves. Knowing absolutely nothing about their subject matter proving no drawback when it comes to self-praising monologues. Baldwins, Fenians, anti-Irish scripts, ignorance is bliss until faced with what they don't know about what they didn't know in the first place. Like acting legend Jay, meeting artistic director Lee, and acerbic author Ruth, at Jay's home in advance of rehearsals for Ruth's new, Irish themed play. Two time Tony winner Matthew Broderick reminding audiences why he's the real theatrical deal as the indefatigable Jay. Who, along with an excellent Max Baker (a frustrated Lee), and a sensational Geraldine Hughes (a ruthless Ruth), serve up a comedy double act made of three components. Ciarán O'Reilly fanning the flames of Ireland's fantastically funny, unsettlingly scathing satire with some top drawer direction. In Ireland's fast paced script, the plights, perils and problems of our time see culture, counter cultures and micro cultures clash. Art, gender, identity, add your own, all colliding in a confusion of prejudice. In which characters discuss Irish identity, even though there's not a native Irish person in the room. Yet it's their process, not its interchangeable content, that's Ireland's real focus. Vilified critics, temperamental women, theoretical rape or unapologetic Unionists easily swapped out for alternate cultural and social archetypes. In the end it's less about specific incidents and their moralities so much as broader cultural power plays. Played out in real time over a single night, explorations of national identity, being a woman in an all-male world, and what's forbidden and acceptable to discuss in impolite society lead to hilarious misunderstandings. In no time whatsoever generational self-recognition turns to gentrified self-justification. Culminating in a carnival of badly choreographed violence. If thematically apt, the end proves dramatically flaccid, the whole dwindling to a humiliated halt. Like jumping off a still running train. The journey to that point having been well worth the ride, and promising so much more to come. Max Bakr , Geraldine Hughes, Matthew Broderick in Ulster American. Image by Carol Rosegg Like Charlie Corcoran's deceptive set, the devil of prejudice hides in plain sight in a multitude of devious details. Michael Gottlieb's lights and Orla Long's costumes conveying similar evidence of the unspoken underlying the everyday. In which characters spin elaborate rationalisations for their cultural biases which often seep through as subtext. Performances, directed by O'Reilly with exquisite comic finesse (the moments preceding the Margaret Thatcher joke a masterclass in timing), all built on strong choices that ultimately pay off. Guaranteed not to be to everyone's liking, Broderick is brilliant as the imperturbable, easily offended Jay; a grown-up Ralph Wiggum, showing about the same level of smarts, yet minus the squeaky voice. Opting to portray Jay as absurdly self-deluded, Broderick exploits the play's comic leanings revealing how close to insanity everything really is. Broderick's flat tones, limp gestures, weak warm-up routines all offset by two highly agitated, straight partners. Baker sensational as the peace-at-any-price-people-pleaser, Lee, trying to keep everyone happy whilst annoying them endlessly. If Hughes as the righteously indignant Ruth is a centre of rationality, she's equally as biased, manipulative, self-centred and prejudiced as anyone else onstage. Broderick's becalmed, eye patch dreaming demeanour a perfect foil for Baker and Hughes' wild exasperations, fuelling the comic maelstrom. A collage of cultural hot potatoes, Ulster American might be dated by its details, but its truth lies beyond its historic specificity. Less a play so much as a shattered Socratic dialogue, characters are earnestly delusional, misinformed or uninformed mouthpieces. And therein lies the merit, and relevance, of Ulster American. If we're truly honest, the experience is often less "there, but for the grace of God, go I", but rather, "there go I". Ulster American a comic mirror held up so we can laugh at others before finally realising, "wait, are they talking about me?" One critical gripe. While always a pleasure to see companies like the Irish Repertory Theatre presenting their work on an Irish stage, one Broadway import that's not welcome is the practice of parading latecomers to their seats once the show is underway. Seats usually in the middle of a section. This despite venue claims that those leaving the auditorium will not be readmitted so as not to disturb the audience, the performers or the experience. The irony obvious, the practice indefensible and to be resisted before it becomes commonplace. To be clear, there are many genuine reasons a person might be late. No one is saying latecomers shouldn't get to see the show if feasible. But attending patrons and performers should not be disturbed for their benefit. Discommoding a large audience for the sake of two people is simply ridiculous. Responsibility for accommodating latecomers lies solely with venues who need to find alternate ways of seating latecomers, thereby adhering to their own professed policies, and treating, with due respect, those already in attendance both on and off the stage. Ulster American by David Ireland, an Abbey Theatre presentation of the Irish Repertory Theatre, runs at The Abbey Theatre until August 22. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Chris O'Dowd, Peter Corboy and Brian Gleeson in The Brightening Air. Image Patricio Cassinoni **** Tolstoy famously claimed, “all happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”. Clearly Tolstoy hadn't watched many 1980s family sitcoms. Before then The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, even The Addams Family were all lovely in a similar lovely way. Till The Simpsons, Married With Children, later followed by Malcolm in the Middle arrived portraying unhappy families as all unhappy in the same, identical way. Gormless, cowardly, idiotic Dads often thinking they’re still players. Smart, long suffering mothers and wives trying to hold the family together. Throw in a daft grandparent and variations on the idiotic, clever, or responsible child and viola; you have The Brightening Air. Conor McPherson’s hilariously funny, kitchen sink, sit-com channelling 1980s family dysfunction. Chris O'Dowd and Judith Roddy in The Brightening Air. Image Patricio Cassinoni Set near Sligo in the 1980s, McPherson’s dysfunctional family get-together, built on the flimsiest of pretexts, confirms that money and family are like oil and water. McPherson’s second best losers gathered at the crumbling family home at the behest of blind priest, Father Pierre (a superb Seán McGinley). Enter Dermot, the man-child husband who never found himself (a stupendously brilliant Chris O’Dowd), Stephen the responsible brother who stayed behind to fulfil family obligations (a solid Brian Gleeson), and Lydia, the wife who can't let go of a broken relationship (an excellent Judith Roddy). Then there’s the gormless suitor Brendan, (a terrifically dull Peter Corboy), the self deprecating lover, Freya (Aisling Kearns smartly rescuing a troubled role), the faithful house keeper Elizabeth (the ever excellent Derbhle Crotty) bringing up the familial rear. All satellites revolving around the gravitational centre that is chicken raising Billie, a young woman who needs minding though we’re never entirely sure why. Kate Gilmore astonishing as train fascinated Billie, struggling in a world where she’s slower yet smarter than all those around her. As a will reading moves events along and minor miracles reveal unspoken truths, lives promise to become changed forever. But if The Brightening Air's comedy flows, its dramatic ending is resolved with the equivalent tension of a mid-week episode of bake off. Judith Roddy, Kate Gilmore, Peter Corboy, Derbhle Crotty, Seán McGinley, Brian Gleeson, Aisling Kearns and Chris O'Dowd in The Brightening Air. Image Patricio Cassinoni A lightweight sit-com exploring family values not worth their salt, The Brightening Air overplays its dramatic hand till its bluff gets called. Not that there's no dramatic meat on its bones. A thoughtful interrogation of the threadbare ties that tentatively bind sees familial obligations to care for the weak asking uncomfortable questions. Billie, along with aging parents, find their carers often resent living second best lives. What Billie’s difficulties are McPherson never specifies. Which can feel like a dated cop out from the assisted-living options of the 21st century. All of which segues into ham-fisted spirituality and theological pretensions. Dwarfed beneath the shadow of druidic real deals like John Moriarty, references to magic wells, changeling children, love potions, or burning bodies by the Ganges are about as substantial as speculating on the 2057 Grand National. Speaking to an untidy marriage of folklore paganism and defunct Catholicism. More tourist guidebook than theological treatise. And if the point is it’s all shallow anyway, it’s a point poorly made. Chris O'Dowd, Kate Gilmore and Brian Gleeson in The Brightening Air. Image Patricio Cassinoni What elevates McPherson's scrappy script is its richly textured language, wherein images like Limerick Junction unfold metaphors that just keep on giving. McPherson's incomparable use of language vividly energised by a divine ensemble delivering outstanding performances. The fulcrum of which is a sublime Gilmore. Flush cheeked, peering out from behind frightened, world weary eyes, Gilmore’s Billie is Lear’s wise fool trapped in situations not of her making. Performances aided by McPherson’s taut direction which sees action gallop along at pace. Rae Smith’s rustic kitchen and Mark Henderson’s evocative lights a meeting of the ordinary and the possibility of something beyond. A twee video projection speaking to sentimental nostalgia midway through adds nothing and subtracts more. Judith Roddy and Brian Gleeson in The Brightening Air. Image Patricio Cassinoni Receiving its Irish premiere having premiered at The Old Vic, London in April 2025, much of the talk surrounding The Brightening Air has concerned the play’s influences. Yeats’ poem The Song of Wandering Aengus (inspiring the title), parallel’s with Chekhov, family dynamics, its uneven spirituality, and the tensions of wanting to live our fullest lives. Yet like ingredients for a recipe, what sounds individually impressive doesn’t always come together into the meal we hoped. Comically, The Brightening Air is extremely tasty. Dramatically it proves far less substantial than its darkened end aspires to. That said, performances, across the board, are sensational. McPherson’s dysfunctional play about a dysfunctional family delivering a dysfunctionally enjoyable experience. The Brightening Air by Conor McPherson, presented by The Gate Theatre and Old Vic productions, runs at The Gate Theatre until August 30th. For more information visit The Gate Theatre

Patrick Ryan and Clelia Murphy in Two. Image uncredited *****
Despite vicious rumours to the contrary, no critic worth their salt relishes writing a bad review. Most critics hope every production they attend will succeed on every front. Yet I have to confess to being somewhat relieved I have written negative reviews (moi!). Which serve as an incontrovertible reminder that I do possess objectivity and am not afraid to use it. An objectivity that could be questioned given a run of five star reviews in recent days. Leaving some to wonder have I sold my soul to become a paid publicist? Did I suffer sunstroke on the stroll to Salthill? Did the Tin Man get a heart? Am I undergoing a premature midlife crisis (people live longer these days)? The truth is far simpler. Galway International Arts Festival have assembled some of the most vibrant and exciting theatre productions of 2026. Productions that deserve to be lauded. Including Jim Cartwright’s brilliant Two, presented by Decadent Theatre Company and Galway Arts Centre. In which two worrying performances from Clelia Murphy and Patrick Ryan may offer proof of extraterrestrial life. In truth, Two barely constitutes a play, being essentially a character study of a community. Centred in a 1980s English pub, a thin narrative thread following the troubled relationship of its husband and wife landlords offers a through line on which everything loosely hangs. Namely snapshots of twelve additional characters as they come and go over the period of a day. Some are couples, like the lovelorn Moth and lothario Maudie, or the terrified Lesley and her tormentor Roy. Most are solitary souls; an elderly woman nurturing a Guinness as a momentary treat away from an invalid husband, a quiet widow still missing their wife, a passionate, neglected other woman. As the day passes Cartwright serves up less a story so much as a flick book of polaroids featuring regulars and irregulars, the fearless and frightened, the deluded and desperate affording us a little time in each of their company. Like a triptych, meaning lies not so much in the individual images, but in the spaces between where contrast and comparison discloses the heart, hilarity, heroism and hypocrisy that haunts our harrowed humanity. Revealing wisdom in the tender familiarities we often neglect. Written in 1989, and indicative of Willy Russell’s Educating Rita styled, working class revisioning so popular during the period, Two is smartly observed, heartbreakingly uplifting, and funny, funny, funny. Andrew Flynn’s direction making strong choices that pay off handsomely. Including locating the action in Salthill’s iconic O’Connor’s Pub where the audience sit, like locals, as action unfolds behind and around the bar. Steeped in thick North of England accents, Celia Murphy and Patrick Ryan revel in playing multiple roles, many involving harassed, side burnt men and harangued, hard drinking women. Relationship routines that wouldn’t look out of place in Last of the Summer Wine. Anyone thinking long suffering partner jokes are old hat clearly hasn’t been paying attention to contemporary comedians. Only here they’re dipped in touching charm, courtesy of two impeccable performances. Always a jaw dropping privilege to watch, Clelia Murphy, is one of our most talented, if under appreciated actors. Here we get to marvel at the iceberg tip of her range. To witness Murphy fashion anger, seduction, innocence, guile, terror, heartbreak, jealousy, add your own, is to behold something profoundly holy. Or possibly unholy. Witchcraft, dark magic, something that casts such a mesmeric spell it hits with the alchemy of a love potion. Then there’s Ryan, whose Roy alone, a harrowing study in domestic torment, is enough to warrant devotion. Murphy and Ryan in possession of such chameleon capacity for transformation it suggests Christian Scientists and the creators a V, advocating the existence of an alien race of lizard people, might not be that far-fetched. How else explain the consummate ease with which Ryan and Murphy effortlessly switch between emotional extremities? Both delivering masterclass performances any master would applaud. In framing Two as an immersive, site specific experience, Flynn, along with lighting designer Ciaran Bagnall, composer and sound designer Carl Kennedy, set designer Brian Moroney, with costumes by Sara Ben-Abdallah, negates the risk of possible datedness whilst foregrounding the play’s retro charm. The result a series of visceral encounters in which Murphy and Ryan remind us time might have moved on, but our needs, hurts, dreams and desires are as familiar as ever. Two. A true theatrical joy. Not to be missed. Two by Jim Cartwright, presented by Decadent Theatre Company and Galway Arts Centre, runs at O’Connor’s Pub, Salthill as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2026 until July 26. For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival, Galway Arts Centre or Decadent Theatre Company

Aaron Monaghan and Marty Rae in The Shaughraun. Image, Ros Kavanagh ***** There’s stories we tell ourselves and there’s the stories we tell ourselves about the stories we tell ourselves. Take Dion Boucicault’s penultimate play The Shaughraun. Boucicault’s comic melodrama of a wrongly convicted Fenian who escapes an Australian prison and returns to his native Sligo (Slee-go for those afflicted with RP). With the help of roguish, whiskey swilling poacher, Conn The Shaughraun, a convoluted carnival ensues in which a cute cailín falls for an occupying captain, moustache twirling villains kidnap women from their homes, an Irish mother laments her wayward son, and a long suffering priest tries keep everyone on the straight and narrow. A Broadway and London blockbuster when it premiered in 1874, The Shaughraun’s slapstick shenanigans and silent movie set-ups prove irresistible to this day. Like butter churning sexual innuendos, The Shaughraun’s gags and physical comedy routines never get old. Marie Mullens, Aaron Monaghan and Pattie Maguire in The Shaughraun. Image, Ros Kavanagh That, broadly, covers the story. Presented as musical hall, vaudevillian pantomime by the inimitable Garry Hynes. Director Hynes giving a masterclass in how best to revive neglected classics, leaning into The Shaughraun’s history and conventions with a touch of meta-theatricality. So consistently brilliant is Hynes, Galway should probably start carving her statue, which is long overdue. Along with one for Druid co-founder, the irrepressible Marie Mullens, commanding the stage with fierce hilarity as The Shaughraun’s mother Mrs. Kelly. Also in line for statues are Druid stalwarts Marty Rae and Aaron Monaghan. Rae suitably magnificent as the heroic rebel in love with family, country and his beautiful wife, Arte (the hilarious Eileen Walsh channelling her inner librarian to terrific effect). A straight man to Monaghan’s comic Conn; Monaghan’s genius for timing, tone, physicality, even puppetry, is second to none. The invested Monaghan deserving double salary as a relentless stage hand navigating Francis O’Connor’s meta-theatrical puzzlezbox of mapped walls, hidden doors and jury galleries. And you might as well throw in a statue for that other Druid ensemble member, Rory Nolan whose Dickensian, silent movie villain, Kinchela, is gloriously funny. A man you hate to love, all top hat snobbery and ginger haired duplicity, Kinchela is sublime in his slimey arrogance as the tangled web he practices to deceive unravels. Jamie Beamish and Rory Nolan in The Shaughraun. Image, Ros Kavanagh When it comes to the story we tell ourselves about the story, matters become a little more complex. To some, The Shaughraun, like much of Boucicault’s plays, is an embarrassment in the canon of Irish theatre, responsible for the creation and propagation of the ignorant, stage Oirish. As the century turned and rebel Ireland was fashioning new role models, whiskey swilling rogues did not make for a heroic look. Drunken, trickster Irish charmers, exemplified perfectly by Monaghan, had no place in a new Ireland. Also, plays that compromised with the enemy, like Fenton Kinsella's enchanting Captain Molineux, were not promoting the right message. Peter Daly and Marty Rae in The Shaughraun. Image, Ros Kavanagh If that's the story about the story, it's arguably the wrong story. And certainly not the whole story. That would involve acknowledging how dangerous it was to promote the Irish on the international stage. Reviled through much of America, seen as colonised fodder to be kept in their place by Britain, any efforts to promote Irish identity would be ruinous. In his brilliant programme notes, Patrick Lonergan reminds us that even intellectuals like Henry James (and Louisa May Alcott) loathed the Irish. What Boucicault did was cleverly smuggle the Irish onstage in a humorous, non-threatening manner. Knowing that presence and visibility is the first step towards identity. In the same way TV personalities like John Inman, Larry Grayson and Liberace used camp to promote queer identity in a nonthreatening way before a homophobic public. Often dismissively derided today, it was these brave artists who prised open the door for those who later knocked it off its weakened hinges. And Boucicault was smarter again. Look closely and the Irish are loyal, resilient, smarter than their oppressors and exude quite dignity beneath their earthy shenanigans. Boucicault’s Irish women, like Megan Cusack’s excellent Clare Ffolliot, or Pattie Maguire’s superb Moya, also ahead of their time. Both independent, strong willed, wild Irish roses. Megan Cusack in The Shaughraun. Image, Ros Kavanagh Before there was The Quiet Man there was The Shaughraun. Before there was Maureen O’ Hara’s spirited Kate there was the fierce Clare Ffolliott. Before there was world weary priests, there was Fr. Dolan, played to perfection by Peter Daly. Before Barry Fitzgerald’s Michaleen Oge Flynn there was Conn The Shaughraun, the latter arguably a younger version of the former. While Boucicault helped fashion notions of Irish identity, especially in America, there was more to it than stage Oirishness. The first play in Druid’s Strange Country: Ireland in America season (followed later this year by Eugene O’Neill’s A Moon for The Misbegotten), The Shaughraun is a fantastic place to begin discussion. But even if that’s not your thing, you’d be a fool to miss this brilliant production. The Shaughraun an unapologetic taste of Irish brogue where the girls get their men, heroes save the day and villains, including Jamie Beamish’s brilliantly squeamish Harvey Duff, all get their comeuppance. A hilarious, fun filled, thrilling comic rollercoaster, The Shaughraun is a tailor’s thimble of theatrical joy. The Shaughraun by Dion Boucicault, presented by Druid runs at Town Hall Theatre as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2026 until July 25. For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival or Druid.

Catriona Faint and Lara McDonnell in For Dolores. Image, Pat Redmond ***** Those astronomically or astrologically inclined will tell you there was a recent rare alignment of planets. Those theatrically inclined might tell you For Dolores, by writer Eva O’Connor constitutes the artistic equivalent. A rare alignment of director, writer, performers and design whipping up a cosmic storm. Allowing For Dolores, under the auspices of director Jim Culleton, unleash defibrillator charged performances from Catriona Faint and Lara McDonnell. Catriona Faint and Lara McDonnell in For Dolores. Image, Pat Redmond Like all storms, For Dolores is a glorious, angry, teared up, blood and guts, pumping heart of a mess. In which flawed and fallible humans prove perfect in their imperfections. Glaswegian Mo and Dubliner Réaltín, meeting in Edinburgh University, becoming life long friends with complications. Their often hurriedly sketched relationship explored through a mockery of a couples counselling session. O'Connor, snappily shifting from exposition to story in handbrake fashion, skips past key moments and introduces shocks and reversals from out of left field. Yet For Dolores's structural complexity proves supremely smart. Allowing O’Connor to move freely through time and puncture tipping point temptations towards tacky sentimentality. A danger when you have a wild alcoholic woman, a good girl with a penchant for bad boys, unexpected pregnancies, lost PHD’s, monied Fins and swaggering, young Scottish boys resulting in life changing deaths and soul searing confessions. Catriona Faint and Lara McDonnell in For Dolores. Image, Pat Redmond If characters are steeped in cultural clichés, none of that matters. The fabulous Faint both a force and a revelation as loudmouth Mo. A working class Glaswegian with a chip on the chip on her politicised shoulders ready to kick the world to pieces. Meanwhile McDonnell proves masterfully beguiling as middle-class Réaltín; needy, eager to please, adrift in the tamed wilds of Edinburgh University, her later self tamed by the wilds of motherhood. Her daughter, Dolores, a maternal device co-joining two women who once met in a lift, bonded over The Cranberries and became inseparable. Until they separated. Reuniting during Réaltín’s engagement party where sexual connection and a flush of whiskey leads to catastrophic results. How can you pick up the pieces when life, love, family and friendship have been rent asunder? How do you forgive your best friend, or yourself for the unimaginable? How do you go on when you don’t want to go on? For Dolores, perhaps? That alien being through which old wounds might yet be forged into forgiven memories as bodies express thoughts and where words become sensual acts of intimacy. Illuminating shadowed secrets under the pained light of forgiveness. Catriona Faint and Lara McDonnell in For Dolores. Image, Pat Redmond If Alyson Cummins’s set is simplicity incarnate, it’s far richer than it deceptively appears. Cummins’s counselling room underscored with the bric a brac of living memories buried alive beneath the ground both women walk upon. Suzie Cummins’s superlative lights informing the moods and tones of O'Connor's dynamic, female odd couple. Mo’s edgy, working class vulgarity befriending Réaltín’s co-dependent popularity queen a union as unlikely as it is lively and irresistible. Faint and McDonnell’s chemically charged performances detailed, visceral and sensational, with volumes told in the flick of a gaze or a tremor of lip. Sudden snaps into unbearable vulnerability, or energised argument, offset by Nóra Ní Anluain Fay's choreographed rope pulls whoop whooped on the dance floor. All divinely directed by Jim Culleton, ensuring performances fill in for those moments hurried past. Playing with status and pace, the funeral scene touched by shy genius, Culleton allows his brilliant cast to shine then ensures they dazzle under his unobtrusive guidance. A hand unconsciously resting on a thigh, a quiver of pain, a gaze given or withheld revealing the tip of an emotionally charged iceberg. Impeccable pace and perfect timing informing two unforgettable performances. Catriona Faint and Lara McDonnell in For Dolores. Image, Pat Redmond Landing like a barrage of heartbreaking, life affirming, gut punches, For Dolores knocks you down, knocks you for six, then knocks you into the far reaches of next week. Confirming what The Kerryman at Glassmask Theatre recently reaffirmed: that O’Connor is one of our most significant and exciting female storytellers. For which Fishamble deserve to take a bow. Not just for those endless new voices they consistently bring to our attention. But for those like Deirdre Kinahan, Pat Kinevane, and O’Connor who Fishamble loyally nurture and champion over years. Helping fashion careers in a business where such things are often mythical. Simply put: there would be no Irish Theatre worth the name without Fishamble: The New Play Company. You may not agree with all their choices, but you cannot deny their relentless efforts to feed the multitude from their loaves and fishes. For Dolores a timely reminder of the magic that Fishamble nurture. Catriona Faint and Lara McDonnell in For Dolores. Image, Pat Redmond Seen in preview, For Dolores is an exhilarating experience. In which two wildly imperfect women navigate life’s always imperfect pathways. If For Dolores doesn’t start picking up awards, like yesterday, awards are utterly meaningless. Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and other venues along the way; brace yourself. For Dolores is an impossible, impeccable, irresistible joy. Too messed up to ever be cool, Mo and Réaltín make for one of coolest odd couples to hit the stage in ages. Get ready to meet them. For Dolores by Eva O’Connor, presented by Fishamble: The New Play Company in association with Lime Tree Theatre | Belltable, Galway International Arts Festival and Traverse Theatre, runs at The Mick Lally Theatre, Druid Lane, as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2026 until July 18. 9-11 July Lime Tree Theatre | Belltable 14-18 July Mick Lally Theatre, Galway as part of Galway International Arts Festival. World premiere opening night, 16 July. 22-26 July Pavilion Theatre, Dún Laoghaire 6-30 August Traverse Theatre Edinburgh as part of TravFest, presented as part of the Culture Ireland Showcase For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival or For Dolores - Fishamble: The New Play Company

Fionnuala Doyle-Wade in Pádraicín. Image Emilijah Jefremova ***** Shussh. Might as well cut to the chase. Words fall short anyway. Pádraicín is a work of such staggering perfection the only appropriate response is awe. Created by Rodrigo Pardo and James Riordan, inspired by the life and writings of Galway native, Pádraic Ó Conaire (1882 – 1928), Pádraicín delivers an exquisitely composed love letter. To Galway, to theatre, to film, to life, to love, to humanity, to GIAF, to street performers, to singing Galway Bay, to dancing through streets, to row boats signalling it's really the end, to a small man with a huge heart and a popular statue. Pádraicín strumming soul deep chords and sounding forgotten notes instantly recognisable. You won't know how they do it, hit you so hard and so deep. But Brú Theatre’s magnificent production overflows with joy, heart and tenderness. Like two, dear friends locked in a healing embrace. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Practically, Pádraicín is a 50 minute, gently guided stroll through the streets and back streets of Galway. Flesh and blood scenes unfolding before your eyes as dialogue gets relayed through comfortable headphones. In preparation you read the blurb about celebrating the much loved Ó Conaire who died young and in poverty, listen to soothing classical music, and feel the burden of culture. The notion this might be a tourist experience sending shudders down your spine. Till Eoin O Dubhghaill and Gerard Headley’s delightful pastiche of the 1968 RTÉ broadcast about Ó Conaire’s statue on Eyre Square is re-enacted before your eyes. A few manageable steps beneath the glorious Galway sun and Raymond Keane's reflective street performer enjoying a coffee break, his mask evoking the famed statue’s decapitation, reminisces on one of Ó Conaire’s tragic characters, Nora. Fionnuala Doyle-Wade appears in period costume. Nora bright and ready to set off through the city streets with her suitcase and ambitions. Galway transformed as past and present become an immersive whole. Lanes and alleyways hiding familiar terrors for a young woman in a strange city. Nora's body drawn backward, as if sucked into the city’s maelstrom, before swirling and disappearing. Reappearing transformed. Hunted. Preyed upon. We follow, watch, unable to help. Made voyeurs, or witnesses. There to recount, record. To never forget. Eoin O Dubhghaill and Gerard Headley in Pádraicín. Image Emilijah Jefremova Given vivid life by Bru Theatre's theatrical inventivness, O’Conaire's statue has other stories to share. High up in her ivory window a sultry Caitríona Ní Mhurchú sits, luxuriating in sensual memory, overlooking the city and its rich past. Sipping wine she recalls a silent dancer. Perfectly formed, overrating his ability to compose verse, but God, could he set her pulse racing. Their bodies igniting as her younger self, a divinely graceful Stephanie Dufresne, Charlestons through the streets with O Dubhghaill. Romance resolving into a moment on which entire lives, and illusions have been constructed. Lives that can end tragically short. Like O’Conaire’s. Like someone’s daughter run over in traffic. Like remembered friends and lovers. Life a flimsy and fragile thread. Pádraicín a poignant reminder to embrace those mad, wild moments whilst we can. Moments when we might enjoy Galway Bay sung by Bing Crosby, cover the shoulders of an old man’s statute, or hold one another to the bewilderment of strangers. Strangers who pass by, walk through, walk around, hurried, inconvenienced, ignorant, as in wilfully ignoring the art and beauty before their eyes. Performed to perfection Pádraicín takes movement, mime, music, text, dance, image, costume, memory, the works of O’Conaire and the heart of Galway and transforms all into an unforgettably magical experience. Pádraicín proof positive that art does not solely reflect life back at us. It reminds us of what we are, were, and might be. What we’ve lost, forgotten or forsaken. What we see, fail to see and might aspire to. It could only take place in Galway. A city as cool as Patti Smith and as fun as singing Groovejet at a Sophie Ellis Baxter concert. Both to be found at GIAF 2026, which is already shaping up to be this year's outstanding arts festival. Before you walk life’s pier towards the final horizon, remember: you only go round once and none of us get out alive. Life is found in the joy of living. Embrace it, before it’s gone. Begin with Pádraicín. One of the most cathartic theatrical experiences you’re ever likely to have. And don't be surprised if you get a hankering to search out O’Conaire’s delighful short stories. Pádraicín, created by Rodrigo Pardo and James Riordan, presented by Brú Theatre, runs at Festival Garden, Meeting Point, as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2026 until July 26. For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival or Brú Theatre

Dressing Room: Image, Emilija Jefremova ** In Locations: The Landscapes of Fiction, literary critic Elizabeth Hardwick reveals how locations enrich our engagement with stories. The House of Usher. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Wuthering Heights. Room. Places that become more than place names, often speaking to moral, social or cultural virtue signalling. In their evolving Rooms series, writer and director Enda Walsh and designer Paul Fahy aspire to sensoramic, immersive engagement with a different location each time. Each time a different room. Fahy’s detailed installations stories in themselves, or having stories to tell, and not simply backdrops wherein stories are told. Alas, their latest instalment, Dressing Room, didn't get the memo. Failing to meaningfully integrate Fahy’s intriguing space and Walsh’s heartfelt story right up to its too little, too late finale. Centred on a 70 year old GAA coach for Galway Under 13s, Dressing Room spends most of its narrative describing his saddened home, distressed marriage or his ramblings through a dying town. John Olahan’s unnamed narrator walking to the local GAA dressing room to ready it for a forthcoming match. A space both private and public, shaping and forming male identities, which he only really enters in the final moments. Walsh’s sensitive dialogue capturing an old man in a fading town wondering if it was all worthwhile now life’s begun to unravel? Seeking solace in a communal space, occupied by him alone for the half hour before each game. An all male space in which emotionally constipated masculinity must find ways to express and connect. Half loving, half living, Olohan’s pedestrian character is only ever half there, sounding like an audiobook reading rather than a performance. A verbal shimmer against Fahy’s detailed backdrop of paint flaking seediness, sweat soaked showers and a musty, fluorescent gloom. A shoddy, military green floor with wooden walking panels and benches is offset by a shambles of cups, trophies and a framed, signed jersey signifying imagined greatness. Which, like Dressing Room, is barely a symbolic echo. Looking around the small audience, all are sat with their eyes closed. Listening intently to Olahan’s story, which could just as easily have been set anywhere, shutting out the room. Dressing Room’s final moments arriving like hurried, unconvincing afterthoughts, attempting to connect room and story. But only words had the power to move, the dressing room supplying little more than washed out colour. Dressing Room, written and directed by Enda Walsh. design by Paul Fahy, featuring the voice of John Olohan, presented by Galway International Arts Festival runs at Bank of Ireland Theatre, University of Galway as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2026 until July 26. For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival

Síofra Ní Éilí, Ciara Cox and Evanne Kilgallon in Saoirse. Image,Emilija Jefremova **** What to do when you’re the smartest person in the room? Find the room with smarter people. People whose skill, talent and experience you can learn from. With the delightful Shauna Carrick Wants A Dog, Shauna Carrick proved herself one of the smartest people in the Irish musical theatre room. With Saoirse, Carrick seeks out the smarter room. The insanely talented Juliette Crosbie, along with the inimitable Leslie Conroy bringing insight and experience. Some of the country's most gifted rising stars, including Evanne Kilgallon, Ciara Cox and Síofra Ní Éilí adding fresh perspectives. The brilliant people at An Taibhdhearc who commissioned Carrick's Irish language musical and premiered it at Galway International Arts Festival. Saoirse’s Irish advocacy tale, set over a three week summer in the Gaeltacht, arousing lots of cheerleading curiosity. And the verdict? A hung jury. The prosecution claiming its exceptional cast, clever direction and Irish language promotion cannot forgive a nauseating, Nickelodeon sentimentality where its heart should beat. The defence claiming Saoirse is a fun fest, sugar rush of summer love and self discovery aimed at a younger generation, as Gaelige. Juliette Crosby’s and Ursula Earley in Saoirse. Image,Emilija Jefremova Like Bláthnaid Daly’s charming Connemarvellous, Saoirse offers an Irish language version of the ready made journey to discovering your very best self in the Gaelteacht. In which the anxious Saoirse (a charming Ciara Cox) and her Mean Girl bestie Róisín (a scene stealing Evanne Kilgallon) return to an Irish College for immersive lessons in language and life. Getting reacquainted with Irish speaking locals like impassioned teacher Tara (the effervescent, multi-talented Crosbie), widowed host Nuala (Conroy’s gravitational brilliance grounding everything), her disenchanted daughter Siobhán (a compelling Ursula Earley), and wise and grumpy Postman Liam (a terrific Colm Mac Gearailt). A subplot about the potential closure of the college opens up questions of privilege and entitlement, of rural living and activism, and of people collectively championing hopeless causes. Against which Saoirse’s central, coming of age themes play out. Boys and girls, girls and girls, boys and boys discovering candy floss lust and bubble gum love. The nervous Saoirse (a superb Ciara Cox), the musically minded footballer Caoimhin (a compelling Elliot Nolan) and their respective sidekicks, outsider Aoife (a faultless Síofra Ní Éilí) and wannabe bad boy Séamus (a terrific Callum Maxwell) learning to accept who they really are and who they might really like. Tweely trumpeting love, friendship and fighting for the Gaels, Saoirse resolves into feel good, save the day acceptance, bringing it all home with a kitsch musical finish. Lesley Conroy and Colm Mac Gearailt in Saoirse. Image,Emilija Jefremova You could argue Saoirse could as easily have been called Aoife. An argument compounded by Ní Éilí being simply sensational as the working class, gay outsider, confirming her reputation as one of the brightest young stars around. But that’s an argument for another day. Today, it’s hard to argue against Carrick seeming to compromise her unique voice to curate a collage of the commonplace riddled with cultural and emotional cliches. Throughout, songs are given plenty of oomph by actor/musicians playing live (Crosbie, Mac Gearailt and Ní Éilí frequently playing instruments), with vocals ranging from acceptable to outstanding (Crosbie again). Yet songs, formerly Carrick’s greatest asset, often sound like cheap knock-offs of teenage dirtbag Americana. Co-composed with Aidan Byrne (playing Aodh, and playing live), songs seem to be trying to sound like someone else. Bowling for Soup and SUM 41 immediately spring to mind. Whose lyrics trade intimate, human specificity for dull, childlike generalisations. The result less Gaelteach 50210 so much as Hanna Montana: Tá Brón Orm. Indeed, there’s an awful lot of brón about, pitched and a young audience nostalgic for their youth. Ciara Cox and Evanne Kilgallon in Saoirse. Image,Emilija Jefremova Whilst Meadhbh Lyons’ choreography is mostly slight, it impressively delivers what’s needed from untrained dancers. Becky Minto’s STOMP style scaffolding and DIY platforms proving cleverly playful, with Sarah Jane Shiels' lights adding depth. All elevated by Muireann Kelly’s terrific direction which weaves energies and movement in constant, engaging flow, ensuring Saoirse works compositionally well. What does not work well, and has not worked in previous instances, is replacing surtitles with downloading an app to read English language translations on your phone. Aside from the fact you may not have a phone, or have it properly charged, or that it unforgivably draws your attention away from action onstage, the app frequently froze, took forever to load, and even, at one point, presented the Irish language version. Ensuring you never get comfortable enough to truly enjoy the experience. Síofra Ní Éilí and Ciara Cox in Saoirse. Image,Emilija Jefremova Like its characters, Saoirse looks like it’s wanting so hard to be liked. Ironically, it's nothing if not divisive. Some will enjoy Carrick’s escapist, rose tinted nostalgia with its unapologetic love of the Irish language. For others, Saoirse should come with its own health warning and insulin shot. Yet even then Saoirse’s passion for the Irish language would prove contagious. What can’t be denied, love or hate it, is that Saoirse succeeds on the feel good, pre-teen, Irish language terms it sets out for itself. It might look more like a school's education production than a quality musical, but it’s sure to delight its Glee friendly, target audience. Whether that proves to be Carrick's smartest move, long term, remains to be seen. What is smart is Saoirse looking to inspire a whole new generation of young, Irish language speakers. Now that is very smart indeed. Saoirse by Shauna Carrick, presented by An Taibhdhearc, runs at An Taibhdhearc as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2026 until July 26. Saoirse will transfer to The Peacock Stage of The Abbey Theatre, September 16 - 19 as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2026. For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival or An Taibhdhearc.

Andy Crook and Sean Doyle in Late Night Station. Image, Liadh Connolly ** Even the best have less than stellar days. Like the revived Corp Ensemble’s current production of Andy Crook’s Late Night Station. In which Kafka meets Beckett as two security guards wait for something to happen in an unnamed security room guarding an unknown place full of unknown people or things. Structured loosely around Waiting for Godot, two men talk to put in the time, weirder people arrive to break up their monotony, dogs bark, radios play and people eventually die in an effort to mean something absurdly existential. Yet what it ultimately means is that Crook’s strained comedy is weaker than the sum of its political and philosophical parts. The whole redeemed by genuine ambition, some hilarious moments, and a standout performance by Sean Doyle. Sean Doyle in Late Night Station. Image, Liadh Connolly If the set is defined by mostly superfluous detail, it loses out to a more vividly realised fourth wall. Whose unseen screens Andy Crook’s irate Wise monitors and records. Meanwhile, Sean Doyle’s laconic Flanagan monitors and records Wise. Tarantino style conversations, in which the meaningless tries to signify as meaning, loop around 60's guitar rock, fleshy paintings, conspiracy theories, and half a day’s training are punctured by some groovy dancing. And so the engine idles, but goes nowhere till about the midway mark. The sudden appearance of Gemma Allan’s unnamed fainter shoehorning in a set up for the play's central ideas. In which Graeme Coughlan’s machine gun toting, militarised murderer spins and re-spins reality to suit the oppressor. What’s seen with our own eyes altered and reframed. Crook’s themes of oppression and violence speaking to a cluster of Orwellian notions around victims and complicity. Life, the afterlife, death, art and violence all mused upon in a meandering fashion, culminating in a final outburst of brilliantly choreographed violence. Graeme Coughlan, Andy Crook and Sean Doyle in Late Night Station. Image, Liadh Connolly Under Jed Murray’s uncharacteristically uneasy direction, Late Night Station opts to go big or go home. If the approach serves its physical comedy, dance routines and fight choreography, it reduces everything else to cartoon bombast. Crook’s overwritten and underdeveloped ideas constantly delivered as over the top exaggeration. Absent characters you care about, or are intrigued enough to engage with, it begins to feel like a durational hike punctured by the next comic moment. Crook’s Wise less a character so much as an improvisational exercise, switching from one scene to the next without central cohesion. Coughlan’s one trick poster boy for a ruthless military struggling to be more than a Q and A mouthpiece. Similarly the charismatic Allan, looking like the token female putting in time as a half-baked monologue device. Redeemed by a neat reversal at the end which reveals a feminist subtext in the brilliantly executed final scene. Enlivened, as is Late Night Station throughout, by Sean Doyle’s smartly understated performance. Going small, Doyle tears up the cartoon memo and makes Flanagan the largest, most engaging presence onstage. Showing how less is so much more effective, the real so much more absurd than the absurd, the comic so much more compelling when it doesn’t self-conscious draw attention to itself. Gemma Allan in Late Night Station. Image, Liadh Connolly As a director Andy Crook has produced an enviable body of extremely impressive work. As a writer, Crook's Late Night Station falls short in comparison. Lacking clarity and economy, its philosophical stumbling is best exemplified by its final, pedestrian monologue that batters the audience with potted meaning. The result less a homage to Beckett and Absurdism so much as a pastiche. Yet Late Night Station compensates with some delightful moments of hilarity alongside moments of genuine insight. Crook’s labour of love a genuinely ambitious endeavour. Yet even though its heart is in the right place, it never quite gets its head around its theatrical and thematic ambitions. Late Night Station by Andy Crook, presented by Corps Ensemble and The New Theatre, in association with The Civic, runs at The New Theatre until July 11. For more information visit The New Theatre

Image uncredited Dance is often defined in terms of choreography. Speaking of form, shape, movement, even of body, discussion frequently refers to specific choreographers. Devised and collaborative works often described as collaborations with a choreographer. So you could reasonably assume we understand what a choreographer is and does. Balanchine, Graham, Cunningham, Bausch. Roche, Scott, Jessica and Megan Kennedy, Connaughton. Yet what about the dance theatre director? TikTok artists instagramming their latest, home made, hip hop shuffle? Multidisciplinary or performance artists, with no formal background, incorporating dance into their work? Dancer From the Dance Festival of Irish Choreography 2026 is not going to answer these questions. Rather, it promotes discussion around choreography as it plays with, pushes and pulverises boundaries in the 21st-century. The brain child of John Scott and Irish Modern Dance Theatre, Scott is clinically certifiable. He has to be to organise this punishing, three day event of panel discussions, workshops, showcases and film shorts. In which the choreographer as performer, former performer, never before performed, production manager or self important dance auteur all make an appearance. Scott prepared to beg, borrow or badger to facilitate choreographic awareness and discussions, especially for Irish or Irish associated choreographers. Like DFTD’s New Movement Platform. A series of choreographic polaroids of works, work in development, works showing promise, and works not ready for the public just yet. Like Kelly Kessing’s Speak To Me. Presented as a video followed by direct address, Kessing’s developing new piece of dance theatre hinted of intrigue, but felt more like a professional pitch for funding. In contrast with the vibrant immediacy of Brian Francis Devaney in BOG Ballet, an interdisciplinary dance work by Dylan McGloin and Devaney. In which one man and his animated shovel carry on a pas de deux, echoing Ronan Dempsey's superb mop in the excellent The Words Are There. A vibrantly dishevelled dance sequence that would not look out of place in Teác Damsa’s 1975; a similar marriage of Irish trad and intriguing movement that proves irresistible. Equally irresistible, but a striking contrast, was Subhashini Goda’s extraordinarily beautiful Mallari. A form of traditional Bharatanatyam dance, Goda’s movements embrace more recent choreography, in which ballet is both an influence on, and influenced by the traditional temple dance. Moving from the centre, feet rooted or slapping, hands, face and eyes expressive with kata-like formality and tai chi elegance, Goda’s powerful simplicity results in a gorgeously executed, technically beautiful sequences imbued with effortless effort. Which only compounded the shortcomings of Tadhg Quigley Brown’s Grief Waving. The contrast suggesting the young choreographer setting about finding his voice is not yet ready for a public audience. Cosmophobia, another work in progress by Alessandra Azeviche, talked big in terms of ecological and ancestral art speak, but delivered in its visceral immediacy. With the gracious movements of a preying raptor, or some shuddering, wingless bird, Azeviche prowls and commands the space in a transcendent conversation with Omar Sosa and Tigána Santana’s Black Frequencies. It's not all there yet, but you can't wait for it to be. The evening rounding out with La Feeney's The Animated Identity. A two part, dance performance channelling old school breakdance basics like body popping and robotics in a pop video styled narrative. Feeney sure to suffer comparison in a hugely competitive arena dominated by gifted artists like the irrepressible Jessie Thompson. Yet like Matthew Williamson, Feeney has something unique going on which honours tradition but is looking to go elsewhere. Again, he's not there yet, but it’s interesting to think where he might go Presented at Dance House, the informal, rehearsal, workshop vibe allowed for easy engagement in conversations afterwards. And that’s the point of DFTD; to get people talking. If dance, too often, is pushed out of the limelight, Scott is determined to push it into the future by showcasing some of Ireland’s bravest and brilliant choreographers. In its final flourish, DFTD ends with its third Gathering at Project Arts Centre at 8.00 p.m tonight (Wednesday) featuring some seriously exciting choreographers. Unless you have a prior commitment you simply cannot get out of, you really need to be there. Dancer From the Dance Festival of Irish Choreography 2026, presented by Irish Modern Dance Theatre, runs until July 8. For more information visit Dancer From the Dance 2026

Jonathan White and Helen Norton in The Magic Glasses. Image, Al Craig *** There's a fad for reimagining theatrical museum pieces as contemporary plays. Works very much of their time framed in modern terms to supposedly speak to today. Thankfully director Conall Morrison resists the temptation, presenting George Fitzmaurice’s 1913 comedy The Magic Glasses exactly as intended. The production awash in period charm. Yet language makes for hard going, being embedded in old world datedness. Morrison squeezing physical performances for every ounce of expressiveness to compensate. An obvious labour of love, the tale of matriarch Maineen (a superb Helen Norton) and shy Padden (an adorable Jonathan White) worried about the goings on of their bully son Jaymony (an impressive Ross Gaynor) sees them enlist the services of alleged miracle worker Mr Quille (a formidable Malcolm Adams). Norton and White’s The Tailor and Ansty style charm utterly irresistible as a gormless couple whose son hides in his loft with a pair of magic glasses. What they are and how he acquired them is nebulously told. But hints of fairies, witches, The Random and other spirited beings are never far away. With reprobate shenagaians and an unsatisfying earthquake of an ending issues aren’t resolved so much as walked away from. Morrison’s superb staging again compensating with strong visuals. Ross Gaynor, Jonathan White, Helen Norton,Malcolm Adams in The Magic Glasses. Image, Al Craig Like a demented jenga puzzle, designer Liam Doona gives a masterclass in maximising every millimetre of stage. Sinead Lawlor’s detailed costumes, along with Colm Maher’s nostalgic lights enhancing a sense of period. In which four strong performances wrestle with the challenges of Fitzmaurice’s dated script. If overall successful, strained transitions, rushed pacing and a lack of comic timing trip themselves up in places. The Magic Glasses visually gorgeous, but performatively, and comedically, in need of surer footing. Which might well evolve as the run progresses. The Magic Glasses by George Fitzmaurice runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until July 18. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre

David James Whelan and Molly Lynch in Oklahoma! Image, Marcin Lewandowski *** I have to confess to an abiding love for Oklahoma. I'm also very fond of Rodger’s and Hammerstein’s 1943 musical of the same name. A slice of Americana that serves as a proud, if imperfect celebration of a people, a place and a time. A work whose classic songs have endured, immortalised onscreen in 1955, and have been revived onstage to international acclaim in recent decades. A musical that, when you do it right, there’s nothing quite like it. In Bord Gáis Energy Theatre’s production, director Claire Tighe gets some things right. But if everything is up-to-date in Kansas City, everything is out of date in Oklahoma! David James Whelan and Molly Lynch in Oklahoma! Image, Marcin Lewandowski Or it's the wrong date. Ciarán Bagnall's low budget set more The Grapes of Wrath, 1930s, Mid-western dustbowl than pre 1907 (when Oklahoma was officially recognised as a state) corn stalks Oklahoma. Set near the much referenced Claremore, a pair of three way couples play out a will they, won’t they live happily ever after? Both trios (Curly, Laurey and Jud, and Ali, Ado Annie, and Will) involving two men in a Taming of the Shrew pursuit of the girl of their dreams. One a girl who can’t say yes, the other a girl who can’t say no. Complications arising as cowboys and farmers try to be friends, shotgun grooms walk reluctantly down the aisle, auctions see you sell everything for the one you love and showdowns only ever end one way. All adorable, good fun, featuring timeless songs, even if much of Oklahoma!’s moral colour has become complicated over time. Unveiling internal tensions Tighe never adequately addresses. Oliver Flitcroft in Oklahoma! Image, Marcin Lewandowski If Tighe’s pantomime staging suited man eating plants in Little Shop of Horrors, it flounders in Oklahoma!’s deeper waters. Beginning with singing out its rousing show tunes like a karaoke session before flipping into concert performance. Only gradually, and inconsistently, does staging evolve as musical theatre, never solidly finding its feet till near the end. Tighe’s compositionally weak direction flattered by David Bolger's energised choreography which whisks up swirling movement sequences. Bolger concealing a multitude of sins, despite certain dancers being far less light footed than they should have been. Kevin Smith's mesmeric lights illuminating Bagnall’s parched planked carpentry under a wide, abstract circle. Lights also enriching key moments, including a superb dance/dream sequence (Bolger again) with moon glow and everything in between. Enda Oates and Julian Capolei in Oklahoma! Image, Marcin Lewandowski If David James Whelan as pretty boy Curly channels his inner Yellowstone with bushels of charm, he's not got very much else going on. Molly Lynch as the wilful Laurey Williams far more robust. Yet if the couple exude oodles of charm, chemistry is not quite there. Also, while there's no resisting Whelan's warm velvet tones, or Lynch's soaring power in the higher register, their vocal incompatibility weakens signature moments. Curly’s problems compounded by Oliver Flitcroft as Jud Fry. Flitcroft’s Jud, a tortured soul rather than perverted demon, being profoundly nuanced and affecting, with Flitcroft’s baritone gorgeously seductive, speaking to a pained vulnerability informing Jud's sinister side. Flitcroft’s Jud, always a problematic character, leaving Curly looking about as substantial as a cartoon, loud mouth, frat boy. Similarly with the excellent Rachel Gaughan, simply sensational as Ado Annie Carnes, elevating every scene she enters. Where Whelan’s Curly is overshadowed by Gordon MacRae or Hugh Jackman, Gaughan’s laugh out loud Ado Annie honours those who went before whilst being Gaughan’s unique creation. Against which Sacha Koplewsky's Will Parker struggles for substance beyond modest comic distraction. A camp Okie from Muskogee, Parker not only gives Ado Annie plenty of reasons to say no, you’re left scratching your head as to why she’d ever say yes. Gaughan’s vivacious Ado Annie looking like she’d eat Parker alive as a starter. More suited to the sensational Julian Capolei as the marriage averse, travelling peddler Ali Hakim. Flitcroft, Gaughan and Capolei evidencing the musical experience that should’ve been, along with Molly Logan as no nonsense Aunt Eller Murphy. Molly Lynch and Rachel Gaughan in Oklahoma! Image, Marcin Lewandowski If Oklahoma! devotees will enjoy its big musical numbers, for everyone else Oklahoma! offers serviceable entertainment. Their second in-house musical (excluding a concert performance of West Side Story) Oklahoma! suggests BGET appear to have plateaued. What worked for Little Shop of Horrors not reaching the level Oklahoma! demands, or of BGET’s stated ambitions. Some soul searching might need to be done for to break through to the next level. Flitcroft, Gaughan and Bolger showing the way forward and holding others to account. Suggesting it might be time for some to step up, or else step down. BGET capable of delivering, and deserving of something better than serviceable. Showing, in key moments, just how exciting the future might be. Oklahoma! by Rodger’s and Hammerstein, presented by Bord Gáis Energy Theatre, runs at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre until July 5. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre.

1975//Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig by Teac Damsa. Image, Emilija Jefremova ***** What can you say about Teaċ Daṁsa’s excellent 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig? Well, it’s a dance conversation with the iconic album by Irish traditional group The Bothy Band entitled 1975, originally released in 1975. But that’s just facts, it speaks nothing to the truth. How about, 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig sees dancers respond to music from the past rather than crafting something physically inspired? Yeah, not loving that either. What about 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig signals a shift for director and choreographer Michael Keegan-Dolan from the floodlight of spectacle to spotlighting the dancer as nuanced in collective, choreographic response? To hell with this. 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig mixes endless fun with effortless sexiness in a cocktail of joyous, collective dance. Poured into seven lithe bodies channelling the soul stirring contagion of The Bothy Band’s classic Irish trad album, 1975. Releasing the wild, infectious energies of its jigs and reels as only Teaċ Daṁsa’s untamed spirit knows how. 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig a soul stirring céili of irrepressible joy. Finally. We're getting somewhere. From its opening moments fun is ever present. Hyemi Shin and Amanda Donovan’s crayola coloured costumes suggesting a kitsch mariachi band. Seated on seven chairs, dancers Aki Iwamoto, Daniel Myers, Amit Noy, James O’Hara, Rachel Poirier, Jimmy Southward and Holly Vallis engage in a glass swap, drinking routine followed by some synchronised clicks and jumps. Music begins. Dancers rise and respond. Sequences initially defined by synchronised, shared forms rather than individual, signature flourishes. The collective whirling, flowing, spinning and gyrating as one. Slipping free of Irish trad’s restraining rigidity to weave interflowing patterns. Solos, duets, and variously crafted intros re-introducing signature expression. A hilarious chaired duet, a hip trusting solo, an orgy of hands and some mesmeric crotch thrusting just some of 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig's more memorable sequences. All the while the album 1975 plays through speakers. Its music occasionally fractured, or slowed down, to open new paths for playfulness. 1975//Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig by Teac Damsa. Image, Emilija Jefremova If Hyemi Shin’s set design is minimal, with a clever curtain raiser at the end, Adam Silverman and Peter Harrison’s co-lighting compliment the sparseness with rich, fun coloured textures. Always it’s about dance in conversation with music. True, 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig lacks the splendour of MÁM, but splendour was never intended. The comparison futile. Like comparing a pared back acoustic set to a giant stadium gig. This is dance and music fused for Friday night revelry. Inspiring rhythmic foot tapping, or hands tapping against thighs or chest, till the thread of politeness holding you in your seat gradually frays. Ensuring even frightened wallflowers, perhaps even the dead, are irresistibly seduced to the dance. As 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig ends following a clap along, race around the auditorium, the house lights rise in Cork Opera House revealing a sea of soul deep smiles. You hit the street. You don’t walk, you dance to wherever next. Even if only on the inside, you dance. And smile. Feeling lighter. 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig both an outstanding album and a contagiously joyous dance experience. 1975/Naoi Déag Seachtó Cúig by Teaċ Daṁsa, co-produced by Teaċ Daṁsa, Cork Midsummer Festival, Cork Opera House, and Théâtre de la Ville - Paris ran at Cork Opera House as part of Cork Midsummer Festival 2026, June 18th - 20th. Originally created with the support of Fit-Up Theatre Festival. With additional support from Culture Ireland. With thanks to Compass Records. For more information visit Cork Midsummer Festival 2026 or Teaċ Daṁsa

The Lost Tapes of Lydia Howell. Image, Ros Kavanagh. *** If you were to outline a theme for Cork Midsummer Festival 2026, it might be artistic almost rans accepting their fate or rediscovering their mojo. Often blushed with a touch of rediscovered art. Ray Scannell’s meditative and moving The Lost Tapes of Lydia Howell embodying all of the above. Beguilingly simply, Scannell’s story within a story results in leaden storytelling theatre offset by beautiful, musical interludes. Director Tom Creed marshalling tender strengths to counteract significant challenges. Narratively, there’s not all that much going on. The creatively blocked Stanley, an emotionally stunted, self obsessed man-child, seeks accommodation from crone like Helen in her haunted house. Moving in for an indefinite trial period alone, he rescues an old tape recorder and a box of cassettes thrown into a skip. Discovering the voice journal and musical ideas of Lydia Howell. Another fraternity member of Dave Fanning's greatest bands that never were league. As Lydia’s story emerges, the shift from monologue to musical conversation tracks a subtle path to re-creation and resurrection. One whose final resolution proves poignant, tender and deeply affecting. The Lost Tapes of Lydia Howell. Image, Ros Kavanagh. Under Tom Creed's sensitive direction The Lost Tapes of Lydia Howell yields up touching, heartfelt moments greater than the sum of its individual parts. Stanley, barefoot and dressed in a red boiler suit, suggesting an out of work mechanic, addresses the audience in between snippets played from a selection of cassettes. Claire Dunne’s disembodied voice conjuring the laughing, chain-smoking Lydia whose heavy breathing sounds like she’s hyperventilating or making an obscene phone call. Gradually eclipsing Stanley as the play’s central character. If Stanley is haunted, we do not really know his ghosts. In contrast, Lydia’s haunting is steeped in recognisable specificity; an awkward threesome, an album on the horizon and a band of close friends torn by inner tensions. Throughout, three voices inhabit the stage; Stanley’s, Lydia’s, and Scannell’s. Heavy handed literariness serving up a striking contrast with easy flowing dialogue as the author holds the verbal reins too tightly. In fairness, structurally, Scannell uses his word heavy descriptiveness to accommodate a clever reversal. And if novelistic tedium weighs throughout, it resolves into something beautiful towards the end. Despite supernatural symbolism of foxes and ghosts, when you strip it right back The Lost Tapes of Lydia Howell is haunted by the ghost of John Carney’s Once. A mirrored tale of a stuck, male musician finding musical and personal salvation in collaboration with a neglected female counterpart. The details might be different, but the songs remain the same. With Scannell’s superb compositions, featuring sound design and additional compositions by Rob Moloney, deeply haunting. Tender duets between live and recorded voice, between the living and forgotten, ensure that if words often strain, music soars. If monologue is staid, conversation sings. Like its protagonists, The Lost Tapes of Lydia Howell might not hit the heady heights of fame. But if you think about your personal soundtrack, it probably includes many lesser known gems that hit like nothing else can. As will The Lost Tapes of Lydia Howell. The Lost Tapes of Lydia Howell by Ray Scannell, presented by Once Off Productions, runs as part of Cork Midsummer Festival 2026 until June 21st. For more information visit Cork Midsummer Festival 2026

Liv O'Donoghue, Jacob McCarthy, Evanna Lynch and Rowan Finken in Pool (No Water). Image, soundofphotography ***** Pool (No Water). The words in italics essential. Mark Ravenhill’s excoriating interrogation of humanity and art affirming a self-evident truth. That when it comes to manufactured meaning and self-justifying snake oil, art is the greatest false religion of them all. All compromised Franciscans, no St. Francis. Ravenhill’s tale of four second rate artists and their financially successful fifth sees jealous hatred justified as universally ordained. Opportunism and moral decrepitude a righting of cosmic wrongs. For there, but for the grace of a godless God, might go I. To enjoy fame, fortune, respect, nutritionists, personal trainers and a private, indoor swimming pool. Art’s not fair. There must be a reckoning. What’s truly not fair is that this viscerally brilliant production doesn’t get to run and run. Narratively, four failed artists are invited by their hugely successful fifth to visit her newly installed swimming pool. Like some judgemental college reunion, envy rests its emerald gaze on their wealthy host. Whose unexpected dive into the empty swimming pool leaves her body broken. Pool (No Water) opening into J.G. Ballard Crash territory as all four begin photographing her mangled body before calling an ambulance. Art in the name of art for art’s sake. The act repeated daily as she convalesces for weeks in a coma. Manipulating the light and her twisted limbs for photographic integrity. Until she awakens and they shift from hypocrital housemates to housemaids. Yet how long can the collective hide their genuine resentment of the individual, and at what cost revenge for their lack of success? Written in 2006, Pool (No Water) interrogates the enfant terrible, disgustingly lucrative, British art aesthetics as defined by Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin. Director Des Kennedy superlatively coaxing Ravenhill’s whirlwind into a verbal storm. One that cracks with electricity, sweeping everything aside in its relentless path. Kennedy superbly articulating Ravenhill’s one voice collective. The voice of the beehive, speaking in turns, all of the one thing. Four worker drones next to their queen whose distance and presence defines them. Their thinking a series of potent juxtapositions; presence and absence, creation and curation, authorship and ownership, success and failure, art and life. Kennedy’s masterful direction accented beautifully by Luke Murphy's choreographic snapshots. Peter Power’s compositions and sound design adding layered context from Balearic sensuality, loved up haze, or the chronic violent shock of the come down. Valentina Gambardella's understated costumes rounding out some smartly impressive design. Liv O'Donoghue in Pool (No Water). Image, soundofphotography At the centre of which lies Sabine Dargent’s gorgeously transformed, site specific swimming pool in the Metropole Hotel with its old world statues and opulence. Surrounded by seats, with scattered benches inside the pool; the audience sit, stand, or move about the interior of the pool as cast embrace every inch of the space. Four crowning, physically articulate performances setting this visceral experience alight. The mercurial Evanna Lynch's piercing, emotional expressiveness speaking multitudes in a fraction of a second. Liv O’Donoghue, in arguably her best performance to date, shifting effortlessly from histrionic to zoned out, to calm practicality. Rowan Finken’s drug addicted dreamer living it large, at least to himself, bombastically sensitive. Jacob McCarthy heartbreakingly brilliant as the group’s charismatic charmer, wearing his battered heart on his tattered sleeve as the collective embrace painful, self-awareness. Viscerally thought provoking, emotionally resonant, grown-up, contemporary, and prompting as many questions as it answers, Pool (No Water) makes for sensational theatre. In which art in late stage capitalism finds good people doing bad things and bad people doing good things. Art and its vanities impacting on lives less ordinary and lives less than ordinary. If there’s hints of Ayn Rand's creative elitism, it only adds to Ravenhill’s provocations. Whatever way you turn - composition, space, energy, tech, performances off the charts or direction out of this world - Pool (No Water) proves a monstrously brilliant tour de force. Pool (No Water) by Mark Ravenhill, presented by The Everyman Theatre in association with Cork Midsummer Festival, runs as part of Cork Midsummer Festival 2026 until June 21st. For more information visit Cork Midsummer Festival 2026 or The Everyman

Michael Glenn Murphy in The Homecoming of Joseph Grace. Image, Celeste Burdon **** For most of the country, Cork entertains notions far above its station. Delusions of being the country’s real capital. Of being the most interesting, energetic and exciting city in Ireland. Even its annual, local arts festival, Cork Midsummer, punches above its international weight. Yet Cork Midsummer Festival gives credence to the notion of Cork being that little bit special. Enlivening a city luxuriating in summer. Its solstice streets heavy with heat and people. Rich architecture restored, conserved, or left derelict in a losing battle against gentrified glass and steel. Soon everywhere will look like anywhere. But not tonight. Tonight its streets laugh out loud. Littered with love, lust, long lashes and testosterone. Its beautiful men, women, and other swaggering in finery or fashionably shabby. Strutting wild and unpredictable, with a dirty, sexy energy. Like its festival, whose stories are as old as wisdom and as young as a first affair. Cork the kind of tolerant space the troubled Joseph Grace might have run away to had it been like this back in 1914. In Deirdre Kinahan’s sensitive piece of storytelling theatre, The Homecoming of Joseph Grace, one man’s monologue from Kells through Hells and back again charts his journey towards self-acceptance. But can he accept that others may still not accept his predilection for men? Especially in a country where homosexuality is socially, religiously and actually criminalised? Kinahan’s uneasy balance of story and character study an epic masquerading as a short story. Being both too much and too little; rich in brilliant description but weak on drama. Revealing political history’s shadowed corners, like Roger Casement’s Irish Brigade, but glancing across the salient details of Joseph’s personal history, like his first sexual encounter, or the death of a Sikh lover. Joseph’s history repeating itself in an endless escape from loneliness. Repeatedly signing up, be it as a British solider in 1914, a recruit for Irish liberation in 1916, or in Fascist Weimar between the wars. Always somewhere other than Ireland. Always falling for a man who breaks his heart. Always someone getting killed. And so it goes till Joseph gets to London where he settles down with a tailor and a life approaching normality. Kinahan’s hurried ending suggesting a return home to put family affairs in order. If only Joseph can get on the bus. Michael Glenn Murphy in The Homecoming of Joseph Grace. Image, Celeste Burdon Textually, it’s hard to understand why Joseph would want to reconnect with his estranged family, or country, beyond desperation. If action is initially defined within clear historical timelines, the longer the plays goes on, the more timelines blur. But not enough to suggest anything other than a bigoted Ireland where loneliness is another confirmation of weakness. With so many plates spinning, it all feels like the abridged version when you want the full, unedited text. Dramatically there’s nothing at stake, just a character you care for recounting their past. A Quentin Crisp wannabe if only he'd had the courage. Instead, like the ever chugging bus, the play's engine turns over but the wheels aren’t moving. Yet director Louise Lowe’s pacing and compositional smarts reveal what Kinahan points at. Aided by Owen Boss’s sparing design of square patterned linoleum and corrugated roof encasing Ciaran Bagnall’s filthy, liminal lights. Both crafting mood and texture; the stage both a place and no place, a time and no time. Joan O’Clery’s neat suited costume and Carl Kennedy’s period and psychological score superbly adding layers of depth. Yet so rich is Kinahan’s detail, Joseph's monologue risks sounding like a non-fiction, autobiographical audiobook. Luckily there's the inimitable Michael Glenn Murphy, whose physicality, tones and gestures speak to deeper truths. A man with a suitcase stuck in a moment, sunken shouldered and exiled at home, Murphy’s Joseph seeks delicate connections in world of punished loves. Struggling to know if he’s a man or a mouse in the masculine scheme of things. Murphy’s Joseph a mouse that roars and a man who cries and craves tenderness. Hands pressed against lower back, fingers trembling with fear or desire, Murphy's towering vulnerability and commanding presence proves irresistible. Kinahan’s character shaped to reveal a veritable universe. Just as Cork, some would argue, might not be Ireland’s capital, The Homecoming of Joseph Grace is arguably not Kinahan’s strongest play. But with Murphy at the fore, The Homecoming of Joseph Grace hits poignantly home, the experience proving that little bit special. The Homecoming of Joseph Grace by Deirdre Kinahan, presented by Once Off Productions and Cork Midsummer Festival in association with Pavilion Theatre, runs as part of Cork Midsummer Festival 2026 until June 20th. For more information visit Cork Midsummer Festival 2026 The Homecoming of Joseph Grace will tour to Pavilion Theatre, Dún Laoghaire from 16-19 July 2026

Liam Hourican, Jim Roche and Danny Kehoe in Cyclops. Image, Al Craig **** In the kingdom of the blind the one eyed man is king. Not because he sees the truth, but because he half sees truth. James Joyce's one eyed Citizen from The Cyclops chapter of Ulysses, a belligerent explosion of half truths, quarter lies and all prejudice. A bellicose, persecuted nationalist out to persecute other persecuted souls. In Volta Theatre's stirring Cyclops, Leopold Bloom's encounter with the eye patched Citizen in a bar on Little Britain Street is given vivid life. Running thirty five minutes, Cyclops delivers condensed, compact theatre whose dazzling inventiveness hits with the force of a well aimed punch. Liam Hourican in Cyclops. Image, Al Craig Initially it's hard to be sure as Feilimidh Nunan on piano and violin, and Conor Shiels on clarinet add musical accents. Part period music, part playfulness, the score reeks of a Barry Fitzgerald, Michaeleen Óge Oirishness at times rather than Joyce’s Blazes Boylan. Costumes and mannerism also ease towards cliched Dublinese. But director Liam Hourican, compelling as the scene’s Narrator, knows exactly what he's doing. Music referencing Joyce’s love of song, layering the script's rich complexity, its shifting moods, contrasting themes, as well as facilitating interludes and transitions between inner and outer, humour and drama, thought and myth, now and other. A terrific cast under Hourican’s direction delivering top drawer performances, with Colm Maher's honed lights complimenting it all. Danny Kehoe’s trouble stirring Hynes, Jo Dow’s dull, bowler hatted Bloom both terrifically realised. Jim Roche’s Citizen stealing the show by setting its temperature then cranking up the heat. A legend in his own mind, Roche’s Citizen delivers outbursts of dog smacking, impassioned vitriol worth the price of admission alone. Yet the real star is Hourican, who transforms space, text and performances into something richly layered and endlessly impressive. A versatile Damien Devaney rounding out a terrific cast with a clutch of terrific performances. Jo Dow and Jim Roche in Cyclops. Image, Al Craig That said, Cyclops still suffers the bane of adaptations. If performances ensure Joyce's complex text is made far more accessible and engaging, Cyclops still delivers more to those familiar with the novel. Who understand the dust blown, historical and mythical references, or the consequences of its plot devices and characters, like the racehorse tip or Bloom’s sexual predilections. If music played live is defined by playfulness, it occasionally overplays it hand. Randy Newman's You've Got A Friend In Me tipping over from Joycean period Modernism into self-conscious, show-off post-modernism, undermining its charm. Damien Devaney, Liam Hourican, Jim Roche and Danny Kehoe in Cyclops. Image, Al Craig Whilst the uncomfortable confrontation between the Wandering Jew and the bigoted Nationalist taps into current debates, it does so without offering easy answers. Bloom might be the moral hero, but he’s annoyingly dull. The Citizen and his cohort might be arrogance personified, but they’re a passionate community of life. Reason and mythologising might collide, but subtleties say neither is the whole cultural or social story. Not even half of it. Which is why Cyclops lands with a punch. That, along with top class direction and excellent performances. In the coming days you will be saturated with all things Joyce as Bloomsday approaches. The good, the bad and the ugly spoiling you for choice. On the evidence of Cyclops, you cannot go wrong choosing any of Volta Theatre’s Bloomsday Productions, including Telemachus at Martello Tower, and the adaptation of three Dubliners short stories at Smock Alley. Indeed, on the evidence of Cyclops alone, Volta Theatre are well on their way to becoming the pre-eminent interpreters of Joyce for stage. Cyclops a joy for Joyceans and non-Joyceans alike. Cyclops, from Ulysses by James Joyce, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until June 16. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre

Lesley Conroy in Epiphany. Image Al Craig **** I would die for you. Lovers say it often. They may mean it; they may even believe it. But it is not a binding oath or a genuine plan. Rather, it is an attempt to give language to a feeling so overwhelming that ordinary words seem insufficient. A feeling that must, undeniably, be love. It is the memory of such a love that returns to Gretta Conroy in James Joyce’s masterpiece short story The Dead. In her youth, a delicate boy had not only promised to die for her but had, in a sense, actually done so. Michael Furey, declaring that he could not live without her, died shortly after shivering beneath her window in the cold and rain. It is the reality of such a love that, when revealed to Gretta’s husband Gabriel, shatters his illusions of emotional mastery. The revelation provokes an epiphany that both wounds his ego and softens his soul. Yet Gretta, despite being the source of this transformation, remains largely in the background of the narrative. She is sidelined until she recounts the story of her youthful martyr, Michael Furey, revealing a deeply buried passion from her past and, by contrast, exposing its absence in the present reality of her marriage. Seen run preview, a bold new reimagining of The Dead, Epiphany, places this moment at the centre of its narrative. Written and performed by IFTA-nominated actress Lesley Conroy and directed by Fiana Toibin, the production allows Gretta to step out of the margins and take control of her own story, much like Molly Bloom’s closing soliloquy in Ulysses. Through her perspective, we revisit the anticipation, events, and aftermath of the annual supper party hosted by Gabriel’s aunts. Relying solely on Conroy to bring its characters to life, Epiphany is necessarily more stripped back than Joyce’s richly populated and densely textured story. Fortunately, Conroy proves more than capable of filling the space. She conjures an entire world from thin air, seamlessly folding past and present into one another. Delivering with ease the theatrical somersault of a one-woman, multi-character show. Lesley Conroy in Epiphany. Image Al Craig In the intimate confines of The New Theatre, Conroy moves as though possessed by the dazzling whirlwind that is Gretta. She is at once audacious and tender, brimming with desire yet haunted by its persistent frustration. Some scenes call for gentle waltzing, warmly choreographed by Muirne Bloomer, only slightly weakened by Brian Dillon’s ornate sound design, which, unfortunately, evokes less the lingering memory of a party than the ambience of on hold music. Others require the solo-sex enactment of lovingly riding the wall, but where such choices might feel off-kilter, Conroy grounds them with emotional precision. Underscored by Cathy O’Carroll’s evocative lighting design, which effortlessly draws warm reds from anguished blues in perpetual dialogue with Gretta’s shifting emotional landscape; the production achieving a dreamlike fluidity. Conroy repeatedly finds moments of stillness amid the turbulence, revealing Gretta’s vulnerability and quiet despair. It is in these moments that she appears most alone on stage, even as she sustains the illusion of an entire cast. “Women are confined to a perpetual state of yearning,” bell hooks once wrote. It is this restless longing that Gretta embodies, though she carries, too, the self-assurance of someone who has once been loved deeply. Where has that love gone? Gretta searches for it everywhere - at once observes, perceives and watches herself being perceived. She seeks it in her husband's gaze, which never quite reaches her; in the celebrated tenor Bartell D'Arcy's glance, which passes over her entirely; and in the delicate stare of Michael Furey, forever preserved in memory and forever lost to the present. Dara Gill's minimalist stage design, consisting of little more than a table setting and a stool, ensures that all attention remains fixed on Conroy's performance. Rather than distracting from the drama, the sparse set quietly reflects the emotional hollowness of Gretta's world. Gill's costume design operates similarly. Gretta's modest gown is worn with elegance by Conroy, yet its very plainness accentuates her growing sense of misalignment and undesirability. Once capable of commanding a room, she now reminds herself of being merely "country cute." Lesley Conroy in Epiphany. Image Al Craig Although Gretta first appears archly youthful, seductive, and full of enthusiasm, a gradual disillusionment takes hold. As the evening progresses, she slips into something more delicate and tragic, and it is here that Conroy's performance reaches its greatest emotional depth. Where earlier she seemed to hold the audience at arm's length, Gretta finally breaks open. The barriers fall away, and she is utterly unveiled. Alone with Gabriel, stirred by the memory carried in The Lass of Aughrim, the past suddenly becomes more vivid than the present. A remembered love eclipses a living marriage, or rather puts it into perspective. In this final unraveling, Conroy captures the devastating realisation that what Gretta longs for is not Michael Furey himself, but the feeling of having once been seen and allowed to look with a depth and intensity that her present life can no longer provide. Epiphany wounds before it heals, rendering the love, its loss and memory wonderfully luminous in its significance. It leaves you both heartbroken and hopeful as you step out of the theatre, likely overhearing whispered admiration for Conroy's performance. Epiphany by Lesley Conroy, inspired by James Joyce's The Dead, presented by tenderfire and The New Theatre and presented in association with Bloomsday Festival, runs at The New Theatre till June 16th (Bloomsday) dlr Mill Theatre, Dundrum, June 18-20. For more information visit The New Theatre or Mill Theatre, Dundrum Helene Ott is a student of English, Drama, and Film at University College Dublin. Alongside her studies, she works as a writer, painter, and freelance photographer specialising in portraiture and visual storytelling.

Teddy Moore and Peter McGann in The Whiteheaded Boy. Image: Patricio Cassinoni. *** Sometimes it’s better to let the dead rest in peace. Like Lennox Robinson's The Whiteheaded Boy. Director Annie Ryan taking Robinson's historical text and decorating it in the trappings of a nostalgic 70s sitcom. In which the class conscious Geoghegan family’s notions of middle class upperosity are focused around Mummy’s favourite boy child. A perpetual medical student siphoning off the family fortune to the detriment of his long suffering siblings. Originally produced in 1916, some will argue that The Whiteheaded Boy retains relevance for a contemporary audience. Yet even when repositioned to awkwardly highlight gay identity with some modest feminist commentary, you struggle to understand what this revival has to say to today? With what’s to see and say, thematically, having been done smarter and better elsewhere. Even so, The Whiteheaded Boy confirms Clare Barrett as the greatest, Irish, comic stage actress of her generation, and Annie Ryan as a director extraordinaire. Both taking Robinson’s comedically pedestrian, dramatically dull, poisoned chalice of outdatedness and elevating it into a frequently enjoyable camp carousel. Clare Barrett and Genevieve Hulme-Beaman in The Whiteheaded Boy. Image: Patricio Cassinoni. Presented as a two act pantomime passing itself off as a play, The Whiteheaded Boy follows an unlovely mother (the impeccable Barrett) and her unloveable children as they deal with Mummy’s darling boy. The first act sketching the return of the unrepentant prodigal from devilish Dublin to Mummy’s rural, adoring devotions. The feckless Denis (Teddy Moore channelling Larry Grayson levels of camp) again having failed his exams. On the instructions of the man of the house, his infuriated brother George (a vein throbbing Peter McGann), Denis is to be dispatched to Canada against his wishes and to the delight of his siblings. The aspirational Baby (newbie Charlotte Cleary) looking to move to Dublin, the frustrated Jane (an invested Fionnuala Gygax) wanting to get married, and comic dope Peter (a terrific Ben Waddell) all looking for a new start. Meanwhile whiskey swilling Kate (a scene stealing Genevieve Hulme-Beamen) remains doomed to a life of servitude, spinsterhood and dancng alone when no one’s looking. Further complications arrive in the guise of strong willed Delia Duffy (an impressive Malua Ní Chléirigh), Denis’s thrown aside betrothed. Her society conscious father, John (a brilliant Andrew Bennett), threatening court action if Denis doesn’t marry her. Efforts to dissuade dominating the second act, which plays like an extended music hall sketch. Some side dishes, including a lusty Aunt Ellen (a terrific Anna Healey) and Jane’s forlorn suitor (a delightful Michael Tient) add much needed distraction. The whole sliding towards an unresolved cop out. Ryan shattering the fourth wall with a musical big finish to disguise the fact that there's not much of an ending there. Indeed, it could have been a whole lot worse were it not for the brilliance of Ryan. Peter McGann, Anna Healy and Fionnuala Gygax in The Whiteheaded Boy. Image: Patricio Cassinoni. The servant who sees it all, the token black presence, breaking the fourth wall with direct address; The Whiteheaded Boy screams 70s and 80s without Denis Clohessy’s time conscious soundtrack. Sarah Jane Shiel’s summer loving lights, Sinéad Cuthbert’s cartoon cut-out costumes and Maree Kearns’ spacious set evoking a garish, nostalgic sugar rush of kitsch. If Ryan’s Commedia infused direction ensures lots of individual physicality, there’s not enough collective physical comedy. Barrett’s recounting of her doctor visit, Hulme-Beamen's stiff dance routines to the audience, or the hilarious seduction scene leaving you wishing for more. Ryan plastering over a host of deficiencies as her cartoon circus of colourful clowns add humour via background action. Human marionettes evoking physical exaggerations that echo Hall’s Pictorial Weekly. Michael Tient and Andrew Bennett in The Whiteheaded Boy. Image: Patricio Cassinoni. At times you laugh. You might even rise for the forced, musical big finish. But you can't escape a feeling of pointlessness. Of it being fun, but not that much fun. The Whiteheaded Boy might’ve been a raging success in its time, but so were Showaddywaddy. When the dust settles, The Whiteheaded Boy doesn’t resurrect a forgotten classic so much as reanimate a mummified corpse. Its zombie remains tottering across stage like a stitched up monster with an intermittent pulse. Shifting events from the distant to the near past, it's still the same old merry go round on which the dead bury their dead. Sacrificing a theatrical present to the glorified, shabby relics of a ghosted past. A past unexplored, filtered through a smudged yet sanitised lens distancing us from both present and past. Ryan’s considerable genius could have been put to better use. Absent the irresistible hilarity, dramatic depth and controversial outrageousness of the comedy stylings it nods at, and never approaching the level of relevance it enjoyed one hundred and ten years ago, The Whiteheaded Boy’s intermittent giggles, mostly arising from Ryan’s superb direction, are entertaining enough. But they come at a price. The Whiteheaded Boy by Lennox Robinson runs at The Abbey Theatre until July 25. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Ciara Molloy, Ghaliah Conroy, Pattie Maguire, Libby Conway Dunne, Eimear Hussey in The Good Luck Club. Photo: Patricio Cassinoni ***** Memory’s a living thing. We live memories, live in our memories, relive our memories. Our world, bodies and culture all psychosomatically shaped by the contractions and convulsions of memory. Memory denied, embraced, erased, suppressed, repressed, refashioned, romanticised. Otherwise known as history. A habit whose outcomes are often unquestioned or deemed inevitable. Another of the devil’s tricks. In ANU’s The Good Luck Club, Ireland’s repository of the State’s history, The National Archives, might seem an unlikely site for a promenade, immersive work on The Irish Hospital Sweepstakes. The National Archives, with its modern functionalism, a space where a different history happened and where recent history is housed. Yet Director Louise Lowe and her cohort of revisionist, theatrical historians understand that The National Archives is a house of restless ghosts. Glimpsed at the end of corridors, dancing through vaults like passions, sequestered at shadowed tables as deals are struck that shape and reshape memory. It's all there, buried alive in coffined boxes, if you know where to look. And Lowe knows not just where to look, but how to look. How to sequence information into stories of characters that reveal hidden truths so as to bring them into the light. Indeed, you might be surprised what The Good Luck Club uncovers. For when it comes to a thrilling, true life tale of political intrigue and organised crime, forget The Irishman. The Good Luck Club is the greatest Irish gangster story never told. Maeve Fitzgerald in The Good Luck Club. Photo: Patricio Cassinoni A global precursor to the National Lottery that ran from 1930 till 1987, The Irish Hospital Sweepstakes promised the possibility of riches for the measly price of a sweepstakes ticket. Purporting to finance Irish Hospitals, its tri-yearly draw at staggering odds give pundits hope, hospitals financial support, and made its organisers very rich. Funnelling money into industrial enterprises like Waterford Glass and the Irish Glass Bottle Company, it created up to 5,000 jobs on behalf of the State. Yet from 1930 to 1939, the period covered in The Good Luck Club, The Sweepstakes operated a secret agenda of funding the IRA in preparation for a renewed anti-treaty campaign to force Britain to forego all claims to Ireland. The secretive Plan S seeing The Sweepstakes take to America in legal, and not so legal ways so as to fund the IRA’s coffers. Lowe’s tale as much a character study of those involved as of the events that took place. Including remarkable women rubbed out, or pushed aside into archived boxes, left there to be forgotten. Pattie Maguire, Libby Conway Dunne, Eimear Hussey (back) , Oliver Flitcroft and Jack Hassett in The Good Luck Club. Photo: Patricio Cassinoni If its site specific engagement feels ANU familiar, closer inspection reveals subtle distinctions. In contrast to previous productions where locations practically spoke, The National Archives’ corridors, newly and currently renovated, feel clinical and bare. The building, a hybrid of past and present, might hark back to the Jacob Biscuit Factory occupied by Thomas McDonagh during the 1916 Rising, but its current incarnation defines it. Boxes upon boxes, vaults upon vaults, corridors upon corridors suggest unchanging uniformity aside from dates and labels. Boxed memories of a fledgling nation trying to create its own memories, collected and gathered as information. Yet The Good Luck Club not only gives life to The National Archives' content, but to the space as historically potent, even if the smell of fresh paint suggests nothing older than yesterday. A space embracing the future by never taking leave of the past. A space more than simply a repository for primary sources. Owen Boss’s exceptional design and scenography transforming The National Archives into a liminal landscape, less about memories so much as the space within where memories reside and are created. Mae Leahy’s staggeringly detailed period costumes, washed under Sinéad Wallace’s mood filled lights, highlighting both the events as they unfold and the National Archives as susceptible to revealing powerful, forgotten truths. Rob Moloney’s haunting score and Aidah Sama’s enriching sound design whispering of secrets found in sounds of a present past. All in all, a technical tour de force. Oliver Flitcroft and Jack Hassett in The Good Luck Club. Photo: Patricio Cassinoni Then there’s Lowe’s immaculate writing, to which Raymond Chandler would gladly have given his seal of approval. Taut, economic, making greater concession to narrative arc, The Good Luck Club achieves that rare cohesion to become enlightening entertainment. Whether serious historian of lover of pulp fiction, Lowe’s sublimely detailed script has you covered. As does The Good Luck Club’s impeccable cast, many playing several roles, shredding every ounce of performative fat to deliver riveting encounters. Oliver Flitcroft’s excellent Joe McGrath, one of The Sweepstake’s primary movers and shakers, oozes with smarmy, razor blade charm. Maeve Fitzgerald fierce as the formidably divine mathematician Dora Metcalf. John Cronin as a frustrated director and menacingly considerate interrogator utterly irresistible. Relative newbie Jack Hassett just extraordinary in a range of roles. Jamie O’Neill superb as what is essentially an Irish mob boss. Then there’s the heavenly coven of Ciara Molloy, Pattie Maguire, Libby Conway Dunne and Ghaliah Conroy, the latter’s choreographed sequences both gripping and breathtaking. Like Fitzgerald’s unsung heroine, these women fume in exasperated insolence at being forced to compromise and be compromised in order to survive. There’s no one performance you can really single out. This is an ensemble where when one wins, all win. Ghaliah Conroy in The Good Luck Club. Photo: Patricio Cassinoni What prompted The Good Luck Club's fruitful partnership is the commemoration of the 1926 Census, the State’s first snapshot of the country it hoped to shape. But there’s more to The Good Luck Club than commemoration. The first instalment of a four part, partnership cycle looking at framing the nation, The Good Luck Club sees ANU position The National Archives as a living space of historical presences, both public and private. Evoking low budget, costumed models hilariously trying to shoot a promotional video; talking elephants that guide the audience to their next encounter; interrogative TV interviews looking to expose the truth after a Sweepstakes draw. Or excitable chickens trying too hard, shady deals conducted in shadowed corridors, women confronting each other to give voice to what’s being silenced. All the messy machinations of a fledgling nation made manifest. The Good Luck Club offering a dance with a beautiful woman through Irish history. A holding of that history to account. A reclaiming of forgotten Irish women. A cracking theatre experience. If you thought ANU had nothing new to say now the big commemorations are done with, think again. On the evidence of The Good Luck Club they’re just getting started. Beg, borrow or forge a ticket if you have to. Remember, if you’re not in, you can’t win. The Good Luck Club. Not to be missed. The Good Luck Club written and directed by Louise Lowe, presented ANU Productions in partnership with The National Archives as part of its Census 1926 programme, runs at The National Archives of Ireland, Bishop Street, Dublin 8, until June 14. Supported by the Department of Tourism, Culture, Arts, Gaeltacht, Sport and Media. For more information visit ANU Productions

Sean Fox and Lauren Larkin in The Kerrman. Image, Al Craig ***** Cait's a river dancing, loudmouth, performance artist from Dublin forever espousing liberal notions. Eoin’s a quiet, awkward, self-conscious Kerry bogger whose nine to five job involves insuring insurance. Cait's just back from a five year stint in Berlin living as an artist, this is Eoin’s first time living in Dublin as an adjuster. Cait lives at home with her Mum and has seven euro in her bank account, Eoin lives away from home in a fancy apartment and has probably saved his Confirmation money. Aside from being single, thirty and undergoing a premature midlife crisis, they have nothing remotely in common. Eva O'Connor's irresistible The Kerryman providing incontrovertible proof that opposites do indeed attract. And not just attract, but steal your heart in this utterly winning production. The title is somewhat misleading, placing emphasis on Eoin when it’s their relationship which is the real focus. Loosely divided into two sections, one part play, one part screenplay, The Kerryman kicks off like a leisurely stroll before ending as a mad dash for the bus stop. Exposition and backstory leisurely established through contrasting monologues offset by dialogue; the opening third equal parts story, equal parts character study. A chance meeting at a bar, dim recognition, reluctant agreement and the insecure awkwardness of trying to get it on when you haven’t got anything on in forever culminates in a night to remember. Signalling a shift from play to screenplay, hurrying through snap shots of the rise and possible fall of their relationship. Leading up to an ending that either hits you as perfect or leaves you screaming at the stage, “why the hell did you stop there?” Sean Fox and Lauren Larkin in The Kerrman. Image, Al Craig If The Kerryman shares striking similarities to O’Connor’s delightful Maz and Bricks from 2020, O’Connor’s current story shows huge maturity. Granted, chlamydia damaged fallopian tubes, shared ketamine trips, flashing shaved or unshaved vaginas, and how it's simply impossible to flirt with Germans might not sound all that mature. But O'Connor's writing, like her characters proves deceptively deeper than its surface appears. Themes of communication, trust, and negotiating fertility informing O'Connor's heartfelt rom com. O’Connor’s sharply observed vernacular, married to a rich psychological realism, brilliantly capturing its protagonist’s utter compatibility and cultural incompatibility. Cait’s go to defence being to shout out the world even as her defences are killing her. Eoin the embodiment of bewildered kindness even when unsure how to acknowledge his own needs. Together, sparks fly. Sparks leading to fires. Fires that will either burn the house down or fuse two metals into one. That you root so hard for these messed up misfits has much to do with two seductive performances. Sean Fox giving Mescal a run for his money as the good looking, awkward, GAA, rural poster boy, all eyes, kindness and charm. Fox's monologues superbly rendered, his chemistry with Lauren Larkin a fusion of irrepressible joy. Whatever Larkin’s been up to recently, it clearly agrees with her; her craft taken to a whole other level. Larkin's irrepressible Cait vivid, vibrant and vulnerable. Both Larkin and Fox devastatingly detailed when articulating swift transitions from monologue to dialogue, shifting from joy to terror. The joy of keeping their relationship going, the terror of losing it. Sean Fox and Lauren Larkin in The Kerrman. Image, Al Craig Under Rex Ryan’s astute direction, Andrew Clancy two box set and Isabel Greene’s superb light design add accent to two impeccable performances. Ryan’s genius use of an uncredited sound design highlighting the tension between private person versus their public persona. In which background noises present in conversation dissipate in the transition from dialogue back to monologue. At one point you wonder if the sound engineer has stepped out for a sneaky break. But an understated coup de theatre near the end makes evident that sound has disappeared because the divide between characters is erased. A simple device, yet its impact is profound. O’Connor, one the Ireland’s most exciting artists, is currently busy with Fishamble: The New Play Company, in association with Lime Tree Theatre, Belltable, Galway International Arts Festival and Traverse Theatre. Getting ready to premiere another new work, For Dolores, at Galway International Arts Festival 2026, followed by a stint at The Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Which is why you need to catch this adorable production now. Two peerless performances, top drawer direction, and an utter charmer of a script, The Kerryman is a joy you don't want to deprive yourself of. The Kerryman, by Eva O’Connor, runs at Glass Mask Theatre until June 13. For more information visit Glass Mask Theatre

Jolyon Loy, Carolyn Holt in Don Giovanni. Image, Frances Marshall. **** The problem staging Mozart’s two act opera Don Giovanni (1787) is that Don Giovanni is a problem. An irredeemable lecher, an unrepentant rapist, an unapologetic murderer, even when punished with eternal damnation the manosphere’s poster boy remains defiant. The problem compounded by librettist Lorenzo Da Ponte ensuring every other character also poses problems. An unfaithful bride, a vengeful daughter, two gormless lovers, a weak willed ex and an enabling servant; none scream role model for our phone snap, cancel culture, social media consciousness. Then there’s the problem of trying to fix the problems. Sanitising Mozart’s messy glob of inglorious humanity into something morally accountable. Presenting a scrubbed up Dorian Gray when Mozart presents Gray’s messy portrait. Reflecting our warts and all back to us so we might at least laugh, or better understand ourselves. Director Tom Creed’s reimagined Don Giovanni for a modern audience meeting these problems head on. Resolving some, but not all, in Blackwater Valley Opera Festival’s vivaciously vibrant production. Gavan Ring, Amy Ní Fhearraigh and Carolyn Holt in Don Giovanni. Image, Frances Marshall. What is it with Creed and walls these days? As with his recent The Plough and the Stars, Creed again employs a minimalist set dominated by an unlovely wall. Aedín Cosgrove’s contemporary hotel corridor, its numbered doors hinting at hidden and other spaces, cleverly functional if aesthetically dull. Creed’s superbly crafted opening to Mozart’s overture whisking us along through signature introductions to key characters. Highlighting the eternal divide between tiresome servitude and tuxedoed wealth, echoed in Catherine Fay’s superb costumes. Class often making for troubling subtext as new money in the guise of baritone Jolyon Loy’s Don Giovanni, and bass Andrew Murphy as his personal assistant Leporello, speaks to tacky thuggery and barbaric appetites. Like a track-suited, street level gangster, Don Giovanni forces himself into the room of Donna Anna where the imagination leaves you to guess what happens. No guessing required when Donna Anna’s father, bass Valerian Ruminski’s Il Commendatore seeks vengeance. His blood drenched body slung into a broom closet once Don Giovanni has killed him. Or has he? Valerian Ruminski, Amy Ní Fhearraigh, Gavan Ring in Don Giovanni. Image, Frances Marshall. For a self-professed ladies man, Don Giovanni finds himself running from women more often than at them. Masks and mistaken identities setting up comic convolutions that stretch credibility. Dodging Amy Ní Fhearraigh’s vengeful Donna Anna, Carolyn Holt’s strong willed Donna Elvira and chasing after Aimee Kearney’s good time wife Zerlina, Mozart’s bad boy is kept busy. All three Irish singers simply sensational, delivering a feast of vocal complexities rich in texture, pitch and timbre. Soprano Kearney’s coquettish soubrette, mezzo-soprano Holt’s radiantly comic Donna Elvira, and lyric soprano Ní Fhearraigh’s fearsome Donna Anna all divine when solo, or when enriching Mozart’s exquisitely gorgeous harmonies. Ní Fhearraigh’s singing world class; swooping, swooning and soaring with a confident aura of authority. All three leaving the men, despite a heavy musculature of bass and baritone, looking and sounding a little weak. Gavan Ring and Amy Ní Fhearraigh in Don Giovanni. Image, Frances Marshall. If Donna Anna is no distressed damsel enraptured by the allure of the manosphered male, bass-baritone Dominic Veilleux’s boy child Masetto is less resilient. Dressed, like much of BVO’s Chorus, like an extra on White Lotus: The Love Island Special, Masetto offers mostly comic relief. Along with tenor Gavan Ring as gormless Don Ottavio. Even so, their singing and performances are utterly superb, with Ring’s rendition of Il mio tesoro one of the night’s highlights. If Murphy’s Leporello is elevated through comedy, with Murphy’s comic and vocal delivery a thing of perfection, comedy is a luxury Don Giovanni can’t hide behind. Easy on the eyes and eager to flash the cash, Loy’s charmless, blunted Don Giovanni is more wannabe acolyte than manosphere alpha male. Lacking the requisite charm or danger, defanged of personality or persuasiveness, Mozart’s bad boy becomes a one dimensional criminal. A lover whose seduction techniques look pathetic next to Zerlinga’s. Yet Loy’s Don Giovanni is found in his singing, with Loy revealing traits performance doesn’t catch; a sense of no need to try as opposed to trying too hard. The problem of Don Giovanni resolved by making him performatively less rather than larger than life. Mozart’s insane morality sanitised into moral sanity. Our hypocrisy, the sin Mozart originally foregrounded, conceding to more modern concerns. Dominic Veilleux (front) in Don Giovanni. Image, Frances Marshall. As the second act proceeds, solos come to the fore as shenanigans take on greater weight. Put upon assistant Leporello finding himself seducing Donna Elvira, with Don Giovanni’s help. Efforts to hunt Don Giovanni brewing over with violence. Tension mounting until a ghostly voice results in an unconvincing reckoning. Whether ghostly figure or Weekend At Bernies: The Resurrection, the spin on Mozart’s talking statue is confusing to say the least. With nothing credibly, or incredibly resolved, the end fizzles out into a damp, disappointing whimper. One you’ll likely forgive on account of invested performances, glorious solos and jaw dropping harmonies thus far. Along with Mozart’s sweeping score made miraculous by Irish Baroque Orchestra under the baton of Peter Whelan. Andrew Murphy, Chorus, and Carolyn Holt in Don Giovanni. Image, Frances Marshall. Throughout, sex is underplayed, and usually off stage, so as to avoid worrying issues being treated as comic fodder. Against which Creed proves masterful at realising those intimate, messy moments of human relationship that enrich both singing and performances. Crafting a Don Giovanni relevant for a post #metoo, 21st century audience. It might annoy those who prefer period bosoms over mobile phones and hen parties, but one suspects Mozart would have throughly enjoyed it. As should you. Not solely on account of Don Giovanni being mostly terrific, with its exquisite singing always so. Nor for the perfect backdrop of Lismore Castle. But, in no small measure, on account of the supremely attentive Blackwater Valley Opera Festival’s volunteers and staff. From their warm welcome to safe home, goodnight you are exceptionally well looked after. Blackwater Valley Opera Festival once again delivering an exceptional opera experience. Don Giovanni, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, libretto by Lorenzo Da Ponte, presented by Blackwater Valley Opera Festival runs at Lismore Castle on May 29th, 30th and June 1st as part of Blackwater Valley Opera Festival 2026. For more information visit Blackwater Valley Opera Festival

Salome Jicia, INO Chorus and William Guanbo Su in Norma. Image, Ruth Medjber *** Premiering in 1831, the power of Bellini’s classic bel canto opera, Norma, is locked inside its classical references. Bellini’s neoclassicist tale of a druid priestess and her Roman lover who abandons her, and their children, echoing Medea. Felice Romani's libretto, with a plot that barely sustains its own weight, containing dramatic themes of potent tension. Polarities between faithfulness and betrayal, revenge and forgiveness, paganism and civilisation, love of country and love of enemy offering rich interpretive possibilities. All touched upon by director Orpha Phelan who takes a predictable route. Garnering support for those seeking to outlaw dystopian military models when reimagining operas for adding little and subtracting much. Madeline Boyd’s set and costumes not only failing to elevate the production, but actively dragging it down into a cramped, shambolic spectacle, offset by passages of musical and vocal beauty. Salome Jicia in Norma. Image, Ruth Medjber Opening with a Les Misérables style blockade crowding action downstage, a transformation into a cluttered, bombed out church interior alleviates matters compositionally, allowing the opera's religious motif to catch breath. Throughout, Matt Haskins’ lights work wonders deepening mood and texture, whilst unflattering and uninteresting costumes suggest cut price revolutionaries or low budget Bladerunner. Romani's romantic and pastoral references ignored to the production’s detriment. Having little relation to narrative, ritual is beautifully sung for the sake of being beautifully sung. The effect one of putting in time till the action starts. Which it does when soprano Salome Jicia’s Norma enters like a KGB comrade with red sickle and trench coat. Norma, a mother of two, sleeping with the enemy, a licentious Pollione, is ready to perform her magical mistletoe ritual. Distraught to discover Pollione is leaving her for her younger protégé, the naive Adalgisa, a superb performance by soprano Siobhan Stagg. Tenor Mario Chang’s vocally robust Pollione forever singing the song rather than playing the scene. And who can blame him. The duplicitous Pollione, with his pink, plumed mohawk which he must be sporting as a dare, as imposing as a rejected gang member from Mad Max or Deathwish. A second to both women; neither know Pollione has been playing around behind their backs. The reveal, like a ham fisted comedy, closing out the first act with a trace of tension. Megan O'Neill and Salome Jicia in Norma. Image, Ruth Medjber While music confidently establishes itself under Maurizio Benini’s baton, once the orchestra settles, overtures and intermezzos's prove visually overwrought or underwhelming. Vocally, like the inimitable Casta Diva, Norma is a cross country steeplechase over dramatic and vocal hurdles. Jicia's coloratura finishing the course strong, but picking up faults at a few fences. Perhaps opening night nerves, but a strained quality could be heard in places. Throughout, choral, trios and duets succeed better than solos, with choral work simply heavenly and several duets, including Mira, o Norma with Jicia and Stagg, heartbreakingly gorgeous. Salome Jicia, Aaron O'Hare, Mario Chang & William Guanbo Su in Norma. Image, Ruth Medjber Dramatically, thematically, operatically, Norma retains immense power. Positioning the eponymous character as a woman of strength rather than a shrinking violet achieves moments that border on epic. But its dystopian imagery and context, its placing of a strong character in inconsistently strong scenes, results in a weakened opera. Still, when it lands right, Norma still packs a knockout punch. Norma, by Vincenzo Bellini, libretto Felice Romani, presented by Irish National Opera, runs at: The Gaiety Theatre Dublin till May 30. National Opera House, Wexford, June 3. Cork Opera House, June 6. For more information visit Irish National Opera

Gemma Allan and Darren Mone in The Argument of Us. Image, Al Craig *** Ten years together, one year on the rocks, seven weeks apart. In Colm Maher’s The Argument of Us, Rhys and Bishop dredge through their relationship hoping to find something worth remembering. Working through a modest plastic bag of small spirit bottles, determined to be truthful to the bitter end, that stalwart theatrical device, alcohol, lubricates their way to truth, or at least to what they claim they really think, whilst allowing them conveniently abdicate responsibility the following morning. Maher’s final twist as to whether they’ll choose to be or not to be a clever, bittersweet reversal. Yet even with two invested performances, The Argument of Us doesn’t quite land. Leaving you not really knowing who these people are, with much of what’s discussed feeling contrived. Having agreed to a night of radical honesty, Maher’s literary loving, holiday hipsters name-drop books and locations as if facts were truths. He’s a mediocre writer, she’s a mediocre botanist. Fact. But neither fact defines these character’s truth even though the other tries define them by it. Both are self absorbed, passive aggressive manipulators. Truth. Played out like a Socratic dialogue, the back-and-forth Q&A feels like deductive reasoning with memory prompts. But which memories do you select as prompts? As for truth, the longer it goes the less you believe they're really in search of it. Each looking to justify their one-upmanship, judgemental blame game. Needing to make a choice even though believing attraction and behaviour is already determined. Which, one would assume, means the outcome is also determined. As their struggle for power and dominance proceeds, their radical honesty begins to look more and more dishonest. The ending, unconvincingly convenient yet having bite, leaving you to ponder. Gemma Allan and Darren Mone in The Argument of Us. Image, Al Craig Throughout, a sense of if we talk it all out and think it all out it we can figure it all out looms like justification. Which is like believing you can figure all the answers to all the questions. As a result, characters don’t really talk so much as lecture someone who defensively half listens. There’s concessions, compromises, but no meaningful breakthroughs. Lots of fumes but no real heat in their conceptual sword fighting. Further compounded by the author’s voice dominating dialogue like its shifting between two sides of the same idea or argument. Compositionally staid, apart from a delightfully clever race around the table, two impressive performances from Gemma Allan and Darren Mone invest characters with a richness that elevates the text. Martin Cahill’s set simple and effective, with Cathy O’Carroll’s lights adding mood. But director Iseult Golden struggles to find the fire. The Argument of Us sparking occasionally, but never quite igniting. In fairness, Maher’s taut script reads like a radio play, reliant on sentences rather than stage action. The much loved, warm welcome for Bewley’s Café Theatre's front of house, Maher is also an exceptionally talented lighting designer. A genius MacGyver who could recreate Parisian nightlife onstage with just a cocktail napkin and a torch. Like An Argument of Us, Maher proves he’s unafraid of putting himself out there and taking a risk. Yet even desperately wanting it to be otherwise, like its two star-crossed protagonists, An Argument of Us struggles to come together. There’s a sense the effortlessly charming, eternally youthful and endearingly good looking Maher might be too close to the material in its current incarnation. The Argument of Us an interesting premise that doesn’t quite deliver on its promise. Yet Maher shows serious promise, if only he could get out of his own way. The Argument of Us by Colm Maher, runs at The New Theatre until May 30. For more information visit The New Theatre

Éanna Hardwicke and Nicola Coughlan in The Playboy of the Western World. (c) Marc Brenner *** You could argue the history of theatre is one of lurching from crisis to crisis. Cinema, television and AI just some of the generational challenges faced over the decades. Currently there's a three pronged response in commercial theatre; star studded casts, mutually beneficial partnerships, and tapping into other audiences, be they of an already popular franchise, online or, ironically, cinema. The advantages of theatre onscreen during Covid engendering cinematic releases of recorded live performances for those who, for whatever reason, might otherwise be unable to attend. The silver screen’s front seat proximity in the presence of an audience who, thankfully, don't jump up for unearned ovations making for a welcome addition. All of the above informing National Theatre, London’s star studded production of J.M. Synge’s 1907 classic The Playboy of The Western World, directed by the National Theatre of Ireland’s Artistic Director, Caitríona McLaughlin. Synge’s timeless tale of Christy Mahon, believed to have murdered his father, escaping to a small West of Ireland village where he is revered for his bravery. Desired by every woman with a pulse, especially the pragmatic Widow Quin and the spirited Pegeen Mike, Christy basks in his newfound popularity until the past comes calling demanding payment. McLaughlin’s Goldilocks production including terrific performances, an unwelcome touch of Oirish, and a pinch of trying too hard. Some ingredients overcooked, some under seasoned, others hitting just right. Siobhán McSweeney in The Playboy of the Western World. (c) Marc Brenner Overcooked is Katie Davenport's beautiful two part set, in keeping with McLaughlin’s pyrrhic approach of splitting the stage space into two areas; one performative, the other mostly symbolic dead weight. The sketched interior of a shebeen overshadowed by a skylit backdrop with fields, beautifully lit by James Farncombe, detracting from the plays central cohesion. Characters shoehorned into under seasoned cultural commentary, echoed in Anna Mullarkey’s fiddler tunes, over worked accents, and Davenport’s wren boy costumes. Contrasting with Davenport’s earthier pubs, fires, and weather worn clothes showing flickers of signature detail. The Widow Quin’s flattering mourning dress hinting at her flirtatious nature, Pegeen Mike’s red ankle boots as wild as her passionate soul, the fearless Sara Tansey’s tomboy tank top. Even Christy’s sleeveless arms reveal a spud digging musculature earned the hard way. Yet the visual contrasts frame the action like a museum piece, undercutting the intensity of Synge’s realism to accommodate a colourful spectacle. Nicola Coughlan in The Playboy of the Western World. (c) Marc Brenner Where The Playboy of the Western World succeeds, and does so magnificently, is in its terrific performances. However good you think Nicola Coughlan is, quadruple it. Coughlan’s Pegeen Mike, devastatingly detailed and brilliantly realised, a hallmark for all Pegeen Mikes. Coughlan commanding the stage as a young woman with confidence, swagger, authority and anger at having no real power in a world of gormless men. Wild, sexy, fearless, Coughlan’s Pegeen is a women to be reckoned with. Coughlan going toe to toe with her old Derry Girls sparring partner Siobhán McSweeney as The Widow Quin, both women determined to have Christy all to themselves. McSweeney superb as a haughty, world weary woman who knows how to play the game, showing flickers of vulnerability at key moments that break your heart. Like Marty Breen’s superb Sara Tansey and her cohort of lusting ladies, strength defines women throughout, elevated with confident swagger. Meanwhile men are mostly played as drunken or gombeen Irishmen. And there lies the rub. Marty Rae and Siobhán McSweeney in The Playboy of the Western World. (c) Marc Brenner Played brilliantly it has to be said. Lorcan Cranitch’s Michael Flaherty, trying to decide Pegeen’s future through a haze of poteen, is seamlessly perfect. As is Marty Rae’s cowardly Shaun Keogh, Pegeen’s spineless suitor. Rae confirming what people this side of pond already know, that Rae is one of the outstanding actors of his generation. Declan Conlon’s assured Old Mahon might seem a little more balanced, but he’s not immune to moments of stupidity. Éanna Hardwicke leaning into the poet Christy as an idiot born and bred delivers a sterling performance. Except it all makes for an ask you don’t quite buy. If women imagine Christy as having spirit in him and being a gamey lad, a man women want and men want to be, that’s not quite what Hardwicke’s selling. Rather, it's like asking us to believe that Barry Geoghegan’s superlatively Dominic in The Banshees of Inisherin could have Kerry Condon’s no nonsense Siobhán swooning after him. Synge’s women might be desperate, demented and delirious with desire, but they’re not delusional. It’s a coin toss who's the more pathetic, Shaun Keogh or Christy, even as both are brilliantly portrayed. As a result The Playboy of the Western World never quite finds its drama, or fully realises its comedy, leaving a hole at the heart of the production. McLaughlin frequently crafting mesmerising scenes, but the play, with much of it subtextual tensions, slipping through her fingers. The production, like Christy, flattering to deceive at times and, ultimately, being the one that got away. But The Playboy of the Western World has moments, many of them memorable, and if for no other reason than its brilliant performances, with Coughlan simply out of this world, it's well worth the watch. And you can see it at Dublin's favourite cinema, The Lighthouse, from May 28. The Lighthouse also hosting an exhibition of the set and costume design by Katie Davenport from May 28. Davenport, never afraid of taking risks, one of theatre’s most visually intriguing designers. The Playboy of the Western World by J.M. Synge, presented by The National Theatre, (London), will be available as a National Theatre Live Screening at the Lighthouse Cinema from May 28. For more information visit The Lighthouse Cinema or The National Theatre (London)

Hiltinho Fantástico in Puff. Image, Camille Blake ** Described as channelling Passinho, an urban dance style born in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro – alongside samba and capoeira - Puff aspires to conjure the idea of a light breath. Brazilian choreographer Alice Ripoll employing the motif to illustrate how silenced cultures adapt and persist even when seeming to vanish. Dancer Hiltinho Fantástico’s supple hip sways, gentle arm flows, and light-footed footwork all rooted in a heritage of Afro-Brazilian dance. Yet for all its noble ambitions Puff falls short as a dance piece. The swagger, energy, and irrepressible confidence of Passinho lost to a reimagined version of it. In Puff almost everything that makes Passinho a popular and vibrant dance form appears to have been subverted. Where Passinho is joyous, public, social, beat driven and extroverted, Puff is depressed, private, solitary, performed mostly in silence and introverted. In no time at all, Fantástico’s mercury like liquidity, and sweat polished skin, seems to run out of visual intrigue. Efforts at lightness also achieve the opposite effect by creating a feeling of weight. Extended arms raised crucifix fashion, as if wrists were attached to invisible threads, head lolling about like a bobble toy on gyrating shoulders, feet performing rapid hops, skips and jumps, all suggest a human marionette worked by a poor puppet master. The body, ever upright, fails to break free of the ground despite snap jumps. Weight ultimately drawing the body down to crawl before lying still, the sound of a school lesson floating through the speakers. Rising again, it begins again. Ripoll wisely keeping it to 30 minutes. Less a choreographed routine so much as an extended movement phrase with intermittent embellishments, Puff relies too heavily on laps around the rim of the round so Fantástico can display his impressive rhythmic undulations dressed only in football shorts. Flashes of movement occasionally referencing tap, Michael Jackson or breakdance. But Puff suffers from the law of diminishing returns, offering less and less of visual and visceral impact the longer the performance goes on. If a delightful sequence to Latin rhythms describes Passinho’s rootedness in music, the fervour is diluted by longer passages of silence. Unlike hip-hop, (another urban dance form also aligned with a music tradition), with its many sub-genres including crunking, krumping and body popping, Passinho doesn’t appear to have a broad physical vocabulary for Ripoll to either draw upon, reimagine or push against. Leaving Puff, despite Fantástico's endless elegance, looking compositionally poor and choreographically lightweight. Less an urban dance so much as a rehearsal for a block party in the privacy of your bedroom. The dance equivalent of singing by yourself in the shower. Puff, choreography by Alice Ripoll, danced by Hiltinho Fantástico, ran as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2026 at The Project Arts Centre, May 15 & 16. For more information visit Dublin Dance Festival 2026

Soft God by Emma Martin. Image, Ros Kavanagh. ***** The stage is in need of sweeping. Upstage, a prop cloud rests against the wall, a little distance from the costume rail. In the middle of the space a circle of chairs is placed as if to facilitate a Dancers Anonymous meeting. Alone, Jessie Thompson sits, delicately munching her crisps, dressed like sin in Katie Davenport’s shoulder-less, short black dress. Grey bearded, Wayne Jordan enters and sits next to the cloud. The backdrop creating the effect of a benign God. Meanwhile, Thompson’s unrepentant Lilith enjoys her meal, flicks salt from her fingertips before rising and delighting in the carnal sensuality of her self possessed body. Jordan plays a recorder like a snake charmer as Thompson curves and weaves, writhes and ripples with the supple, assured confidence of a Gilda. The renowned hip-hop artist oozing grace, skill, talent and that effortless presence that made Rita Hayworth and Cyd Charrise magnetic stars. Blowing kisses, Thompson dances till eventually joined by Sloan Caldwell, Kévin Coquelard, Róisín Harten, Yujin Jeong, Stanley Menthor and Ennio Sammarco. Over the course of seventy minutes, each dancer will deliver riveting, breathtaking moments. First though, they reposition the chairs in a line as Jordan exits, returning for the occasional janitorial duty. And so it begins. Soft God, receiving its world premiere as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2026 at The Abbey Theatre. A demented ceili by Emma Martin. A dream of staggering, choreographic gorgeousness and Martin’s most brilliant work to date. Soft God by Emma Martin. Image, Ros Kavanagh. Like all dreams it’s often hard, and unfair, to nail down what they purport to mean. If it’s easier to say what it’s not, Soft God is not laboured, petrified, pretentious or self-absorbed. Rather it’s a cornucopia of musical, visual and choreographic delights. Music and sound design by Kevin Gleeson serving up songs and tracks from gramophone Irish ballads to percussive tribal meets. Married to Martin’s magical interplay of movement and Davenport’s old world, carnie styled costumes. Beneath Stephen Dodds’ dust warm lights, there’s a sense of being closer to the otherworldliness of David Lynch, or French film makers Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet, than anything familiar. Indeed, Andrew Hamilton’s piano sung coda wouldn’t sound out of place in a Twin Peaks dream sequence. Visually, it’s hard to be sure even Martin knows what it all means, but clearly she knows what she’s doing. The effect immediate and palpable. Choreographically, you’ve seen it all before, but never quite like this. Throughout, there’s echoes, references and influences. Tik Tok snippets, traces of Teac Damsa’s twitchy, snappy, off kilter wildness, hand jives, ballet spins, add your own as dancers release synchronised and signature chaos onto the stage. All the while a seated figure is slowly covered in layers of cloth. Finally emerging, face smeared with white paint, for a soft, turning routine. One of a few moments of relief from Soft God’s hard, exacting pace. Sublime physical sequences, synchronised or solo, juxtaposing, complementing, and contradicting each other. Crafting a physical lexicon more metaphor than report. Not that Soft God is without issues. For a start, it doesn’t appear to know how to end, or even appear to want to. A humorous costume change and a sweeping, sepia curtained backdrop introduces pastoral, tradition, ballet and tableaux immediately followed by Jordan’s powerfully silent solo. All before a sing-song fade out to a piano played before a single candle. The last few sequences seeming to stand alone from the rest of the production. But these are minor quibbles, if complaints at all. With Soft God, Martin clutches a handful of choreographic trinkets and rushes towards the abyss before taking a leap of faith. Flinging herself over and leaving the familiar behind. If the limit of our meaning is the limit of our language, Martin rewrites her vocabulary of dance and rephrases it from prose to poetry. During the course of Dublin Dance Festival many have talked of power. Some have pointed towards it, some afforded glimpses. Martin breaks on through to the wilder side with joy, beauty and panache. Irresistibly brilliant, Soft God declares the queen is dead. Her white charger having plummeted from the sky to die in a powdered cloud. Long live the Queen. Choreographically gorgeous, effortlessly sexy, wonderfully lighthearted whilst both heavy and light, joy flows in every movement and gesture. Soft God the stuff dance dreams are made of, being made of the stuff of dreams. Do not deprive yourself of this wondrous dance experience. Soft God by Emma Martin, co-commissioned and presented by Dublin Dance Festival and The Abbey Theatre, runs as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2026 at The Abbey Theatre until May 16. For more information visit Dublin Dance Festival 2026 or The Abbey Theatre

The Fifth Sun. Image, Luca Truffarelli *** Seen in preview, The Fifth Sun describes itself in Artspeak terms that could mean anything or nothing. Humanity’s past confronting our turbulent present leaning cautiously toward an uncertain future. Trading in grief, hope and ancestors, dancers move to mourn, to honour, to listen and, perhaps, to heal, keening our world and ourselves in a collective act of dance. Choreographer Mufutau Yusuf striving for primal connections. The auditorium dark as ink, with smoke as dense as incense. Dancers gradually entering like cartoon sheeted ghosts standing upstage with their backs to the audience. Nine in total. Over the next hour Lee Curran’s warming lights will incrementally brighten before fading back into dark. Revealing a large, Stonehenge pillar structure, covered in hippie art, etched against the darkness. Tom Lane's excellent score will also rise and fade. From breaths to keenings like a call to prayer, music rises to a cacophony of pulverising, pile driving rhythms inducing a trance like state. Music also making the return journey, gradually falling back into the silence from which it arose. But all that comes later. Right now, a soloist finally breaks away and appears to notice the pillar. The other dancers shed their sheets as they begin shaking. All vigorous knee tremblers and hunched over shoulders. The image giving a whole other meaning to the term art wank. Which, arguably, is what the insufferable first third of The Fifth Sun amounts to in its botched attempt at dance theatre. It would be nice to say its pretentious labouring is done at this point, but it makes an unwelcome, albeit brief return at the end to bring energies full circle. Up to this point, almost twenty minutes in, you would be wholly justified in demanding a refund and swearing off all future productions. But stay a moment. As they turn and take to the floor, dancers Robyn Byrne, Jou-Hsin Chu, Clara Kerr, Sean Lammer, Tom O’Gorman, Hamza Pirimo, Rosie Stebbing, Meghan Stevens and Chi Liu resemble hospital staff in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. Only here they’re the lunatics having taken over the asylum. Their call to dance banged out by a single resounding note on the worshipped pillar. Yusuf’s stirring choreography masterfully playing with weight, space and status. Bodies sliding, turning, straining on the floor; or seated low; arising to crouch, hunch, or huddle before standing and reaching higher. Spinning like dervishes, swarming like a murmuration, dancers frequently spiral off into resonant solos or duets. Chest tapping, assertive foot stamps, recoil snaps, all infused with Lane’s dynamic score evoke the potency of tribal ritual. Shared release experienced as bodies assert individuality alongside the consciousness that we all are one. Before the crescendo falls, the climax descends, and The Fifth Sun reaches for a reflective cigarette as it drifts back towards dance theatre. Dressed in skin coloured bodysuits, dancers face a sci-fi light emanating from the pillar. Slowly, laboriously, each removes a pillow, sets to the floor and lines up next to the others with a pillow wrapped around their head. Only arms and legs displayed as bodies rest, perhaps even sleep, like the aftermath of an orgy. When Yusuf sets his mind to dance, The Fifth Sun delivers wildly intoxicating choreography enough to set your pulse racing. When The Fifth Sun suffers delusions of dance theatre, or performance art, it falls short of the experience it sets out to achieve. Its unnecessary labouring mostly creating a sense of unnecessary labouring. Undermining The Fifth Sun’s potential as an exhilarating dance experience. The Fifth Sun is Yusuf’s first evening length project as one of Luail - Ireland’s National Dance Company’s resident choreographers. On the evidence of which, Mufutau Yusuf might well have a glittering career. The Fifth Sun by Mufutau Yusuf, presented Luail - Ireland’s National Dance Company, runs as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2026 until May 16. For more information visit Dublin Dance Festival 2026 or Luail

Caitríona Ennis and Matthew Malone in An Ideal Husband. Image, Ros Kavanagh **** When it comes to Oscar Wilde’s An Ideal Husband, director Mark Atkinson Borrull takes the Heston Blumenthal approach. Concocting a furious fusion from curious ingredients. Take 20 ounces of Bridgerton, 12 ounces of pantomime and 6 ounces of camp. Add one Cruella Deville and one open shirted, Jason Statham lookalike. Toss in a healthy smattering of bodices, bustles and bosoms encased in James McGlynn Seaver’s excellent crayola costumes. Sprinkle in a dash of Martha Knight’s delicious darkcore compositions, along with micro-doses of drug references. Simmer, adding a heavy stock of mostly terrific performances, including a star turn in the making, mixed together with some over the top acting even ham would be embarrassed to be associated with. Add 2kg of historical Wilde marinated in a roux of historic knowingness, then mix in two teaspoonfuls of everything you love in contemporary re-imaginings of Wilde with a tablespoon of everything you hate. Place in an oven on high heat for approximately three hours, allowing it rest for an interval of fifteen minutes, and viola. An Ideal Husband: The Drag Brunch, Bridgerton Pantomime Version. As likely to delight the radicals as upset the traditionalists. Atkinson Borrull serving up a sumptuously satisfying, diet defying treat, seasoned with Wilde’s delectable wit and wisdom. Caitríona Ennis and Ayoola Smart in An Ideal Husband. Image, Ros Kavanagh Political intrigue, career ruining scandal, blackmail, betrayals and bitchery, An Ideal Husband has more plot twists than Agatha Christie, all informed by the scathing viciousness of a drag brunch. At the centre of which is smooth, suave, swaggering Robert Chiltern, whose chickens are coming home to roost. Richard Flood as the aspiring politician strutting about in Bridgerton, open shirted broodiness over his shameful secret. His nemesis, a brilliant Caitríona Ennis, the menace that is the duplicitous Mrs Cheveley. A Cruella Deville in sheep's clothing, rocking up in her purple dress and pink platforms, Mrs Cheveley knows Chiltern's secret and will expose him unless he does her bidding. Which might not only end his career, but his marriage to the paragon of purity that is Ayoola Smart’s Lady Chiltern. A woman so snobbishly pure, even God bows Her head when She passes. But best laid plans go awry when complicated by comic twists. Including a darling Nick Dunning as the Earl of Caversham desperate to see his feckless son, Viscount Goring, married. Except Goring, how shall we delicately put this, is what is called a confirmed bachelor. Matthew Malone excelling as the put upon Goring, an injured Bertie Wooster with a touch of Noel Coward, finding no good deed goes unpunished. Desired by Claire O’Leary’s infectiously brilliant Miss Mabel Chiltern. The vibrant and vivacious Mabel, forever fending off suitors, waiting for Goring to pop the question. The circle finally closed when it transpires Goring and Mrs Cheveley share a secret history of their own. Richard Flood and Ayoola Smart in An Ideal Husband. Image, Ros Kavanagh With its colourful costumes pressed against Kat Heath's sumptuous set, all Ionic columns, golden snakes, and drawing room opulence (gorgeously lit by Sinéad McKenna) events unfold with cartoon hilarity. Pantomime delivery, often played out front, sees many lines delivered with the force of a punchline; the fan snapping Wren Dennehy as Lady Basildon and Sadhbha Odufuwa-Bolger as Mrs Marchmont both divinely guilty. Yet heavy handed delivery is offset by scenes of comic subtly and nuance, with many informed by subtextual contemporary references. A superbly handed suggestion of beards and bisexuality recapturing Wilde’s daring and bravery; An Ideal Husband premiering in 1895 at the time of Wilde’s infamous court case that landed him in Reading Gaol. Yet not everything works. If Malone and O'Leary crackle with irresistible chemistry, the same does not hold for Smart and Flood. Strutting about like an action hero who’s walked into the wrong play, Flood’s cocky, sexual swagger gets the cold shower treatment from Smart’s paragon of snobbish virtue. A woman who has platitudes where she should have a personality. Attempts at seduction having the same sexual charge as trying to arouse a commandment. Making it hard to believe in, or care about their lifelessly cold relationship. Compared to Malone and O’Leary, whose vaudevillian energy lights up the stage with every glance and conversation. The glue binding both relationships, a show stealing Caitríona Ennis, turning in a terrific comic performance. Ennis silently eavesdropping between the pillars a masterclass in comic expression. But the night belongs to O’Leary, whose delightful Mabel is a thing of impeccable detail, engaging presence and exquisite comic and dramatic timing. O’Leary bound for great things. A supporting cast of Ingrid Craig, Gabriel Draper and Daniel Reardon rounding out an impressive ensemble. Matthew Malone and Claire O'Leary in An Ideal Husband. Image, Ros Kavanagh Aspiring to be everything to everyone, you risk being nothing to no one. Some might feel An Ideal Husband succumbs to that temptation in marrying so many disparate ingredients. For others, An Ideal Husband honours Wilde in intent and spirit. Fun filled, with some fabulous performances, it might not be the ideal, but isn't that the moral of the story? An Ideal Husband an absolute joy for snobs and subversives alike. Bon appétit. An Ideal Husband by Oscar Wilde, runs at The Gate Theatre until July 11. For more information visit The Gate Theatre

My Fierce Ignorant Step by Christos Papadopoulos. Image, Pinelopi Gerasimou **** The back-up dancers have broken free and are making their own cosmopolitan art show, here amid the remnants of twentieth century pop-dream nostalgia. Madonna has been abandoned on a stage somewhere, wondering where her young, Greek and beautiful ensemble have escaped to, with their headsets, plastic bag pants and sparkling slenderness all in tow. In Christos Papadopoulos' My Fierce Ignorant Step, a face emerges from the crowd before the image blurs in the constant cross-stepping of a human shoal. Another face pops: pleasing, familiar, briefly open, quickly turning machine, then animal, then digital glitch, then human again; constantly shifting, up-beat, off-beat, on-beat. Hitting fractional punctuation in quick and animated phrasing that travels across, forwards and back as the music generates and ascends over the course of an hour. Here we are, watching, lucky to arrive at the perfect moment, as the peacock fully opens his elaborate tail and performs his extravagant show. The cultivated wild opens towards us. My Fierce Ignorant Step by Christos Papadopoulos. Image, Pinelopi Gerasimou The dancing crowd uniformly swarms and counter-swarms. Walking, strutting actually, in continuous, detailed action. What unfolds is a vibrant spectacle in which we gaze upon a glamourised heyday memory: you just had to be there. Those were the days. Do you remember? Yes, we all lived together in that shimmering blue-purple reverie. That was us. The true us! The eternal us! Perfectly recollected and exact, down to our matching shoes. Blue is the thematic colour, both in Maria Panourgia's costumes and later in Stefanos Drousiotis’ lighting design, where moments of amethyst wash suggest the seventh chakra: a violet light rising from the top of the head, perhaps an incidental nod towards a symbol of enlightenment. The dancers use the full scope of a conventional stage space, supported by the beautifully contained and considered set of Clio Boboti. An ambisonic-like set-up of six or more speakers mounted above low panels establishes the boundary early, and indicates the centrality of sound. The music is treated physically, both through the speaker array and amplified live action, as voice and breath escape from the dance, captured by select dancers wearing headsets: sounds of enthusiastic exertion accumulate as the performance energy blooms. Voice and breath are cleverly replicated within Kornilios Selamsis’ recorded score, producing echoes that shift and multiply, sending sounds darting in multiple directions. My Fierce Ignorant Step by Christos Papadopoulos. Image, Pinelopi Gerasimou The ensemble’s camp styling and headset microphones recall pop-stars with their back-up dancers: a sentimental euphoria of collective performance where everyone moves together in perfect cohesion. Yet within this idealised togetherness, the inevitable hierarchy of the ensemble goes oddly un-negotiated. Ioanna Paraskevopoulou, Sotiria Koutsopetrou and Georgios Kotsifakis deliberately dominate the group, remaining heads to the tail of citizenry from some imaginary continental city, with a largely anonymous populous. In My Fierce Ignorant Step, the back-up dancers have back-up dancers, with some poised to become the show's stars. Kotsifakis, in particular, begins to resemble a kind of show-host or charismatic social conductor. Though the work proposes euphoric togetherness, focus still orients around certain bodies. Yet the surrounding ensemble never fully dissolves into backdrop. Whether it is the whip of Amalia Kosma’s ponytail, the slightly sardonic expression of Maria Bregianni, or the elegant length of Adonis Vais, each performer, subtle or pronounced, contributes to the pleasure of watching a group merging so fluently in movement. My Fierce Ignorant Step by Christos Papadopoulos. Image, Pinelopi Gerasimou We are encouraged to enjoy the ease that conformity of action brings. In this world, togetherness is a biological impulse that transcends thought, oscillating between elevated civilisational possibility and the strange logic of animal life. The dance presents order within the throng of nature, curating a harmonious shared space. The phenomenon of human life is rendered as a soft non-collision of fantasy-driven reality, where society has its way with us, free from disruption and dissent. Though profoundly tactile and spatial, the work points towards an intellectual and highly composed social ideal, where uniform flow, and precise, disciplined execution, are wrought through the eye of the choreographer. Drousiotis’ lighting, also spatially conceived, remains purposeful and pointed throughout, composed with the same precision as the choreography’s reassuring rhythmic neatness. Gradually it builds towards lightning strike as the music swells into a familiar-sounding military march, as if hearing a misremembered Bolero played in a lift at civilisation's end. At its pinnacle, the spectacle retreats from the edge of transcendence. It is precisely as excitement and frenzy grows that the work abandons the uncanny precipice, and fully relaxes into a sit-com or rom-com world of Glee: musical theatre leaps, struts, skits and prancing, maybe even jazz hands; with a satisfying flutter of arching elbows flowing and counter-flowing through the crowd. The earlier confusion of machine, animal and landscape gives way to pure gay spectacle. Papadopoulos’ squeaky-camp optimism recalls the glossy dream-world of Betty Elms in Mulholland Drive: a radiant ascent towards glamour, performance and the purity of fantasy. It is not the fractured reality of Diane Selwyn once the Hollywood hallucination collapses beneath its aesthetic surfaces. My Fierce Ignorant Step by Christos Papadopoulos. Image, Panos Kefalos It must be fun to match those movements so fluently across ten dancers. The ensemble is a perfected, fabricated community, dancing through an episode of Quantum Leap where references blend, blur and shape-shift. No one touches, yet everyone is the same: sanitary, respectful and coherent. When physical contact is finally made, it is disconcerting. That heyday memory hits again: you had to be there, we grew so close. Touch, and also gaze between dancers, when it happens, appears like a daytime television re-enactment, a romantic affectation of intimacy and love. No dirty contamination of human togetherness, just the youthful and flamboyant aspirations of optimistic artifice and sparkling theatricality. We, the young, the bisexual, the beautiful, are like this! Look how our assertion and cohesiveness carries us all along. No doubts! No resistance! No filthy difficulty! Just human city-animals holding on to hope at the tail end of Western Art. Presented as resistance in the face of decay, this dance reads more as an assertion of collective consensus, a juvenile rendering of our primal need to belong. Fierce and ignorant. How could they ever be set apart? There is no doubt and no outsider view. Everything is cohesive and proper, blessed with establishment accolades. Except a natural hierarchy inevitably dictates the performance outcome. This is togetherness TM, where no one ever dies and all the stray cats of Athens are successfully rehomed. Here, in Papadopoulos’ meticulously composed world, the European dream might still be believed despite its crumbling edifice. It is simply important that we hold on to the vision. The dream! Of dance, and friends, and endless snappy, clever steps. The vision! Of perfection. The product of a significant team of artists working across mediums, and with commendations that speak to its impact, Christos Papadopoulos’ My Fierce Ignorant Step is an impeccably composed and extraordinarily precise spectacle whose flamboyant positivity and elegant stagecraft make for a beautiful, generous and playful dance experience. Interested in dance? Catch it if you can! Christos Papadopoulos' My Fierce Ignorant Step runs from 7 - 9 May at the Abbey Theatre, as part of Dublin Dance Festival, 2026. For more information Dublin Dance Festival, 2026 Emily Aoibheann McDonnell is a multidisciplinary artist and writer based in Dublin.

Ciseach, by Catherine Young Dance. Image Patricio Cassinoni **** Ritual, incantation, native wisdom. Every culture has its collective memories. Which, as comparative mythologist Joseph Campbell illustrated, share much in common. Myth and memory spawning a worldwide industry of genuine insight, questionable beliefs and gullible New Age escapism. Cosplay Druids worshipping crystal chakras at Bealtaine festivals appropriating the primitive. Or there’s the John Moriartys. Keepers of wisdom, native and other, who strike ley lines into the soul. For whom culture evolves from an intercultural fusion arising out of a myriad of multi-cultural encounters. Something Catherine Young Dance’s revival of 2024’s Ciseach:An Embodied Manifesto aspires to. Pretentiously dubbed ‘an embodied manifesto’, Ciseach (a shambles, mess; also a wattled walkway laid over a bog or soft ground) filters its themes through a rose tinted lens. In which Native American meets Afro Celt with a touch of Balearic rave. A 21st century Ghost Dance that, like its 19th century, Native American predecessor, aspires to reconnect us with the earth. The result sure to have broad appeal for spiritual tourists and the converted. For everyone else, Ciseach might point towards something, but it's sensed rather than conjured. Even so, it offers a stunning marriage of music and movement gorgeously realised. Ciseach, by Catherine Young Dance. Image Patricio Cassinoni Beginning in a Clannad Celtic darkness, a brooding, Irish dirge keens six dancers (Vanessa Guevara, Diarmuid Armstrong Mayock, Valentin Lemaitre, Emily Nicolaou, Simone O’Toole, Carmen Palacios Sáenz, swing: Rocio Dominguez) to the stage. Sabine Dargent’s sparse set compressing musicians into each wing to accommodate a series of poles resembling withered branches or forlorn, emaciated saplings. Clannad giving way to loved up beats as the six spin and weave like fairy folk in The Random. Full bodied, High School Musical smiles in rave induced exultation. Dissolving in and out of duets, or occasional solos, before reforming into a tribal whole. Hard, pulsing rhythms electrifying a whirling dervish. Tracks shifting into softer territory open a superb sequence with interweaving poles. Music by Martin Schärer, Jess Kavanagh, Mícheál O’Dubhghaill, Fionn O’Neill, Jon Sanders (2026 tour: Seanan Brennan) reaffirming Young’s passion for collaborative engagements. At times hardcore, at others haunting, music and movement channel trad, house and Native American chants and incantations. Best realised during an explosive Ghost Dance fuelling a relentless, durational, trance like intensity. Bodies collectively circling as soloist spiral in and out before spinning back into harmony. After which the long fade begins. A soft, Irish trad routine giving way to a slow, meditative passage culminating in poles being carried like a coffin, or tied together suggesting strength in unity. A beautiful slice of dance theatre sees poles form a pathway, or a bridge, on which ghosts walk between worlds. Banba’s encounter with Black Elk resolving into fade to black chillout. Ciseach, by Catherine Young Dance. Image Patricio Cassinoni Tracing archetypes like stereotypes, if Ciseach speaks of reconnecting to the earth, it’s to a tamed, gentrified, national park earth with no real wildness or danger. Ciseach less a primal experience so much as a civilised meditation on primal experience. Yet, at times Ciseach connects to something deeper. Its marriage of music and movement soothing your soul if not always stirring it. Ciseach leaning into romance, but looking and sounding good doing it. Ciseach: An Embodied Manifesto by Catherine Young Dance, presented by Dublin Dance Festival 2026, Pavilion Theatre and Backstage Theatre, ran at The Pavilion on May 7th as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2026. Ciseach will conclude its current tour in Glór on May 9th. For more information visit Dublin Dance Festival 2026

Imogen Alvares and Amir Sabra in Junk Ensemble's STORM 1.0. Image, Fionn McCann. *** It's a consequence of festivals that you sometimes find yourself attending previews. An effort to try cover as many shows as possible during their short run. Such was the case for Junk Ensemble’s long awaited STORM 1.0, which opens on May 7th as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2026 (travelling to Hawk’s Well Theatre as part of Sligo Cairde Sligo Arts Festival on July 9th). Previews allowing for a first run in front of a live audience so things can settle. Yet mindful of issues that can arise in preview, STORM 1.0 has independent issues which often see it bluster rather than blow. The end result less a tempest so much as a storm in a tea cup, and an often choreographically shallow one at that. Visually it gets off to a lacklustre start. Dancers Imogen Alvares and Amir Sabra scavenging through Morgana Machado Marques’s streets of plastic. In Sarah Bacon’s moody trench coats, or bin bag rain gear, they uncover scaffolding and gradually build a two level, narrow chrome structure you can just about stand on. All the while Stephen Dodd's mood lighting is steeped in Junk Ensemble's signature shadow. Choreography by Jessica Kennedy and Megan Kennedy, in collaboration with the dancers, soon serving up a short, silhouetted, diversity conscious duet. Shades of Greek folk dance, Western line dancing, Irish reels and Middle Eastern influences married to ballet and acrobatics with a contemporary dance twist. This pattern, interspersed with scaffold being draped with plastic sheets, establishing a choreographic foundation repeatedly returned to. Meanwhile, set builds impact on pacing and energy. The effect created less of stormy weather so much as occasional outbreaks in a sea of calm. Against which Denis Clohessy’s superb score sounds like the main event. A searing, storm and aftermath worthy soundtrack more often supported by movement than supporting them. Repetition again key, with several musical motifs being built around simple rhythmic phrases. Amir Sabra and Imogen Alvares in Junk Ensemble's STORM 1.0. Image, Fionn McCann. Throughout, there’s an inherent, dystopian Romanticism. Shadowed trench-coats, now abandoned, give way to a candle orange togetherness huddled behind cloudy gauze. Or to dancing in the soaking rain. Or pin prick constellations against which two bodies court intimate connection in the calm before the storm. Hilariously captured in a humorous routine suggesting if the tent is a rocking, don't come a knocking, unless it’s being blown downhill. Connection, frequently storm shattered, leaving dancers repeatedly returning to their choreographed foundation. The introduction of Les Neish sending STORM 1.0 spiralling down a foghorn rabbit hole. Like The Queen of Hearts brass band tuba player preparing for a Paddy's Day parade, Neish introduces skilful playing with some playful, Pythonesque humour. For a brief spell a stunning duet accompanying some musical, sensual slowness breaks the choreographic monotony. A taut, sublime solo for two soon followed by Alvares providing the only substantial evidence of unrelenting physicality. Bordering on durational performance art, Alvares’s flailing energy is palpable and magnetic. But in no time the build/dance/rebuild pattern re-emerges. Beach-combing for various items to suspend from the ceiling, punctuated by reproductions of the foundational sequence; events culminate in a violent cyclone. A fierce flaring of loud, furious frenzy. Like a fabulous finish to a stuttering firework display that often coughed and sputtered on its interrupted journey towards a big finale. Thematically, a sense of endurance, or of unspecified storms destroying everything each time its repaired, be they worlds, dance routines or relationships, doesn’t quite land. More a sense of repeating the same response over and over and expecting a different outcome. Repeated patterns of choreographic regularity yielding the same old result. Reminiscent of stubborn Evangelists in Midwestern trailer parks in the middle of the Tornado Belt praying to Jesus each time their trailer gets destroyed. Rebuilding in the same place in the same way when maybe Jesus is trying to tell them something. Endurance and resilience undermined by Alvares and Sabra appearing like two moderately competent, poorly organised, in no immediate rush stage hands. Spending almost as much time constructing their health and safety set as performing in it. The effect often similar to watching The Wizard behind the curtain pulling rods and cables when what we really expected was to be whisked away in the arms of a tornado that would take us to Oz. Alas, we keep returning to Kansas. Yet, like its solo for two, there are moments when we travel the Yellow Brick Road embraced by the power of the tornado. STORM 1.0 frequently mesmerising and often touched by the breath of poetry. STORM 1.0 by Junk Ensemble, runs at The Samuel Beckett Theatre as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2026 until May 8th, travelling to Hawk’s Well Theatre as part of Sligo Cairde Sligo Arts Festival on 9th July For more information visit Dublin Dance Festival 2026 or Junk Ensemble

Bairbre Ni Chaoimh, Mark O’Regan and Michael James Ford in Elysium Nevada. Image Futoshi Sakauchi **** Welcome to Elysium. A third rate retirement home in Nevada's Mojave desert. Less a last chance saloon so much as a no hope corral, the lights of Las Vegas whispering in the far off like half forgotten memories. Here the elderly who have outlived their usefulness are abandoned under false pretences by their indifferent families. Doomed to wile away in heated ruminations of a forgotten long ago. A time when kids had manners, when Vegas strippers were voluptuously curved, when salesman ruled the world and catering staff served the geniuses at Los Alamos. Elders whose final days are spent confined to wheelchairs, parked by staff in 90° heat, waiting for their next substandard meal. Barry McKinley's dramatically lazy Elysium Nevada immeasurably more satisfying as an insightful character study. Its three ageist guests remembering past time long agos because all they have in the present is time. Director Liam Halligan deftly negotiating the demands of McKinley's no stakes script and elevating it into something engaging. In which humour, humanity and insight are given immediacy by three irresistible performances. Bairbre Ni Chaoimh, Mark O’Regan and Michael James Ford in Elysium Nevada. Image Futoshi Sakauchi Steeped in tropes of TV Americana, the belligerent and bellicose Bob rattles on at the laid back Mike about whatever happens to be his current grievance. The silent Constance, interrupting her snoozes for breaths from an oxygen tank, pretends not to listen. And who can blame her. Michael James Ford’s loudmouth Bob, delivering his personality as monologue, endlessly performs his own importance. Meanwhile Mark O'Regan's brilliantly realised Mike listens, adds commentary, and sets up the next tirade. Bairbre Ní Chaoimh excellent as the sultry Constance, a feminine foil to McKinley’s grumpy old men. Their dynamic referencing Jackie Gleason’s The Honeymooners or The Odd Couple meets Zsa Zsa Gabor with a hint of Blanche Dubois. Constance’s animation steeling desire in Mike and resentment in Bob. Ní Chaoimh’s costumes perfectly capturing character, reflecting the faded elegance of a Vegas dancer, the Panama hat sharpness of a man with notions, and the earthy ordinariness of a man without pretensions. Their conversations less a journey so much as a pleasant view, unchanging and irresistible. Martin Cahill’s superb set, with its faded wooden sign and dominating desert cactus evoking worlds real and imagined. Cahill’s genius evident in the superb realising of a sandstorm with nothing more than flimsy ribbon and wind chimes. Colm Maher’s desert hued lights sweltering with longing and apathy. Consuming all three until truth poignantly reveals itself in the final moments. Mark O’Regan, Bairbre Ni Chaoimh and Michael James Ford in Elysium Nevada. Image Futoshi Sakauchi Under Halligan’s direction several risky choices mostly pay off. A sedentary, somnambulist pace captures the weight of heat and time for longing spirits incapable of realising the vitality their bodies now betray. Michael James Ford’s superb Bob the riskiest choice of all. Ford’s excellent portrayal of leaden arrogance and endlessly performing stiff, cane waving self-reflection hugely captivating until the heartbreaking reveal. Forever performing to his own audience, Bob responds to disclosures more as facts spoken than experiences felt. Next to plays like Florian Zeller’s The Father, conveying the emotional depth of the troubled elderly, you might wish for a more emotive closure. For the end needs it. A botched segue into Oppenheimer territory sees McKinley scrambling to elevate his delightfully soft comedy into something symbolic. Flaccid attempts to shoehorn in atomic related gravity not needed. The work had been done, and beautifully realised by Ford, O’Regan and Ní Chaoimh. The ending arriving with a great big bang, but landing as something of a whimper. Mark O’Regan, Michael James Ford and Bairbre Ni Chaoimh in Elysium Nevada. Image Futoshi Sakauchi Full of sharp observations, superb comic touches and understated tenderness Elysium Nevada works best when viewed as a character study rather than a story. An encounter with three forgotten souls lost to time and the vagaries of memory. If performances are strong across the board, O’Regan, like a long suffering Barney Rubble to Ford’s flinty Fred Flintstone, steals the show with a world weary charm, detailing the weight and wisdom of ordinariness. Ford, O’Regan and Ní Chaoimh together delivering utterly irresistible theatre. Elysium Nevada by Barry McKinley runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until May 30th. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre.

Les Ballets Trocadero De Monte Carlo. Image, José Luis Marrero Medina. **** There’s a festive feel as large crowds converge on Bord Gáis Energy Theatre. Ready to enjoy a double celebration. The opening night of one of Ireland’s friendliest and artistically rich festivals, Dublin Dance Festival 2026. Which opens with another opening night, that of the fierce and fabulous Les Ballets Trocadero De Monte Carlo’s 50th Anniversary, 14 venue tour of Ireland and the UK. Presented by Dance Consortium, The Trocks as they are affectionately known, bring their own unique brand of ballet and comedy to Dublin. Which, after fifty years, is as lively, fun and subversive as ever. Unless you've been living in an alternate dimension you’ll most likely have heard of The Trocks, most famous for their comic reimagining of Swan Lake. This all male dance troop injecting drag, kitsch and comedy into an art form often known for its oppressive seriousness. Long before there were drag brunches The Trocks were taking high art and making it low brow without sacrificing the physical rigour required of professional ballet. True, synchronisation is sometimes more of an approximation, but most routines are evidence of that old truism; you have to be really good to look this bad. Jazmin Chiodi (Artistic Director for DDF), Tory Dobrin (Artistic Director for Les Ballets Trockadero De Monte Carlo) Antonio Lopez, Felix Molinero del Paso and Vincent Brewer (Dancers) . Image uncredited For two hours, including two intervals, audiences are wildly entertained. Opening with scenes from the much loved Swan Lake. The Trocks are at their ballet and comedy best. Consistently inconsistent, competently incompetent, elegantly graceless, their sublime and hilarious choreography is likely to have Petipa dying of laughter or turning in his grave. This being Swan Lake the pantomime, parody, pastiche, or The Ballet That Went Wrong. Darling divas, disorganised swans and a prince spitting feathers strutting and swaggering like the royalty they are, poking fun at ballet's conventions. More follows in Act Two, which includes one of the most prolonged death scenes for a dying swan ever staged. In Act Three's Walpurgisnacht, Liam Hutt's pastoral Pan reminds you just how good The Trocks really are, before the night rounds out with a rousing tribute to their current host country. There have been volumes written in praise of The Trocks, and volumes more that deserve to be written. But you might ask what have The Trocks to offer after 50 years? Haven’t we had enough Swan Lake send ups? Might as well ask have we had enough Swan Lake? The fact is The Trocks serve a vital and necessary function in the eco system of dance. All too often dance, especially ballet, feels like reading the Bible; heavy on self-serious reverence, light on life affirming laughs. The Trocks playful puncture such pretensions and conventions with respectful irreverence. Bringing to ballet what is often absent, enriching it by transcending its limits, making ballet accessible to all. So what are you waiting for? Dublin Dance Festival has brought the party. Get your Trocks on. The Trocks are back in town. Les Ballets Trocadero De Monte Carlo’s 50th Anniversary UK and Ireland Tour, presented by Dance Consortium, runs as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2026 at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre until May 1. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre or Dublin Dance Festival 2026

Hannah Brady and Chloe O’Reilly in Sorry You Felt That Way. Photo, Michael Lowther *** Winner of the Fishamble New Writing Award 2024, Harry Butler's Sorry You Felt That Way is a polemic of genius undone by naive gender bias. A play doing the exact opposite of what it thinks it’s doing. Butler's study of Dubliner Adam, and his slightly younger Cork girlfriend Emma, more likely to confirm gender prejudice than challenge it. Emma, a student with dead Daddy issues, loves caring and considerate Adam and has moved into his apartment after six months together. Alone one night, she disturbingly finds his ex, a tetchy and ragged Elouise, rocking in her Crocs having let herself in. Like a stalker trained as a STASI interrogator, the lying Elouise manipulates and gaslights the bath-robed Emma into revealing details of her life. Unconvincingly, Emma complies, oversharing with a suspicious stranger she’s every reason to distrust till the reveal reveals Elouise’s hidden agenda. No, it’s not revenge, nor trying to break them up, and has nothing to do with Adam throwing her out after she slept with someone else the distraught Elouise insists repeatedly. She’s there to warn Emma that Adam is controlling and abusive. Blaming him for not taking responsibility for her having cheated on him because his comments drove her to it. As the lady protests too much, battering Emma into submission by the unrelenting force of her personality, the gaslit flames grow higher till Emma is consumed and Elouise leaves like a heaved sigh. So far, the only one trying to bend Emma to their controlling will is Elouise. And it works. Scene Two. Enter Adam. Smarmy, arrogant, constantly performing and living off Daddy’s money, Adam is many annoying things but controlling and abusive doesn't immediately spring to mind. But Butler has planted the idea of Adam grooming vulnerable younger women, so the gaslighting Emma, along with the baited audience, put the ambushed Adam on trial without him knowing he’s on trial. To Emma, who hasn’t told Adam about his nemesis visiting, it’s not a trial, and not because of Elouise, and not because she, like us, is now seeing everything as a red flag, but because Emma innocently wants to know if Adam hurt any of his ex-girlfriends? He smells something amiss. She ask why he’s being so defensive. The suggestion of coercive sex falling short of motivation in the absence of proper exploration. Like everything else, it’s alluded to but not explored. Emma eventually confessing to Elouise’s visit and demanding answers. Which, like evidence, her accusations, and Adam’s defence are vague and inconclusive. A cleverly structured coda might strive for clarity, but it tells us nothing, neither confirming nor denying, only hinting at everything and its opposite. Harry Butler and Hannah Brady in Sorry You Felt That Way. Photo, Michael Lowther Like a Meisner exercise, talk is action and it generates heat. Butler’s gift for writing intense, passionate dialogue very much in evidence. Detailed language steeped in everyday observations and conversational urgency whisking arguments along. But they never catch fire, being less debates so much as personal power plays asking to be taken as evidence. An interrogation insisting it’s a conversation that can explain everything away. Director Anthony Biggs cranking up a palpable, oppressive pressure till it feels like suffocating. Yet with stakes too low, arguments too flawed, resolution nowhere in sight, the wheels turn frantically but go nowhere. Butler as the accused Adam, Hannah Brady’s Emma as witness for the prosecution, and Chloe O’Reilly’s electrifying Elouise playing the plaintiff looking like weakly loaded dice. Yet Biggs has cast brilliantly and in Butler, Brady and O’Reilly elicits three staggering performances. But the problem remains; whether Butler intends to highlight misogyny or misandry, or both, it’s hard to know. But you can take a stab at it. In her brilliant Conflict Is Not Abuse cultural critic Sarah Schulman coined the phrase ‘overstating harm’ to highlight the dangers of claiming as traumatic events that weren’t traumatic, or calling something abusive which was not abuse, thereby undermining the very real claims of real abuse victims. Were it positioned as a play where everyone is guilty and the abuse clear, Sorry You Felt That Way might have something real to say about gender manipulation and power plays. Yet while you want to give Butler the benefit of the doubt, overstating harm is the overriding sense Sorry You Felt That Way leaves you with. Butler ascribing politicised power plays to Adam to encode the natural friction of two young people learning to live together with blame and misogyny. Which might often be true, but the jury here, if it’s honest, is split for points being made even though the case isn't. For if Adam is a player, he is also very much being played. Both distrusting women seeking to control their alleged controller, who craves their validation. Reinforcing the same old gender binaries. Ensuring history repeats itself, risks victims remaining unbelieved, and the innocent continue to fall victim to unfounded accusations. If these are the terms of love’s new normal, most would be better off living alone. Not even three glorious performances would make you want to risk these kinds of relationships. Yet when it slips the reins of Butler’s bias, and is subject to a more honest gendered reading, Sorry You Felt That Way packs considerable punch, raising serious questions about gender control and power dynamics. So which version will you see? Sorry You Felt That Way by Harry Butler, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until May 9th, Transferring to Hope Theatre, London, May 26th to 30th. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre

Laura Brady and Jessica Dunne Perkins in Adelphi '63. Image, Jilly McGrath ***** When it comes to generational tales, one person's nostalgia is another person’s history. History marinated in lashings of nostalgia flavouring Laura Brady's heartfelt Adelphi ’63. A tale of two cousins and the only ever Irish gig the Beatles played at the Adelphi Cinema in Abbey Street in 1963. Adelphi ’63 serving up a love letter to friendship and the Fab Four, as well as to a Dublin of a rare, auld, more innocent time. As with the 1978 movie I Wanna Hold Your Hand, action takes place during the hysteria surrounding a significant Beatles performance in which characters win tickets on a radio show. The blessed Mary Connors fervently bargaining, bribing or battering God into procuring tickets for the hottest gig in town. The effervescent seventeen year old aiming to reignite the joy in the adulting Bridget, formerly her life loving cousin Bridie. But Bridget has a job, a relationship, a secret and a plan. And if that could destroy their friendship forever, so be it. Truth finally emerging when, lo and behold, Mary’s prayers are answered. Laura Brady and Jessica Dunne Perkins in Adelphi '63. Image, Jilly McGrath If stories instruct and delight, Adelphi ’63 opts to go low on instruction and load up with delight. Brady’s tale of two young women in Ireland in the 1960’s less Edna O’Brien and more Maeve Binchy. A brilliant Emma Finegan directing Brady’s two handed character studies with deft assurance. Anika Kidd’s minimalist set, Mae Leahy’s period costumes and Suzie Cummins’ clouded light evoking the sepia toned retro vibe of your Granny's inner city kitchen. Lara Gallagher’s sound design rooting time within a specific history, one surprisingly light on Beatles tracks. Brady’s script referencing enough history to remind you that women in the 60s lived under very different conditions in terms of employment, family, pregnancy and opportunity. That God might answer an innocent girl’s prayers, but Catholicism could condemn them to hell. Perhaps all we really have is each other. Like Paddy Crosbie’s Your Dinner’s Poured Out, Adelphi ’63 is stepped in poetic Dublinese, a street language rapidly disappearing, you know that kinda way. Structurally, Brady has it down, shifting effortless from monologues to dialogue with details looping back on themselves in an integrated whole. Brady’s fun loving Mary a sheer delight. Jessica Dunne Perkins' deeply troubled Bridget a perfect foil. Brady and Dunne Perkins delivering pitch perfect performances under Finegan’s superlative direction. Crackling with a contagious chemistry impossible to resist. No, Adelphi ’63 is not perfect. No, it’s not high art. Rather, Adelphi 63’ sets out to entertain. To unapologetically tell its old-fashioned tale in an old-fashioned way, appealing to young and old alike. Under the terms it sets out for itself, Adelphi '63 is a thriving success. Brady, Dunne Perkins and Finegan a tidal wave of talent. Adelphi ’63 a smart, funny feel good, crowd pleaser brimming with joyous, infectious energy. Not to be missed. Adelphi ’63, written by Laura Brady, presented by Dublin Municipal Theatre and Muirenn Lyons, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until May 3rd. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre

Ian Toner, Megan McDonnell, David Rawle, Ronan Leahy and Una Kavanagh in The Delirium Archive. Image, Ros Kavanagh ** No one is infallible. Not even the excellent Rough Magic Theatre Company. Whose latest offering by award winning playwright Shane Mac an Bhaird proves even the best can go awry. The Delirium Project a dystopian tale revolving around environmental breakdown, prolonged lockdown and tech companies harvesting memories making for extremely hard going. So hard my disgruntled theatre wife of over a decade drew up divorce papers immediately afterwards. Like an episode of Malcolm in the Middle, if set in an acid hazed, house coated, dystopian not too distant future, The Delirium Project follows the nuclear O'Connor family trapped in a toxic, yellow fogged Co. Mayo. Dad Tomás, a sort of frenetic Doc from Back to the Future, is intent on capturing their memories on a weird helmet from a large tech company. But memories, and who owns them, are fickle things. Mum Caitríona, lurching about like a disoriented Frankenstein, remembers a horny encounter in Spain rather than the birth of her daughter, Octavia. The voice of stunted reason who embellishes and fantasises, Octavia is looking to move in with her online boyfriend. Her infuriatingly needy brother, Vassilinki, self-obsessed in the extreme, none too happy about anything. The arrival of The Collector to collect their ‘digital life raft’ heightens tensions between flawed family and flawed memories. Yet if characters are familiar, their bored and boring memories fail to ignite and take up too much time. Like tedious tales shared by a self-absorbed neighbour, memories range from dull, to trite, to asinine, to shoot me now because I’d rather not see another day, let alone another play, if I have to hear about the birth of your baby, naming the child, or their arrival home like it mattered to everyone. If this constitutes a digital life raft, please, let me drown. And if that was the point, it was poorly made. David Rawle and Una Kavanagh in The Delirium Archive. Image, Ros Kavanagh Not so much suspending disbelief as euthanising it, The Delirium Project is too serious to be satire, too real to be absurd, and lacks dramatic intensity and well developed ideas, both about as substantial as soundbites. Like a 1950s Sci-Fi movie, or a weak episode of The Twilight Zone, it looks dated and feels weighted by a literary wordiness. A Humpty Dumpty all the king’s men, and women, couldn’t save. And many try, valiantly. A hugely impressive set by Ellen Kirk, superlative lighting by Sarah Jane Shiels, trippy videos by Eoin Robinson and Covid costumes by Sorcha Ni Fhloinn try their damnedest. As do a terrific cast. Ronan Leahy’s fiery Dad and Una Kavanagh’s vibrant Mum, Megan McDonnell’s detailed Octavia and a brilliant David Rawle as the brother you hate to love are each superb. As is Ian Toner as The Collector, glitching like a replicant with some of its programming corrupted. Director Eoghan Carrick trying to whisk everything into a potent cocktail. But the ingredients are never ripe enough or else past their use by date. Even so laughs, when they infrequently arrive, are strong. Suggesting The Delirium Project might have been hugely enjoyable had it leaned into straight up comedy. For now; can anyone recommend a good marriage counsellor? The Delirium Project by Shane Mac an Bhaird, presented by Rough Magic, runs at The Project Arts Centre till May 9. For more information visit Project Arts Centre

Mr. Bergmann of Deadman's Point written and performed by Ronan Dempsey. Image uncredited **** It evokes a semi-lit spa. Stretched on a long table a body lies covered in a white sheet. New Age chill floats on the airwaves. But something’s off. Perhaps it’s the science paraphernalia and rubber gloves. Or the man in the white Kabuki mask sat silently at a second table. Wearing a dark, leather jacket, meticulously, meditatively, he tears strips of paper beneath the glow of a stained glass lamp. Later he will cut tags off clothing and wipe the room of evidence like a criminal trying to conceal their identity. His radio speaks of the banking crisis. Cleverly, an understated sound design conveys his journey from Germany to a hotel in Sligo. Things begin to settle. To take shape. But if I’m reading the rooms right we’re in a morgue. The body about to be embalmed; skirting close to the taboo about what we conceal about death and dying. Ronan Dempsey’s superb Mr. Bergmann of Deadman's Point refusing distraction to face deeper questions. Like Dempsey’s superlative The Words Are There from 2017, which explored the taboo of male victims of domestic violence, this is deep, meaty theatre. A profound marriage of sublime physicality and precision text crafting a remarkable theatre experience. Things shoot off on a tangent as Dempsey sheds his coat and mask and introduces Balmy. A tetchy, skinhead lookalike Igor dressed from the 1970s. Through Balmy we discover the corpse is the mysterious Mr Bergman, a secretive no one who also harboured a fatal illness, hidden secrets, and faced a choice between living and dying. The ailing Balmy, courtesy of two gossiping twins peering through the window into his basement, the victim of vicious rumours alleging some unknown scandal. His estranged daughter, with whom he desperately wants to reconnect, ignoring him. The silent Mr Bergman, Balmy’s friend and confidant, listening to his philosophies on life, death, debt and loneliness. Always, the communal corporate hover like thieves of a different colour. Always the choice of death and redemption. But which will Balmy choose? Mr. Bergmann of Deadman's Point written and performed by Ronan Dempsey. Image uncredited Like Bryan Burroughs and Raymond Keane, Dempsey is one of Ireland’s foremost masters of physical theatre. Dempsey also crafting amazingly articulate scripts, whose words penetrate with the pin point precision of a fencing master. Based on a real life incident surrounding a mysterious death, Dempsey takes poetic licence to explore a plethora of themes. Yet not everything lands neatly. Two false starts leave the audience scrambling for a foothold; the silent spa intro followed by a lengthy polemic on the banking crisis confuse the opening, the latter feeling like a lecture that might have been better placed elsewhere. Only when we move from the political to the personal does action really take shape. Also, at seventy-minutes Dempsey's fever pitched performance risks blunting its intensity, despite regular, silent interludes as the mysterious Mr Bergman, including a divine song and dance routine. But these are minor quibbles in a play where Kabuki meets Beckett to brilliant effect. Like John McGahern‘s The Barracks, Mr. Bergmann of Deadman's Point is a study of living and dying in small town, rural Ireland set against a larger, global, corporate context. Its power undeniable, its performance near perfect; Mr. Bergmann of Deadman's Point an invigorating experience. Begging larger questions at to why Dempsey has had to wait so long to present a truly intriguing play? Doing so mostly off his own back. The development model of peer play dates falling short on developmental support delivering new works. Something needs to be done. We should not have to wait nearly as long to see what Dempsey produces next. Mr. Bergmann of Deadman's Point a thoroughly fascinating experience. One not to be missed. Mr. Bergmann of Deadman's Point written and performed by Ronan Dempsey, runs at The Civic Tallaght till April 23 before continuing its national tour. Tallaght, Dublin: Civic Theatre — April 21–23, 2026 Thurles: Source Arts Centre — May 15, 2026 Dundrum: dlr Mill Theatre — May 30, 2026 Blanchardstown: Draiocht Theatre — June 4, 2026 Edinburgh: Edinburgh Fringe (Paradise in The Vault) — August 8–30, 2026 Dundalk: An Tain Arts Centre — September 11, 2026 Roscommon: Roscommon Arts Centre — September 26, 2026 Carrick-on-Shannon: The Dock — November 20, 2026 Wexford: Wexford Arts Centre — November 20, 2026 For more information, visit respective venues.

Ryan Donaldson in Do You Come From Gomorrah? Image: Ros Kavanagh. **** The Peacock has a proud history as a development space for a new works by new writers. Something many would like to see reinstated on a year round basis. So why is a new play by one of Ireland’s pre-eminent playwrights, Frank McGuinness, premiering there and not in the Big House next door? Well, The Peacock is traditionally a space to experiment, and Do You Come From Gomorrah? finds McGuinness experimenting with the one person format. Also, the smaller, up close and intimate performance is something The Peacock is ideally suited for, and Do You Come From Gomorrah? is as intimate as a secret. Ryan Donaldson as McGuinness’s nameless Man undertaking a punishing journey through dislocated history. McGuinness’s seventy-five minute monologue exploring a Protestant Care Home in Northern Ireland where young boys are sold for sex to British soldiers. Ryan Donaldson in Do You Come From Gomorrah? Image: Ros Kavanagh. Heavy on darkness, light on light, Do You Come From Gomorrah? doesn’t scream crowd pleaser. Which is not to suggest it’s a poor play. Rather, it’s one of McGuinness’ strongest and most important plays of recent years. A young boy, his father gone, his mother incapable of caring for him, is sent into institutionalised care. There a series of surrogate fathers and half hearted lovers demean and degrade his identity and body. A homosexual in desperate need of connection preyed upon by soldier Steve who shows him tenderness, the pimp overseer Beastie Billy, and Keith, the boy he loves whose hook handed father is a raging homophobe. Then there’s the officer who sends Man hitting rock bottom. The dark side of suppressed homoeroticism manifesting in permission to commit unspeakable acts in the name of power and domination. Man indoctrinated to deny and serve. To see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil, resist no evil. A loyal Loyalist suffering the ultimate humiliation for the cause; reduced to being called an Irishman and abused accordingly. Man with the key to freedom in his hand, but stricken and unable to use it. Ryan Donaldson in Do You Come From Gomorrah? Image: Ros Kavanagh. Throughout, McGuinness’ dark themes are smeared with dirtied love and demented horror. Superbly captured in Alyson Cummins claustrophobic, black polished set, etched beautifully by Sinéad McKenna's nocturnal lights. Part slipway, part pier; like a river bed the rear wall often ripples with water projections. The ceiling mirror reinforcing a sense of a watery grave, or drowning. Of dislocation. Of a non-space between performance and identity, past and future, memory and reality, self and other. Structure and language seeing McGuinness taking a calculated risk that pays off for the most part. Language initially swerving towards objective, storytelling journalism in which Man conveys information like a voyeur of his own life, as if describing events that happened to somebody else. Donaldson excellent at making Man’s defensive wall of reported details engaging, along with flourishes from other characters, even as facts and details restrict deeper connection. Till a cross legged moment when language shifts towards deeper confessional. Man’s request to call a failed lover Daddy revealing subjective need and vulnerability. Echoed when he accepts what Keith denies. Resolving a dissonance of memory and truth. Man moving forward, ever cognisant of where he came from, recognising fellow travellers, his defiled dignity never defeated. Director Sarah Baxter navigating the play’s taut tensions with insight and sensitivity, ably supporting Donaldson by knowing when to get out of his way. Evoking the infamous Kincora Boys’ Home, Do You Come From Gomorrah? reminds us that institutionalised failings in duty of care were not solely the shortcomings of Catholic institutions. That safe places are made unsafe when we reject and degrade those deemed as lesser. Another of our hidden, unspoken histories conveyed through one man’s tortured journey, Do You Come From Gomorrah? delivers a dense, dark, deeply moving experience. Do You Come From Gomorrah? By Frank McGuinness, runs at The Peacock Stage of The Abbey Theatre until May 16. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Niall McNamee and Tabitha Smyth in The House Must Win. Credit, Ruth Medjber ***** It might be set in the west of Ireland during the 1970s but make no mistake, Mick Flannery's musical, The House Must Win, is a Western. A six gun, poker playing, shot down in the prime of life Western. Where drunkards, gamblers and honourable men loiter in a smoky saloon as the last train whistles in the distant darkness. Men doing, or failing to do, what a man's gotta do. Independent women, dependent on men, hankering for a better near or faraway. But life doesn’t care much and family proves as much a burden as a blessing when secrets and lies make their way to the surface. Flannery’s superlative marriage of script and score, exquisitely staged and brilliantly performed, making for a potent, dramatic cocktail. Set in a one horse town where the horse left years ago, soon to be followed by the train, brothers Luther (a superb Ferdia Walsh-Peelo) and Frank (an equally superb Niall McNamee) find themselves trapped in a dead end in the middle of nowhere. Where family matters mean family matters. Frank, a hard working barman, dreams of escape. Luther, like their degenerate father, is a Cincinnati Kid playing five card stud at a game run by the ruthless bar owner Ray (a superb Tommy Tiernan relishing the role). Both brothers in love with the independently minded Grace (a sublime Tabitha Smyth), the desirable daughter of scheming Ray. Grace, with her haughty personality, well to do father, and the fact she seems to be the only eligible girl in town, is also desired by slime ball bank manager Paulie (a squeamishly brilliant John McCarthy). Their lives to be decided by the turn of some friendless cards. In which debts must be paid, women bought and sold, and a dead man's hand might offer a flicker of hope for a better, or bitter tomorrow. Where wounded mother Sarah (an electrifying Orlagh De Bhaldraithe), and lovelorn spinster John (Damian Kearney so good you have to see it to believe it) might also have a chance at a second chance. If only all are brave enough to step out of the gutter and play the hand they’re dealt. And the game isn’t already rigged. Ferdia Walsh-Peelo, John McCarthy, Damian Kearney, Tommy Tiernan in The House Must Win. Credit, Ruth Medjber Those in search of a disposable musical like Hercules, or The Hunger Games, keep looking. Flannery’s mish mash of musical genres, honed dialogue and exquisite arrangements digs deep rather than skims the surface. The House Must Win representative of a far richer musical tradition. Echoes of the brilliant Blood Brothers, to which it owes more than a passing nod, and the overwhelmingly brilliant Next to Normal speak of durability. In which entertainment is capable of breaking your heart and healing your soul. Like Tom Waits, Flannery’s honky-tonk hybrid of disparate musical genres are woven into his own signature sound. Flannery’s songs at once character centred, driving the narrative, and capable of standing alone. Sultry, soulful, sexy, sincere; vocal demands, range from Leonard Cohen grumblings to power soared heights. Soaring best exemplified by Smyth and De Bhaldraithe. Smyth, a star in the making, sings Grace like a hooded soul burning to reveal itself, longing for a far away, better day tomorrow. De Bhaldraithe’s Sarah leaving you begging for more as a world weary woman carving her hurts into the wall of your heart. The men no slouches either, even if frequently constrained within the baritone/bass register. Which has its textural compensations, but can cost in terms of range on occasion. Lacking a Broadway, blockbuster budget, The House Must Win proves a victory of imagination over finance. Ciarán Bagnall’s set and lights a masterpiece of ingenuity. Smoke shadowed elegance infiltrating a wraparound ramp leading to a Juliet balcony. Beneath which a bar is pressed and an array of musicians hunker with their army of instruments. Deirdre Dwyer’s costumes revealing pop stylings in period detail. Director Julie Kelleher whisking the visual, performative, musical, vocal, choreographic and even stage fighting ingredients into an energised whole. Kelleher a mistress of harmony and a master of her craft. Yet in the end, it’s all about Flannery, whose music, script and lyrics demand The House Must Win should run and run and run. And be in the running for every conceivable award. And when they give out awards, Damian Kearney as the scene stealing John, a sort of loveably drunken, beligerent Walter Brennan, deserves every accolade possible. Tommy Tiernan, Tabitha Smyth in The House Must Win. Credit, Ruth Medjber You could talk about The House Must Win’s detailed historical references, like abolishing the gold standard, or argue the pros and cons of its punkish, jazzy, Dylan meets country styled folksiness, but you don’t need to to enjoy what is a breathtaking musical. Nor do you need to be familiar with Flannery's 2005 album Evening Train, which provided the inspiration that has evolved into a full fledged musical. One with its own, must have double album soon to be released on May 8th. It’s been a long, hard road getting here, but well worth the wait. The House Must Win a wildly refreshing, utterly heartfelt and hugely invigorating experience. Quite simply one of the best new musicals of recent years. Not to be missed. The House Must Win by Mick Flannery, based on his album Evening Train, runs at The Pavilion Theatre, Dun Laoghaire until May 3rd, transferring to The Everyman, Cork, May 6th to 16th. For more information visit The Pavilion Theatre or The Everyman

Eoin O'Sullivan and Paddy McEneaney in Ante Beckett. Image by Al Craig *** It's a brave soul who’d take on Samuel Beckett. The risk of appearing derivative, of excessive homage, of looking like a tribute act enough to dissuade the most ardent enthusiast. Ante Beckett by Joel Smith, a sincere love letter to all things Beckett, a little of all the above. A tale of two foetus in the womb pondering the Tao like mysteries of something and nothing, Smith’s cleverly quipped script hilariously references Beckett’s absurdist works. Before shooting off on a sentimental, Disney-esque tangent. Less Ante Beckett so much as anti-Beckett. Divided into two acts, its first part monologue, second part vaudevillian double act suggests First Love meets Waiting for Godot done in the style of Father Ted. Director John Carty spinning several stylistic plates and doing so with considerable style. Paddy McEneaney’s delightfully articulated Alpha, a something wishing he was nothing wishing he was something, suggesting Father Dougal reflecting on the world with far more information than a foetus should possess. Eniko Hegyi’s four curtained design, realised by Niamh O’Brien, curious for suggesting draped furniture in an abandoned house rather than a womb. Here, Alpha, looking classically Beckett in Maura Logue’s shoeless costumes, asks endless unanswerable questions. Michael Cummins’ lighting superbly evoking Beckett’s shadowy landscapes, with frequent flourishes from Joe Hunt's excellent sound design conveying the muffled world outside. Where life awaits. As does death. Both pointless. As is having to do it all over again over. What could be worse? Well, there’s reincarnation. And an identical twin trapped with you in the womb when you want to be alone but don’t want to be alone. Eoin O’Sullivan’s superb as the life loving Beta, turning McEneaney’s Alpha into a grumpy, comic straight man. Beta, full of joy and hope, looking stupid next to the articulate Alpha whilst simultaneously suggesting it’s clever to be stupid. Their gentle battle of philosophical and emotional fisticuffs serving up excellent comic moments. Till life arrives and a sentimental end substitutes the absurd for a soppy moment of saccharine tenderness. If the idea is to interrogate that as absurd in itself, it doesn’t land convincingly. Eoin O'Sullivan and Paddy McEneaney in Ante Beckett. Image by Al Craig In many respects Beckett is the problem. Setting aside comparisons, Ante Beckett proves warm, engaging, and extremely funny courtesy of two deeply enjoyable performances. But, of course, you can’t. The clue lying in the title. Meaning if Beckett embraces a dramatic vacuum in which characters reflectively pass time as evidence they exist, here the vacuum is physical, time bound and life affirming. If Beckett’s word and phrases are emaciated fingers pointing to an absent moon; Smith’s point at a very present Beckett. Beckett's enlightening and clever word play leaving Smith’s ramblings looking like comic flashes in a rumbling sky of words. Inhabiting a space in-between, Ante Beckett proves too reverent to be a send-up and too lightweight to possess philosophical depth. Riding on the coat tails of Beckett’s brilliance might produce hugely enjoyable moments, full of in-jokes for Beckett initiates and discoveries for first timers, but there’s another hidden absurdity. Too Beckett to be Smith and too Smith to be Beckett, Ante Beckett is best when Smith slips Beckett’s reins and asserts its own identity. Revealing a smart, funny, deeply human writer you want to hear more from. Ante Beckett by Joel Smith, presented by Exit Does Theatre, runs at The New Theatre till April 17. For more information visit The New Theatre

Niamh McGrath, Jack Gavin, Robbie O'Connor, Peter Rothwell and Karl Quinn in Miasma. Photo Carol Cummins **** You might find yourself harbouring misguided reservations about Colin Murphy's historical drama Miasma. A touring production of one night stands, in primarily non-theatrical venues, it risks evoking tourist encounters like the Edinburgh Dungeons or Ghost Walks. Performers in period costume reenacting historical events in real world spaces designed to educate, entertain and illuminate. In a sense, you'd be right, but very wrong if you left it there. Murphy’s mesmeric cyclone exploring the life of Dr. John Snow also presenting as a cracking medical thriller. One that, if it suffers durational drag at times, is fashioned into a rollercoaster of tensions courtesy of a commanding cast and a stellar director. First some background. A period of unprecedented industrial advance, the early days of Queen Victoria's reign were plagued by a series cholera outbreaks decimating London’s poverty stricken areas. Politicians and scientists operating under the belief that fumes from cesspits created a miasma that induced cholera when breathed in. Snow, unconvinced, shifted his studies from the benefits of ether as an anaesthetic to tracking down the root cause of the disease. Portrayed as an unsophisticated, rough around the edges Yorkshire man, Robbie O’Connor’s Snow embodies tenacity and unerring practicality in his unrelenting search for the truth. Ridiculed and dismissed by well meaning reformers and scientists, like Karl Quinn’s impassioned Chadwick, Peter Rothwell’s smug Chancellor and Jack Gavin’s gormless Prime Minister, Snow gathers more and more evidence with the help of Rev. Henry Whitehead. Till truth is dragged, reluctantly, into the light. It being several years after Snow’s death before his contribution to eradicating cholera were properly acknowledged. Robbie O'Connor and Peter Rothwell in Miasma. Photo Carol Cummins As with Stephen Brown’s Dr Semmelweis, whose recent London run saw Mark Rylance play the eponymous doctor ridiculed for theorising that doctors should sterilise their hands, Murphy shows astute understanding of Victorian history, its medical prejudices and its conflicting moral attitudes. Context established post-haste as cast hurriedly enter and deliver a whirlwind of historical details in period costume. Details frequently updated by Niamh McGrath’s narrator, the token woman in a Victorian man’s world presented as the most advanced, most humane society whilst its poor festered in subhuman conditions. Short, sharp scenes referencing historical moments, including the Irish Famine of 1848, highlight the abuses of early stage capitalism brought about by the industrial revolution. In which the average life span for the working class was sixteen, many dying during regular cholera outbreaks leading to heated debates on how to address the problem, including a sewage system emptying into the Thames. Murphy’s richly detailed investigation honouring his primary and secondary sources. Perhaps to a fault. History always problematic when framed as a dramatic narrative. Though Murphy gets it mostly right, relying on rapid fire sentences and impressive economy. Still, faithfulness to the chronology of history creates durational and rhythmic drag occassionally. The punch of art’s truths softened in the service of historical and scientific fact. Art and science looking like comfortable bedfellows in the early stages of a loving relationship. In which occasionally strained tensions and imbalances of power suggest they might benefit from a romantic weekend away. Throughout, Samantha Cade’s undulant direction unleashes the energies in Murphy’s dense, percussive text. Yet pace reveals a screenplay structure masquerading as a play. Short, frantic scenes rushing past might create tension, but they hamper cohesion for information coming too hard and fast in places. Not helped by less than ideal acoustics in venues like the suitably athmospheric Royal College of Physicians, along with action being played in the round. Several passages proving hard to hear making engagement inconsistent. Focus compensated by Sorcha Ní Fhlionn’s period costumes and Carl Kennedy's understated musical scoring. Viko Nikci’s lighting cleverly working with, rather than against the space. A challenge sure to repeat itself given the number of non-theatrical venues ahead. Robbie O'Connor in Miasma. Photo Carol Cummins With characters confined to short snippets, a first grade cast is needed to render credible life. Cade clearly knows how to cast. Robbie O'Connor as John Snow turning in a terrifically detailed, tensely present performance. O’Connor’s ability to wholly invest himself suggesting he’s not acting so much as channelling hungry, curious spirits. Expressions, gestures, and inflections steeped in character rich detail full of endless nuance. Even if Ní Fhlionn’s costume exaggerates Snow’s Yorkshire heritage over his medical professionalism. O’Connor ably sported by a superb cast playing several roles, with relative newbie, Peter Rothwell, announcing themselves as an exciting young talent to watch. Director Cade whipping up a whirlwind of choreographic fluency, making use of every angle, every inch of space, every pause and beat till the experience feels palpable. Cade’s detailed understanding of composition, matched by an understanding of how to get the best from her cast, confirming Cade as one of our most exciting directors. Arthur Conan Doyle, Oscar Wilde, Charles Dickens; the Victorian era saw many artistic talents come to prominence. Similarly in science, where seasoned specialists and gifted amateurs broke new ground in a variety of fields. Yet many, both men and women, often found fame denied, their achievements dismissed, or credit for their achievements stolen. History correcting itself, and its crimes decades later. Miasma speaking both to history and today, illuminating a past that foreshadowed the experiences of Covid. If Miasma wraps everything up a little too quickly, it's still a rollicking good show. Originally produced by ANU in 2022, this revised revival presented by Verdant Productions makes for compelling theatre. A tale without obvious villains so much as competing notions of right and righteousness, Miasma marries science and art, the clinical and human, in gripping union. One that speaks to hope, even against the most daunting odds. Of our ever stumbling path towards enlightenment. Of the joys of intelligent, enjoyable theatre. Miasma by Colin Murphy, presented by Versant Productions, is currently on tour. Royal College of Physicians, Dublin: Tuesday 14 – Thursday 16 April @ 1.00pm and 6.00pm Larkin Community College (Champions Ave, North City, Dublin): Mon 20th April @ 10:50am Sean O’Casey Theatre, East Wall: Tues 21st April @ 12.00pm and 2.30pm Research Ireland (3 Park Place, Hatch St Upr., Dublin 2): Thursday 23 April @ 12.30pm Town Hall Bray: Thursday 23 April @ 8.00pm Royal College Surgeons: Friday 24th April @ 1.00pm and 6.00pm James Joyce Centre, Dublin: Tuesday 28 April @ 1.00pm Dunamaise Arts Centre. Portlaoise: Wednesday 29 April @ 8.00pm James Joyce Centre, Dublin: Thursday 30 April @ 11.00am and 1.00pm Garter Lane Theatre, Waterford: Saturday 2 May @ 8.00pm Trap Door Theatre at UCD: Tuesday 5 May @ 1.00pm and 6.00pm The Venue, Ratoath: Wed 6th May @ 11.00am and 1.00pm Tallaght Hospital, Dublin: Thursday 7 May @ 7.00pm Royal Irish Academy, Dublin: Friday 8 May @ 1.00pm and 6.00pm For more information visit Verdant Productions

Bláthnaid Daly in Connemarvellous. Image uncredited. *** There's likely three responses to Bláthnaid Daly’s English-Irish hybrid Connemarvellous. For those fluent as Gaeilge it’s a stroll down Ghaeltacht lane. For those with a smidgen of the native tongue, they can brag of how much more Irish they knew than they knew they knew. Daly’s clever sentence structures, frequently replacing key English words with their Irish equivalent, educating and flattering in equal measure. For those with little understanding of Irish, it’s easy to engage with Daly’s twee, bi-lingual, simple narrative painted in broad, stereotypical strokes. Dominated by a forceful presence, commanding the stage like a cranked up Deirdre O’Kane. Even if Daly hasn’t quite got the comic material to match just yet. Narratively, Connemarvellous serves up a tame version of the ready made play. The one person monologue of living your second best life, often in a rural setting, where quirky people and experiences facilitate the discovery of your very best self. Like petulant, seventeen year old Niamh. A Westmeath moan capable of giving paracetamol a headache. Trapped for three weeks in the Ghaeltacht learning Irish whilst her parents escape to the south of France without her; three minutes with Niamh’s perpetual victimhood and it’s easy to understand why they packed her off to Connemara. Where Niamh abandons her phone, English, and all hope of visiting Lahinch with the girls as she engages in combat with a rival boy from home. Throw in a girls GAA team, the swoon worthy Conor, and a K-Pop Talent Show Routine and we’re ceart go leor for some good, clean Ghaeltacht shenanigans. Bláthnaid Daly in Connemarvellous. Image uncredited. Trading in tropes, Daly’s D4 girls and brain-light jocks are pitched at Ireland's Own, Daniel O'Donnell level of good, clean fun. Jodie Doyle’s kindergarten set and costumes reinforcing a sense of a day out at a local community hall, assisted by Sophie Cassidy's sympathetic lights and Lara Gallagher's punctuating sounds. With backstory often hinted at rather than explored, much is left undeveloped, leaving its wet crotch, brown stained juvenilia insufficiently robust to support the plays implied weight or comic potential. Why Niamh is as she is, like her relationship with her ex, or her girlfriends, is never quite clear. But much is forgiven by Daly, exuding a commanding presence and vocal prowess riveting to watch. Director Gene Rooney, offering a steadying hand, guides everything along gently. Connemarvellous’ imaginative fusion of Irish and English, along with Daly’s invested performance serving up an enjoyable oíche out on the town. Connemarvellous, written and performed by Bláthnaid Daly, runs at The New Theatre until April 10. Tuar Ard, Moate, April 24 Town Hall Studio, Galway Theatre Festival, May 5. For more information visit The New Theatre

Kym Marsh and Lisa Faulkner in Single White Female. Image, uncredited **** A current trend in commercial theatre is the reimagined thriller. Screen to stage adaptations of much loved murder mysteries designed to excite and capitalise on an already successful story, often featuring a celebrity or two. Most are moderately enjoyable. The best, though, offer a cracking night’s entertainment. Like Single White Female. Rebecca Reid's mostly tight adaptation taking the psychological tension of the 1992 movie and giving it a contemporary make over. Lisa Faulkner and Andro in Single White Female. Image, uncredited Rightly unfaithful to the original plot, Reid’s adaptation is more a series Easter eggs referencing the original. The mysterious flatmate, the subtle manipulations, those stilettos that could take an eye out all remain. Yet its tale of two women navigating a cruel male universe is jettisoned for a social media, on-line bullying, Tinder aware retelling. Framed around a mother and daughter relationship. Lisa Faulkner's long suffering, vanilla good girl Allie, estranged from her daughter, her life, and her ex, is trying to make ends meet following a divorce. Her ex, John McGarrity’s Sam, like her rebellious daughter, Amy Snudden’s insufferable Bella, both finding Allie hard going. Allie so obsessed with doing right, and getting her business off the ground she fails to see what’s right in front of her. Like a magisterial Kym Marsh as mistress of manipulation, Hedy. Allie’s live-in lodger who keeps her friends close, her enemies closer, and her secrets closest of all. Only Allie’s best friend, Graham, a superb Andro, senses the impending and inevitable danger which plays out towards its spectacular and violent end. Amy Snudden and Lisa Faulkner in Single White Female. Image, uncredited Under Gordon Greenberg's snappy direction, Single White Female cracks along at pace. Subtle foreshadowing, like a superb opening image, sets up a rollercoaster of unravelling intrigue. Ensuring Single White Female, despite being dialogue driven and always set in the same location, proves hugely engaging. Indeed, resisting jumping from one scene to another lends significant depth, except when the script rushes in places. Morgan Large’s design, a series of receding rectangles, helping focus the attention. Jason Taylor's flashing lights, and Max Pappenheim’s explosive sounds unashamed of the jolting, gimmicky shock, each used to terrific effect. Mostly, it's five strong performances that captivate, with Marsh being simply marvellous. As is the young Amy Snudden, hugely impressive as a petulant 15 year-old on ingenue. Single White Female not just relying on gimmicks, or a familiar plot to supply tension, but on developing emotionally complex characters in a smartly reimagined retelling. Kym Marsh and Lisa Faulkner in Single White Female. Image, uncredited From its blood stained opening, through its final surprise ending, Single White Female takes the nail biting tension of the orignal and catapults it into the 21st century. Doing so with style and verve. A cracking story, with a cracking cast, Single White Female achieves what many trending rewrites aspire to but fall short of; a reimagined classic vibrant and vital in its own right. Single White Female, adapted for the stage by Rebecca Reid, presented by JAS Theatricals, ATG Productions, Gavin Kalin Productions, and JASS Productions, runs at The Gaiety Theatre till April 4. For more information visit The Gaiety Theatre

Trojans by Philip Connaughton, presented by Luail - Ireland's National Dance Company. Image, Luca Truffarelli **** One of the art’s immeasurable joys is discovering alternate readings of texts. Reading gender, feminism, Marxism, politics, post-colonialism, post-modernism whether consciously or unconsciously present. Discovering that in the Victorian audience for Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, heterosexuals were laughing at one thing whilst homosexuals were laughing at the complete opposite to what seemed intended. The possibility of reading something opposite to what the author intended informing Philip Connaughton’s exhilarating Trojans. An interrogation of displacement by way of The Aeneid which charts the Trojans search for a new home following the sack of Troy. First performed at Cork Midsummer Festival 2023, Trojans uses The Aeneid as a jumping off point to reorganise the relationship between seeing and what’s being seen, challenging culturally conditioned modes of looking and engagement. Aspiring to foster awareness of the audience’s own presence as a body, and of the body, in relationship to what’s being presented. Becoming, at times, the very thing it tries to escape whilst promoting ideas it wants to challenge. Hamza Pirimo in Trojans by Philip Connaughton, presented by Luail - Ireland's National Dance Company. Image, Luca Truffarelli It might be easier to illustrate. You enter a large, darkened space surrounded on four sides by chairs covered in orange netting pressed against the wall. Each wall dominated by a large screen like an indoor drive-in movie, or an auditorium about to show a sporting event. You’re instructed to stand in the middle of the room. A tight island of people clustered in Begoña Garcia Navis’ semi-darkness, conversing, finding gazes, or avoiding gazes. All the while Oberman Knocks’ uncomfortable soundscape creates audial overload, like psychological torture designed to disorientate. You remember you were offered earplugs upon entrance. Use them, it will save you a blinding headache later. Presently, Luca Truffarelli’s all pervasive video screens issue written instructions advising us what to do, how best to behave. Art has become Big Brother, promoting a new cultural paradigm. Instructing us to stay standing. Unannounced, uninvited, dancers enter the space like Juno with her royal attendants. Crawling, prowling, crouching, dressed in Emily Ní Bhroin’s charity shop cast offs, like shabby sportswear sent to refugees camps. Our small, cramped island repositions to accommodate our new arrivals, forcing bodies closer to make room. Juno walks sternly between the dancers instructing each to die. They fall to the floor in violent agony executing dragged out death scenes before us. Will we, too, be asked to die at Juno's royal whim, or in the name of someone else’s greater good? Big Brother instructs us to move closer. To look into their eyes. Presently they stand and we move in and around the dancers, as instructed, until told to sit. Our island ceded to the new arrivals. The space, once ours, now theirs. The audience no longer within the field of performance. A change from acquiescing participant to passive observer imposed by Big Brother’s guided interactions. One could be forgiven if sympathy or empathy are thwarted. For wondering who it is that’s being bodily displaced; the dancers or the audience forced out of the space to the margins? Of wondering if Trojans’ propaganda might be batting for the other team? Trojans by Philip Connaughton, presented by Luail - Ireland's National Dance Company. Image, Luca Truffarelli What follows makes clear Connaughton’s true intentions by way of his most exhilarating choreography to date. Wild, passionate, sensual and vibrant, a diverse company of dancers - Joanna Banks, Robyn Byrne, Jou-Hsin Chu, Clara Kerr, Sean Lammer, Tom O’Gorman, Hamza Pirimo, Rosie Stebbing, Chi Liu and Meghan Stevens - electrify the space as bodies whirl. A shambles of signature stylings convey joy, violence and tenderness, coalescing in and out of communities of shared movement, some frentic, others solid and still. Traces of ballet, hip hop, cheerleader trust falls and even Charleston informing wild and powerful sequences. From solos to up to eight or ten participants, a variety of scenes emerge. Two lovers in sensual duet share squares of light; human animals bark at what could be a meme of a sick looking white dog; a long line of children cry; projected images of churning seas, lapping waves and bombed out cities inform more than incite. All the while the sonic density of Knocks' rhythmic score unsettles the body as a perceptual system. The shift from standing, subjective participant to seated, objective observer facilitating a shift from public exteriority back to private interiority. Subverted, near the end, as dancers take our hands. Looking to re-establish the frail, fractured bond mislaid since Trojans’ vibrant, opening moments. Trojans by Philip Connaughton, presented by Luail - Ireland's National Dance Company. Image, Luca Truffarelli Bold, brave and choreographically brilliant, if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, there is much to behold in Trojans. Reimagining our relationship to what we perceive and of ourselves as subjects of perception, its initial focus on the body emphasises seeing is never just about looking. That visual essentialism ignores direct, bodily connections. If it feels like cultural reconditioning, and seems to promote the opposite of its intended aims at times, that’s part of the thrill. Trojans dance at its the most invigorating, diverse, exhilarating and challenging. A roaring triumph for Luail, Ireland’s National Dance Company, who are to be commended for reviving this terrific production that reminds us of our shared humanity. Leaving you deeply moved and compelled to read dance, displacement and diversity differently. One of this years most choreographically exciting and viscerally powerfully shows, Trojans is not to be missed. Whetting the appetite for Dublin Dance Festival 2026 later this month. Trojans, by Philip Connaughton, presented by Luail, Ireland’s National Dance Company, runs at Project Arts Centre, Dublin, until Saturday, April 4th. Black Box, Galway, April 10th, 11th Island Hall, Lagan Valley Island, Lisburn, April 29th, 30th For more information visit venue websites or Luail

Ciaran Owens and Miscah Barton in Double Indemnity. Image, Manuel Harlan *** When it first hit the screens in 1944 James M. Cain’s classic thriller Double Indemnity appeared to break with cinema noir rules. But look closely and it just repositioned things. The genre’s hard edged, world weary, anti-hero detectives are now insurance investigators. Everything else remains intact. A sultry femme fatale, a self assured secretary, a good girl daughter, a self-made millionaire, a booze bottle in the bottom desk drawer, efforts to commit the perfect murder and the Hollywood sign looming above it all. All present and correct in Tom Holloway’s atmospheric stage adaptation. But noir is more than a matter of generic tropes. It’s a cinematic language. Mood light and shadows, close ups and extreme close-ups, snappy repartee all define its world weary glamour. The shift from screen to stage losing something for remaining in long shot. Like an old photo catching the moment but not the memory. Even so, Hollander’s adaptation adds fresh details and a new twist to the ending, ensuring fans and first timers are sure to be kept guessing. Miscah Barton and Ciaran Owens in Double Indemnity. Image, Manuel Harlan The story still revolves around Walter Huff discovering there’s more to murder than meets the eye. Huff, an insurance investigator, along with bored, calculating housewife, Mrs Phyllis Nirdlinger, sets out to kill her husband having tricked him into buying an insurance policy that pays double if he dies on a train. Huff’s best laid murder coming apart as his tenacious boss Keyes digs deeper. Revealing secrets about the woman Huff lusts after, culminating in an ending he didn’t see coming. Oscar Toeman's direction trying to balance the drag of storytelling, first person narrative with high octane, action driven scenes. The former feeling rushed and hurried, the second crackling with energy. A brilliant argument between Huff, Keyes and their mutual boss, Norton, fizzing with expectation. Leaving you wishing Huff had talked less and that there’d been more dynamic scenes. Ciaran Owens, Joseph Langdon, Martin Marquez in Double Indemnity. Image, Manuel Harlan With characters made legendary by Barbara Stanwyck, Fred MacMurray and Edward G. Robinson, Double Indemnity has big shoes to fill. Ciarán Owens, channelling MacMurray at times, sees Huff trade some of his weary solidness for a frustrated energy. Mischa Barton, forsaking Stanwyck’s hardness for glamorous allure, portrays Phyllis as a long, languid Veronica Lake with a hint of Bacall huskiness.Yet the chemistry between Huff and Phyllis never quite ignites, their scenes hurried rather than seductive. The strongest interactions often coming from superb supporting performances. Martin Marquez terrific as Keyes enjoined in a surrogate father-son relationship with Huff. Oliver Ryan excellent as the argumentative Mr Nirdlinger. Joseph Langdon also superb as the defiant Norton, as is Sophie Roberts as good daughter, Lola, and a scene stealing Gillian Asker as secretary Nettie. Nettie far smarter than all the men around her. As is Barton’s ruthless Phyllis. Gillian Saker and Ciaran Owens in Double Indemnity. Image, Manuel Harlan For first timers, Double Indemnity offers much to enjoy when not dragging its heels. For fans, some will feel Hollander and Toeman have taken too many liberties. Joshua Gatsby's lighting might play with the shadows, but Ti Green’s gun grey set looks more like a nuclear bunker under the Hollywood sign than a noir landscape. Dan Balfour’s composition might do enough, but it lacks the power of Miklós Rózsa evocative score. Even so, Double Indemnity cracks along at pace, serves up a surprise or two, and Barton never looks less than iconic. Double Indemnity by James M.Cain, adapted by Tom Holloway, presented by Trafalgar Theatre Production, runs at The Gaiety Theatre until March 28. For more information visit The Gaiety Theatre

Liam Hourican and Lesley Conroy in Macbeth. Image, Ewa Figaszewska ** It's a challenge undertaking William Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Foolhardy, perhaps, to do so whilst in throwing distance of Druid Theatre’s universally acclaimed production. Volta Theatre Company’s production a labour of love. Director Nora McGettigan proving sincerity an empty virtue, with the road to hell lined with good intentions. Not that Macbeth is hell. That being part of the problem. It's not much of anything. Visually incoherent, with delivery unrhythmic and hurried, it glances across the skin yet never gets to the muscle and bone beneath. Invested performances absent a firm, guiding hand looking adrift, even as many nearly get there during key moments. But nearly never won a race, and Macbeth falls at too many hurdles to take to the podium. Darkly complex, Shakespeare’s layering of the supernatural and psychological informs Macbeth from its opening moments. Recounting the demise of the Thane of Cawdor both an actual event and a narrative prophecy. Supernatural foreshadowing an elemental force as three witches predict Macbeth’s future. Yet witches, here, look like the demented cast of Waiting For Godot in the style of Brecht and Weill. Confirming the concertina as the ugliest sounding instrument on the face of the earth, especially when next to mad, pointless cackles. Both annoyingly scoring scenes, or drowning out dialogue. And that’s just the witches. Only Gillian Roberts' energised witch shines as she clambers and crawls with mischief and mayhem. Roberts, playing several roles, one of best things about this flawed production. Sinéad Murphy and Gillian Roberts in Macbeth. Image, Ewa Figaszewska Others have their moments, but only moments. Liam Bixby's Ross, Oliver Flitcroft’s Banquo, Jim Rogers’ Duncan, Darren Shannan's McDuff, and Liam Hourican’s Macbeth inconsistently showing strength whilst consistently showing untapped potential. Performances often delivered as if recited for a school exercise, or a solo audition. Shakespeare’s subtextual energy simply not there as the line is rushed, the details delivered, the truth eluded. Macbeth’s strutting and fretting delivered like a party political broadcast. Malcolm’s sudden assertion to stepping up to the plate utterly unconvincing absent the evolution of the scene, never mind the character. Lesley Conroy's Lady Macbeth seeking to be unsexed struggling for depth and intensity. Even as Conroy manages to navigate the transition from bloodthirsty queen to haunted soul with conviction. Conroy confirming the issue isn’t competency. Her obvious talent looking, as are all onstage, for something to latch on to. Not finding it, they fall back on themselves. The result separate performances infrequently finding the same scene. McGettigan, deservedly an award-winning film director, struggling with the shift to stage. Its need for visceral immediacy, interflowing energies and supported actors finding her coming up short. Visually, Colin Doran's lighting design is competent if never compelling. Jeni Roddy’s tartan, boiler-suited costumes, like Chrysi Chatzivasileiou’s shoddy looking set, a case of cobbled together disparate references hoping something might click. The whole looking low budget and disconcertingly dull. Lady Macbeth more Peig Sayers than sultry queen at times. Guns and swords begging one or the other be chosen. Air raid sirens, bins, and barn-like panels competing, confusing and quickly uninteresting. The end result less Macbeth not being quite ready yet, but more of it being lost at sea in search of dry land. Macbeth by William Shakespeare, presented by Volta Theatre Company, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until April 2. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre

Jennifer Davis in Irish National Opera's Rusalka. Photo, Ruth Medjber **** Bad mouthing ballet and opera? Spare me. Timothée Chalamet’s asinine remarks suggesting the ping-pong boy should never be allowed speak without adult supervision. Certain columnists bafflingly endorsing Chalamet’s anti-opera foolishness. Rebuttals justified and immediate. Nathan Lane's no holds takedown on The View, and Fergus Shiel's more decorous response in the Irish Times speaking for millions. A packed house at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre for Irish National Opera’s production of Antonín Dvořák’s 1901 opera, Rusalka, suggesting a greater appetite for opera than for many contemporary movies. That even when opera isn’t firing on popular cylinders, it's more invigorating than most mainstream cinema. INO’s co-production evoking a Brutalist build on a Georgian terrace. As likely to fascinate innovators as infuriate traditionalists. Almost three and a half hours of both superb and specious spectacle, elevated by a sublime soprano. Michelle DeYoung and Jennifer Davis in Irish National Opera's Rusalka. Photo, Ruth Medjber Based on Karel Jaromír Erben's and Božena Němcová's fairytale, water nymph Rusalka finds the curse of true love never runs smooth. Seeking to become human having fallen in love with a handsome prince, those familiar with Hans Christian Anderson’s, or Disney’s The Little Mermaid, know what mostly follows. Cue witch, lost voice, found feet and a curse should Rusalka’s land loving prince reject her. Their un-Disney road to inevitable ruin culminating in a miserably ever after. Yet under director Netia Jones, Dvořák’s tale of forbidden love gives way to a tale of body dysmorphia. In which magic gives way to medicine, potions to pills, and witchcraft to cosmetic surgery. Irish National Opera's Rusalka. Photo, Ruth Medjber Refocusing attention to contemporary concerns, Jones sacrifices the classical for the clinical, the myth for the modern, and the modern for the post-modern. Rusalka less a princess so much as Daddy's working class princess. Struggling with body dysmorphia and a desire to belong to a glamorous celebrity set. Pat ideas on class consciousness, and weak interrogations of young girls spirits being societally crushed sitting uneasily next to stronger studies of dysmorphia. Offset by the original story of virginal love and lascivious lust that plays out less convincingly. Jones’ singular vision informing costume, set, video design and direction with divisive choices. Events opening with a ho-hum video projection of what appears to be a schoolgirl drowning. Action shifting to a palace of pipes evoking the heating system of a New York skyscraper, or a sunken submarine. A cage wherein the caged bird sings. Meanwhile, young girls in school uniforms flip uninterestingly around bars with all the excitement of a health and safety demonstration. Mischief at Malory Towers meets The Gymnasts of Saint Trinian’s as their kingly father, Vodník, turns out to be a hard working janitor. Jennifer Davis in Irish National Opera's Rusalka. Photo Ruth Medjber Already, dull aerial routines, claustrophobic bars, and obscured projections inhibiting Lotta Hammarstrand’s mostly impressive lights feel weighed down with fuss and bother. Expressionist silhouettes, a projected forest, or a life sized chessboard borrowed from Alice in Wonderland proving far more impactful. On which Jessica Kennedy choreographs a chess game for the in-crowd. Costumed crazies accentuating social rules which Rusalka blunders through like a country bumpkin. No fairytale princess here. Just a working class girl and a slumming prince. The latter becoming equally enamoured with a socially acceptable seductress. Irish National Opera's Rusalka. Photo Ruth Medjber While Jaroslav Kvapil’s libretto hasn’t a lot to say, it says it an awful lot. Jones’ contemporary compensations doing little to mitigate Kvapil’s durational drag. Repetitions sounding cumbersome against Dvořák’s symphonic score. Rich, romantic, sweeping and tender, operatic flourishes of Wagnerian bombast married to musical motifs echoing Tchaikovsky's thrilling chases predict the arrival of the movie soundtrack a few decades later. Conductor Fergus Sheil’s uplifting baton relishing every note. Music carrying the heft of Rusalka’s expressive weight, more supported by singing than supporting it and, on occasion, smothering it. Irish National Opera Chorus superb as ever. Sopranos Giselle Allen (Foreign Princess) Rachel Croash (first wood nymph), along with mezzo-sopranos Alexandra Urquiola (third wood nymph), Michelle DeYoung (a ruthlessly brilliant Ježibaba), and Sarah Richmond (kitchen boy and second wood nymph) equally superb. Richmond seizing her moment and shining, along with baritones Andrew Masterson (Hunstman) and Benjamin Russell (Gamekeeper). Bass Ante Jerkunica (Vodník) adding much needed muscular texture. Offset by tenor Ryan Capozzo whose timbre, tone and swaggering good looks provide all the handsome prince you can handle, even as power and projection aren't quite there yet. Unlike soprano Jennifer Davis’s Rusalka, the prodigal daughter doomed to return. Davis capable of whispering to the moon or howling with rage fuelled urgency. Conveying depth of desire or despair of dysphoria till you feel it rising on the back of your neck. Davis absolutely sensational, shaping Rusalka’s emotional landscape with a crowing performance. Jennifer Davis in Irish National Opera's Rusalka. Photo Ruth Medjber Musically divine, vocally impressive, visually something of a glorious car crash, Rusalka trades signified for sign, scene for the scenic, the pastoral for stainless steel. Yet it successfully repositions Dvořák's opera to engage with themes of contemporary relevance. Proving opera isn't inoculated against risk. Fusing passion with possibility, opera aspires to the most demanding of artistic heights. From Dublin to Verona, Wexford to Blackwater, lobbies to late night lock-ins, from festival directors to the postman whose passion for Puccini first roused my operatic curiosity, opera people, wherever you find them, from all walks of life, are the most passionate, friendly and fascinating of people. Happy to share their experiences, insights, joys and recommendations. And they’re not going anywhere. Rather, they’re growing in numbers. So come, join them. The invitation is always open. The welcome always warm. The experience always unique, with much to enjoy. Much like Rusalka. Rusalka, by Antonín Dvořák, libretto by Jaroslav Kvapil, based on Karel Jaromír Erben's and Božena Němcová's fairytale, a co-production by Irish National Opera with Royal Swedish Opera and Nouvel Opéra Fribourg, runs at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre until March 28. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre or Irish National Opera

Gemma Allan and Síofra Ní Éilí in Wild Swimming. Image, Em Kelleher *** A pre-show pose foreshadows the theme of Marek Horn’s Wild Swimming. The Elizabethan costumed Oscar, sat reposing with hand extended towards the fingertips of the standing, dominant Nell, mirrors Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. Substituting Oscar for Adam and Nell for God, Wild Swimming aims to recreate the universe with the feminine elevated to empowered divinity. Its student polemics recycling introductory level 'Daddy bad, Mammy good' gender cliches. Guaranteed to delight or irritate, depending on your prejudice. For those uninterested in yet another well meaning, gender lecture masquerading as a play, Wild Swimming is passionately fun, modestly intriguing, hugely condescending, and leaves you frequently zoned out for endlessly shouting you into submission. The irony that Wild Swimming is equally guilty of repeating history’s same old mistakes eluding it. Yet you can almost forgive all due to its dazzling energy, and for the privilege of seeing a rising young star in the making. Gemma Allan and Síofra Ní Éilí in Wild Swimming. Image, Em Kelleher A tepid Orlando meets a diluted Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, Wild Swimming talks about gender over, through and about time. Oscar, an eternal student and wannabe poet, and Nell, a rebellious Elizabeth Bennett lookalike, time travel through moments in history revisioned from a 21st century perspective. Conventions of the Elizabethan Era, the 19th century and early and late twentieth century revisited so Oscar can set up reductive, patriarchal platitudes so the outraged Nell can knock them all down again. For an hour, rinse and repeat, whilst name dropping historic references. Wild Swimming a lecture passed off as a debate passing itself off as a play. Relying on high energy, fun quips, brisk costume changes and the occasional smart insight so you won’t look too closely and see how meagre it all is. Gemma Allan and Síofra Ní Éilí in Wild Swimming. Image, Em Kelleher A darling of the 2019 Edinburgh Fringe, Wild Swimming is proud of being ashamed of its own privilege, and of regurgitating historically justifiable complaints about women being denied choice, freedom and agency. Modern man supposedly buckling under their Incel weight now women have slipped free of the manosphere to become wanderers, swimmers and poets. Leaving men supposedly feeling played out and set up. Which, in Wild Swimming, they are. To such an extent even Horn can’t but acknowledge it. Momentarily breaking the fourth wall, masculinity is reduced to a petulant refusal to relinquish the past. Yet it is Wild Swimming that clutches the past. Repeating the same old practice. Reinforcing the same old binaries. Gender entrenched in the same old, two party system; one side demeaning the other to elevate itself. Promoting the terminally adolescent idea of replacing one form of tyranny with another. Redistributing weight in a binary system when the system itself is broken. Wait! Are we sacrificing what we're supposed to be doing here to some heavy handed gender commentary? Funny that. You get a lot of that in theatre these days. Can get a bit dull after a spell. Síofra Ní Éilí in Wild Swimming. Image, Em Kelleher As theatre experiences go, director Alisha Finnerty makes Wild Swimming hugely engaging, mining its fun for all its worth when loud, lengthy tirades don’t have you zoning out. Like Oscar, Gemma Allan is reduced to shining only when allowed, given Nell has most of the best lines, conflicts and costumes. And Allan shines, transcending her role as a cliched gender function. Understanding Oscar is the straight comic partner, the superhero sidekick, to the scene stealing Nell. As, in this instance, is Allan to Siofra Ní Éili. The voraciously brilliant Ní Éili a ferocious young talent. Nell’s rollercoaster of revelations embodying an attitude and energy that launched a thousand revolutions. Realised by a lively Ní Éili whose meticulous detail, commanding presence, and playful petulance are a joy to watch. You might not be totally enthralled by Wild Swimming's polemics, but Ní Éili and Allan make sure it's theatrically enjoyable. Wild Swimming by Marek Horn, presented by Bewley’s Café Theatre and WREN. Theatre, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until April 4. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre

Ross Fitzpatrick and Molly Mew in Hot Mess. Image Isabel Hamilton ** In some respects Hot Mess lives up to its name. TeoChroí Company’s production of Ella Hickson’s troubled script guilty of sloppy errors. Issues with low vocal projection, entrances, exits, positioning and pace proving compositionally clunky. Yet most errors are the result of inexperience and stuttering confidence. Of a new theatre company testing the waters a little before their time. Needing to start somewhere and refusing to wait around. That said, something works. Something about this scrappy ensemble transcends their inexperience. Ensuring Hot Mess delivers a gooey clump of enjoyable, sexy awkwardness. Fiachra Corkey in Hot Mess. Image Isabel Hamilton Less a wild night so much as the morning after a one night stand, Hot Mess purports to explore the nature of love through a twenty-something lens. Instead, Hickson highlights love hijacked to justify dark desires. Real love nowhere in sight as Hickson’s tale of co-dependent twins born sharing one heart taps into obsession, infatuation and desire. Beginning with Polo, returning to islanded isolation having mysteriously disappeared a year before. There to celebrate his twenty fifth birthday. Discovering that his furious sister, Twitch, now has a boyfriend. The lad about a small town, Billy, enjoying some no strings, summer infidelity whilst on holidays. If that works perfectly well for the sultry Jax, it's an issue for the lovelorn Twitch. The demisexual eager to civilise, sanitise and justify her darker desires. Especially one desire in particular. All, of course, in the name of love. Laura McAleenan in Hot Mess. Image Isabel Hamilton Under Úna Ní Nualláin’s direction, Hot Mess’s unvarying pace keeps things ticking along. But if scenes fizzle, they rarely release the text’s underlying, subtextual eroticism. Passions safely talked about but never felt as dangerous. The issue not so much a lack of skill, but of self-confidence and inexperience. Though Ní Nualláin has some interesting visual ideas, they will need to challenge and support actors more going forward. Allowing them to play their line rather than the scene, to act the mask and not the character wearing it, saw much landing like it was mid-rehearsal. Take Laura McAleenan’s Jax. A one tone, Love Island, uninhibited loud mouth. Not till the final moments do we glimpse something deeper, revealing that Jax, and McAleenan, have so much more available to draw on. Similarly Ross Fitzpatrick’s big bragger, Billy. Billy might possess imposing presence and commanding good looks, but he sparkles more than shines for also being guilty of playing their line and not the scene. A trait Fiachra Corkey’s Polo exemplifies. Skulking about like a camp, voyeuristic stalker, if the photogenic Corkey has the requisite presence to command the stage as a lead, currently he lacks the requisite experience to be truly persuasive. But you sense it bubbling under the surface. And you only learn by doing. Molly Mew and Fiachra Corkey in Hot Mess. Image Isabel Hamilton The fuel that sets everything alight proves to be the irrepressible Molly Mew whose twitchy Twitch lives, breathes, feels and dreams. Mew a crackerjack of a discovery. Playing the scene, Mew ignites the line, and therefore the scene. Reacting, she is always acting. Never waiting her turn to deliver her line but responding to every arising moment. Her puppet like movements the best thing about Anderson de Souza’s unconvincing movement sequences, which often suggest weak mime. Mew’s energy, presence, expressiveness, and understated delivery breathing life into what risks being a puppet rather than a person show. One final, covert ensemble member, Ruairí Nicholl, straddles stage and tech. Their composition and sound design, performed live, an almost constant feature. Sound self-assured enough to ease into silence when needed, even as action fails to fully exploit its club energies and emotional sensitivities. The whole suffering the odd technical slip. Like Colin Doran’s mostly successful, if heavily blue toned lights. Molly Mew in Hot Mess. Image Isabel Hamilton All in all, Hot Mess intrigues and engages. Yet its simulates eroticism like a performative drag show rather than digging down deep and dirty to what Hickson is trying to tap into. Riding the body’s surface rather than plumbing the soul’s depths. So yes, Hot Mess is something of a hot mess. But only because it's cooking. Experimenting. If only it hadn’t taken the dish out too early and remembered to pre-heat the oven. The inaugural production of this young group of theatre makers, TeoChroí might have jumped in the deep end and are floudering a litte, but they’re not drowning. Discovering, instead, that which cannot be faked, cannot be taught, and cannot be exchanged. This young company shedding its chrysalis. A messy experience. But these plucky theatre makers show enough to suggest they might very soon fly. Hot Mess by Ella Hickson, presented by TeoChroí Productions & Muirenn Lyons, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until March 14. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre

Ed McVey in The Talented Mr. Ripley. Imagew by Mark Senior. ** Proof that love is blind is painfully evident in Mark Leipacher’s adaptation of The Talented Mr. Ripley. A labour of love blinded by its love for Patricia Highsmith’s 1955 psychological thriller. In which a talented conman is sent to Italy to persuade the wayward son of a rich, American family to return home. Only to discover that lies lead to lies, murder to murders, and all manner of deceptions lead to a somewhat unconventional ending. Highsmith’s richly layered study of power, greed, sex and deception made incredibly dense in this lacklustre adaptation. One that shines in its ambition, but makes hard work of itself. Most of the issues are of a basic nature. Beginning with economy. Essential when shifting from page to stage. Instead, dialogue proves overlong and overwrought. Frequently selecting the wrong issues to focus on. Leaving Ripley’s talent, charm, and gaslighting never really in evidence. His skills as a forger never foregrounded till very late in the play. Ripley, here portrayed as a confidence man with no confidence, further weakened by the third person narrative shifting to first person address. The result a manic monologue of endless exposition punctured by short scenes of dialogue you wish for more of. Ed McVey’s Ripley delivering every line at fever pitch. His rapid fire monologues lacking nuance and sounding shrill for having nowhere higher to climb to. Bruce Herbelin-Earle as pretty boy Dickie Greenleaf far more successful. Suave touches of F.Scott Fitzgerald married to ambiguous sexuality see him adored by all. Including Marge Sherwood. A shamefully underused Maisie Smith bringing genuine subtly during those scant moments when allowed to. Maisie Smith and Bruce Herbelin-Earle in The Talented Mr. Ripley. Imagew by Mark Senior. A director other than Leipacher would have addressed these issues. Visually, choices are a little more successful. Holly Pigott’s costumes, from playboys to long coated men, evocative of mood and the period. Pigott’s set embracing economy with its raised platform containing a holed centre, but doing little else. Zeynep Kepekli’s lighting taking up the slack to convey mood and depth, as does Max Pappenheim’s sound design. Movement sequences, under the guidance of movement director Sarita Piotrowksi, often visually impressive. Yet eager to fill in too many blanks, they often buckle under the burden of responsibility. As, ultimately, does The Talented Mr. Ripley. Thomas Hopkins, Jack Maple, Sams Entertainment and Carl Moellenberg presentation of The Faction Production of The Talented Mr. Ripley, adapted and directed by Mark Leipacher, from the novel by Patricia Highsmith, runs at The Bord Gáis Energy Theatre until March 14. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre

Eimhin Fitzgerald Doherty and Kate Gilmore in The Plough and the Stars. Image: Ros Kavanagh. *** In response to inquiries as to why I didn’t review The Abbey’s centenary opening of Sean O’Casey’s The Plough and the Stars, it’s a fascinating story, for another day perhaps. Today there’s more immediate matters. Including a powerful sense of déjà vu. Of another revival we have to ask did we really need given so many in recent years? The Abbey opting for another big cast, Irish classic, once again directed by Tom Creed. Another shoot for the moon production landing amongst the stars. Its moon eclipsed behind dense, plywood clouds, its stars shining brightly. Dan Monaghan, Mary Murray and Kate Gilmore in The Plough and the Stars. Image: Ros Kavanagh. When it comes to The Plough and the Stars there's O’Casey and then there's O’Casey. Ensuring that identical twins are unlikely to agree on its pressing concerns. The rejected prophet’s classic play hymning Dublin, socialism and anti-war protest both loved and loathed when it premiered to riots in 1926. O’Casey's love hate interrogation a disharmony of social, political, gendered and religious opposites. In which incompatible sinners proclaim their moral cleanliness during the days and weeks surrounding the 1916 Rising. A bunch of fussily proud, working class heroes, exercising sniffy respectability, occupying one of Dublin's poverty stricken tenements. As much an invented landscape corresponding to some invisible order as a harsh, social reality. Thommas Kane Byrne and Dan Monaghan in The Plough and the Stars. Image: Ros Kavanagh. Despite its propensity for speechifying, characters define The Plough and the Stars and Creed’s invested cast deliver much to admire. Character's local plights made universal, with the glue that binds and tensions that divide abundantly clear. Like Dan Monaghan’s dandyish drinker, Fluther Good. A blowhard bowsie caught between sobriety and drunkenness, Fluther's repairing of a lock on a tenement door highlighting Nora Clitheroe’s social and personal aspirations. Kate Gilmore's marvellous Nora an insult to tenement etiquette for her middle-class propriety. Kate Stanley Brennan's gossiping Mrs Gogan privately deriding the house proud wife who is at odds with her frustrated husband, Jack. Eimhin Fitzgerald Doherty’s rebel with an Irish cause eager to escape Nora’s arms so as to take up arms for Ireland. An Ireland which tolerates Evie May O’Brien’s haunting Mollser, a dying child caught in late stage consumption. Aggravating the political tensions between Michael Glenn Murphy’s superbly sulky, Peter Flynn, forever at odds with Thommas Kane Byrne’s excellent Young Covey. The older dignitary endlessly humiliated by the eternal student. Both men enamoured by speeches calling for action, yet never inspired to act. Matthew Malone conveying gravitas and authority as the Man at the Window arguing for change. All arguments dwarfed by Mary Murray’s virulently pugnacious Bessie Burgess, a wounded mother raging at everyone. Most of them at odds with, yet enamoured by, the demands and sacrifices of change whilst reluctant to change. The everyday evident in the epic. Michael Glenn Murphy, Kate Gilmore, Eimhin Fitzgerald Doherty and Thommas Kane Byrne in The Plough and the Stars. Image: Ros Kavanagh. If O'Casey's characters often attract, Creed's staging frequently repels. Beginning with Jamie Vartan's lifeless, stonker of a set. One part revolving Jenga puzzle, one part plywood wall, all parts bleaching action and energy before finally giving way to a black box space with revolving stage. O’Casey’s rigorous design details jettisoned for notions of theatrical upperosity that prove derogatory and vicey versie. Staging a pyrrhic defeat, whatever design intended to represent is lost to the ugly, bland and soul suckingly claustrophobic. Set against Catherine Fay’s period costumes, the effect is of neither one thing nor another. Several scenes looking like pantomime rehearsals whilst the set is being constructed. Stephen Dodd’s lights not helping. Adding marginally more texture in the final moments for finding something more to light than a gargantuan plywood wall. Eimhin Fitzgerald Doherty, Domhnall Herdman, Ash Rizi and Kate Gilmore in The Plough and the Stars. Image: Ros Kavanagh. Leaning into music hall and melodrama, Creed's energised direction opts for broad stroke clarity. A calculated risk, more successful with comedy than tragedy, given O'Casey's tragic-comedy is rich in complexity. Pub shenanigans, including Caitríona Ennis’s delightful Rosie Redmond and Micheal Tient's towering barman, tipping from social realism towards Only Fools and Horses. Part Till Death Do Us Part, part 1920s slapstick if produced by Max Sennett and directed by Hal Roach. But those same broad strokes shaping the looter’s street scene backfire. If Nora and Jack earlier enjoyed an exquisite moment, (Creed always excellent with moments of intimacy) here everything is reduced to a banshee shouting match alongside a screaming soldier. An exercise in rising decibels rather than rigorous drama. The dramatic finally landing in the closing moments as characters blow less hard. Friendly enemies united in grief and defeat. Murray marvellous as Bessie Burgess, showing greater depth when no longer played for laughs. Helping recover Gilmore's Nora, a Lady Ophelia Macbeth in search of her lost mind and husband, as a character of substance. A powerful moment achieved as both women lock in desperate embrace whilst small, silent men, who talk a larger life, look on powerless and pathetic from a distance. A vivid reminder that women suffer most on account of men's wars. The final moments heartfelt, if not quite heart rending, arriving as a clout rather than a gut punch. Mary Murray and Kate Stanley Brennan in The Plough and the Stars. Image: Ros Kavanagh Corresponding to our times or commemorative cash in, if the Abbey’s current production of The Plough and the Stars is not quite memorable it's often rather enjoyable. Mostly on account of its invested cast. Ensuring that even if you don't like it at times, you can't help liking it sometimes. For some that will be enough. For others not near enough. For most the question will linger as to what might have been had iceberg staging not sunk O’Casey’s Titanic? Even as characters scramble aboard the lifeboats to safety. The Plough and the Stars by Sean O’Casey, runs at The Abbey Theatre until April 30. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Niamh McAllister in The Last Moth. Image, Ste Murray **** From its Children's Council to children co-curating its programs, children have always enjoyed equal involvement in fashioning policies and processes at The Ark. So it should come as no surprise that The Ark is now commissioning young artists to co-create new works alongside experienced artists. A meeting of innocence and experience in which young artists learn the language of design, dance, movement, text and music in a hands on, learn by doing environment. The possibilities endless and exhilarating. Beginning with experienced artist Jesse Jones, and young, multi-disciplinary artist and actress Naomi Moonveld Nkosi. Their hour long, magical journey, The Last Moth crafting a visual, audial, and performative delight. Its story is simple. A young, precocious caterpillar goes in search of the last moth so it can restore the waning moon. Alyson Cummins' cavernous green set evoking an Arcadian world reminiscent of Wind in the Willows. Above which Neil O'Driscoll's maternal moon, along with cozy cocoons perfectly lit by Suzie Cummins, hover above action perfectly scored by Irene Buckley's composition and sound design. An exceptional Niamh McAllister utterly marvellous as a curious and brave caterpillar. Munching, sliding, curling her fingers; McAllister has her young audience eating from the palms of her wriggling hands. Aided by choreographer, Aoife McAtamney, and movement director, Jade O'Connor. Niamh McAllister in The Last Moth. Image, Ste Murray Less a work by two artists so much as an entire village, The Lost Moth is a visually stunning, delightfully charming experience. One might argue that an independent director would have tidied up some issues around clarity, particularly for the very young, along with a prolonged transition, but McAllister is the calibre of performer whose gestures and presence can turn problems and platitudes into delights. Ensuring even the very young will enjoy the spectacle. The Last Moth allowing Naomi Moonveld Nkosi to learn, develop and flourish by trying things out, seeing what works, and marvelling at what they've achieved when presented before a live audience. The Last Moth highlighting Naomi Moonveld Nkosi as a promising young artist. The Last Moth by Jesse Jones and Naomi Moonveld Nkosi, runs at The Ark until March 15. For more information visit The Ark.

Morgan C Jones in The Quiet Men. Image uncredited. *** There are those who maintain you should never put pineapple on pizza. One suspects Morgan C Jones would disagree. His charming The Quiet Men clearly in favour of combining disparate flavours. Jones’s loving homage to his famous granduncles, brothers Barry Fitzgerald and Arthur Shields, at once a nostalgic trip down memory lane and real world, revisionist history. Exaggerated, offstage, American pie accents, set alongside Hollywood news reels, evoking the cinematic escapism of the 1930s and 40s. Offset by hard hitting, lesser known truths exploding long held myths surrounding two of Ireland’s most beloved actors. Nostalgia and realism set side by side. A combination that really shouldn’t work. Yet, in The Quiet Men, it does. And does so delightfully. Narratively it’s a clunky affair. A shuffling of scenes more than a story, with several scenes repeating earlier incidents later expanded on. Commencing with the first of many black and white projections. A bombastic priest lambasting his congregation with the fire and brimstone of DeValera’s homophobic Catholicism. A very different priest from those portrayed by Shields in The Quiet Man and Fitzgerald in his Oscar winning Going My Way. Fictionalised reality and the really real brilliantly contrasted. Punches never pulled as its two Hollywood stars, who suggest butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, are revealed as having real mischief behind their playful demeanours. Abbey player tours replete with hedonistic nights, a profound love of the dangerous drop, secret and not so secret love affairs. Alongside darker moments. The demise of Abbey actress Una O’Connor, Fitzgerald’s attempt to hush up a fatal automobile accident, or his life long, same sex relationship with his stand-in, Gus, lived in secret. All offset by admiration for Shields’ genuine warmth acknowledged by Roger Moore, or Fitzgerald’s persistence in the face of Hitchcock’s dismissiveness, or Shields’ bravery at the GPO in 1916. Morgan C Jones in The Quiet Men. Image uncredited. Throughout, it’s not story so much as encounters that matter. The Quiet Men less a biography so much as a family photo album lovingly shared with a close relative. A warts and all confessional focusing on the all and not just the warts. Yet much falls through the cracks following Jones having whetted the audience's interest, leaving you wishing The Quiet Men had expounded more. Conall Morrison’s direction leaning into retro Hollywood stylings topped and tailed with a touch of meta-theatrical self awareness. The Quiet Men not tearing down its idols, but humanising them. Tearing down the lies of history, and the lies they lived, and sometimes fostered. Jones pulling off a remarkable feat in respecting his idols yet highlighting their failings. Making them infinitely more likeable and relatable. A true life exposé with a delicous touch of too ra loo ra loo ra, The Quiet Men is a soft spoken delight. Offering genuine enjoyment, especially for those old enough to remember. The Quiet Men by Morgan C Jones, presented by Bewley’s Café Theatre in association with Company Sound Entertaining! Limited, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until March 14th. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre

Siofrá Ní Eilí in Muicín. Image, Jilly McGrath When it comes to art, everyone has a different experience. Especially when a work is performed in one language whilst being read in another. Like Ultan Pringle’s Muicín. Pringle’s reimagining of his 2023 play Piglet in an Irish language translation by HK Ní Shioradáin. Performed in Irish with subtitles you read off your phone, courtesy of a scan code at entry. A painfully bad idea whose practice ensures you either read your phone or watch the stage. For, unlike surtitles, you can never really do both. Which is why I’ve omitted a star rating. Given how Christian Brothers beat the Irish language out off me in an effort to beat it into me, I can only speak to my engagement via subtitles, which was problematic. Fluent Irish speakers might be more forgiving. Siofrá Ní Eilí in Muicín. Image, Jilly McGrath Either way, there’s other strengths and issues. Muicín being a likeable twist on the by-the-numbers, ready-made play. Typically a one person monologue of a troubled soul, usual in rural Ireland, living their second best life. Trying to come to terms with a failed relationship, opportunity, add your own, who, through encounters with some quirky characters, face an uncomfortable confrontation where what’s hidden is made known. Resolution found in a rousing happy, best self ever after, or some poignant, deep seated, soul searching. Siofrá Ní Eilí and Niamh Murphy in Muicín. Image, Jilly McGrath And so it begins. Mercy Munroe channelling her inner Fleabag as she monologues whilst working in an Athlone fish and chips shop. Where, for half an hour in an hour long play, she overshares about Gemma who dumped her in Costa on Dawson Street, recounts flashing her tits in gender studies before dropping out of college, and provides flimsy details of her actualising breakdown. All whilst encountering fair weather friends, Shiv and Clara, whose food she messes with because they allegedly left her just when she needed them most. Mercy being one part abandonment issues, one part hard to believe, and most parts hard work. Some song and dance routines so as to smile though your heart is breaking, along with Jennifer Coolidge impressions, dilute more than muddy Mercy’s ankle deep, Mammy issues. Highlighted by the arrival of self-righteous, fault finding Gemma, whose prolonged blame game reveals gaslighting, lies, and that both characters are wholly unsuitable for any meaningful relationship with anyone. A hurried rush to the finish line sees Mercy more informed but perhaps, like some, none the wiser. For if, like me, your subtitles froze minutes from the end, leaving you trying to read over the shoulder of the person in front of you, you are also likely to have made a best guesstimate as to how Muicín actually concluded. Clues evident in Siofrá Ní Eilí’s vibrant performance which oozes presence. Ní Eilí’s Mercy part wide eyed musical theatre kid, part Gloria Swanson meets Bette Davis via a Baby Jane mash-up. Against which Niamh Murphy’s Gemma suggests a Puritan with an unforgiving conscience. Reprimanding you for your own good, but really for their malicious delight. Director Jeda de Bri uncharacteristically not having their best day. Staging action without invention and never truly challenging the play’s characters or fault lines. Risking equating choices arising from poor mental health with moral choices. Siofrá Ní Eilí in Muicín. Image, Jilly McGrath Irish language plays are hugely important, and LemonSoap Productions are to be applauded for undertaking Muicín. Subtitles on phones, however, create a sub-optimal experience. Compounded by Pringle not having their best day either, despite Muicín showing moments of poignancy, tenderness and humour. On their day, as evidenced by the brilliant Boyfriends, Pringle is maturing into a terrific playwright, employing wit and insight coated in rich, observational language. A young writer whose work would benefit from, and repay, meaningful development beyond tea and biscuit chats with peers and free theatre tickets. Muicín, like Pringle, showing immense potential waiting to be harnessed. Whatever the language. Muicín by Ultan Pringle, presented by LemonSoap Productions, runs at Project Arts Centre until Feb 27. For more information visit Project Arts Centre

Entr’acte's production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Image Alison Whelan ***** There’s professional and then there's professional. Usually, professional means a paid gig. But there are also professional standards, which many paid gigs struggle to live up to. Entr’acte Music Society’s Jesus Christ Superstar might be an amateur production, but Entr’acte’s professional standards are second to none. Their revival of Jesus Christ Superstar worthy of an Off-Broadway run for delivering a phenomenal theatrical experience. How do you make a 55-year-old religious musical about the final week of Christ relevant for a modern and secular audience? Entr’acte know exactly how. You stage it in a graffiti riddled, run-down setting. Where Jesus is lesser known as the son of God and more a political leader in Jerusalem. Judas is reframed as anti-hero rather than the Devil’s Advocate. A man whose practical nature conflicts with Jesus’ desire for peaceful protest. You lean into contemporary media images of Palestine, Ukraine, and ICE protests in the USA. You get a committed cast and crew who give it their all and then give some more. Finally, and most importantly, you put Niamh McGowan, director, choreographer and costume designer at the helm. McGowan delivering a wow-factor production with a contemporary twist on pro-active youth movements of today. Entr’acte's production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Image Alison Whelan Unapologetically loud and energetic, Andrew Lloyd Webber's rock opera, written in 1970 with EGOT lyricist Tim Rice, follows biblical events depicting the final days of Jesus' life. In which infamous Judas Iscariot (a terrific Ruairí Nicholl) expresses his disapproval of Jesus (a towering Joe Jennings) and his elevation to celebrity status. The overwhelming pressure of idol worship in a media driven world during a time of war having significant relevance to the world we know. McGowan’s direction making way for layered interpretations. Costuming, supported by staging, displaying the power imbalance between protesters and late-stage capitalists. The capitalists in suits set against protesters in outfits you might spot on any university campus. Anthony Kirby’s stage making Jerusalem familiar even if you’ve never been. Kirby’s graffiti sprayed temple, by David McElgunn, with its moveable staircases transforming into a variety of locations whilst housing the band. A pejorative term for a mini orchestra who play superbly under musical director Róisin Hennan. Music almost as lush and beautiful as Gavin Coll’s excellent lighting palette. If the volume of music means voices struggle to be heard in the lower register, it's more to do with acoustics than vocal restraints. In the higher register, across the board, singing is sensational. Opening night it leaned into the technical more than the emotional, but one expects the emotions will deepen as the run progresses. Entr’acte's production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Image Alison Whelan Despite its secular relevance, this is still a story about Jesus. Coll’s lights often suggesting a church’s stained-glass window, with artwork referencing the New Testament. Lighting by Coll also aids the exaggerated deification of Jesus, emphasising his ‘superstar’ quality. But all this implies Jesus Christ Superstar is static when it is a whirling tornado of endless energy choreographically directed to perfection. With many strong performances. Joe Jennings’ Jesus revealing why everyone was obsessed with the guy. The Marty Supreme lookalike presenting a modern-day celebrity who charms the stage with his peaceful yet powerful demeanour. His humility endearing, making his suffering emotionally engaging. Ruairí Nicholl’s Judas and Katie Taylor’s Mary Magdalene gifting viewers with moments of true emotional connection to Jennings’ son of God. The relationship between Iscariot and Christ best embodied in Gethsemane, heightening the emotional tension of Judas’ betrayal. Entr’acte's production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Image Darragh Carroll Jesus’s trial by media, courtesy of a conniving and entertainingly villainous Caiaphas and Annas (Gavin Coll and Daniel Whelan) sees televised screens, MMA boxing matches, smartphone recordings, and showbiz performances mirroring modern media representations. Anna Bergin’s Pilate and Daniel Ryan’s Herod undeniably entertaining in King Herod’s Song and Trial Before Pilate. The large chorus of dancers and singers an ensemble to marvel at. Timing, energy, synchronisation and detailed performances all phenomenal to watch. Energised and energising, the penultimate song, Superstar, makes you want to get up on your feet as it brings the house down with undeniable wow-factor. Fading into the final number, The Crucifixion, which leaves you poignantly moved because McGowan and Co. have clearly done their work. Entr’acte's production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Image Alison Whelan Jesus Christ Superstar offers a contemporary depiction of modern politics. For an ‘amateur’ musical society Entr’acte certainly put many professional companies to shame. A choreographer and director destined for greatness, and a cast without an ounce of waste, Jesus Christ Superstar features future stars of tomorrow. A thrilling experience that will leave you praying for more. Jesus Christ Superstar, by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber, presented by Entr’acte, runs at The O’Reilly Theatre until Feb 21. For more information visit Entr’acte

Caroline Menton, Garrett Lombard and Aislín McGuckin in Fair Deal. Image: Ros Kavanagh *** Tinder toy boy, the objectify-able Rio, luxuriates on a pull out sofa bed. Meanwhile, flustered Keira is urging his perfectly chiselled body to get dressed and leave her house. But Rio wants to indulge in endless small talk and unnecessary oversharing. A hallmark of Una McKevitt’s dark comedy Fair Deal. Resembling a postcoital conversation that prattles on when it really should be making you breakfast. Still, it’s easy on the eyes and provides enough good giggles to not want to throw it out of bed. Jack Weise in Fair Deal. Image: Ros Kavanagh Mostly, though, we listen. Monologues of misery and expositional explanations piling up and slowing things down. Keira’s dying Uncle in the upstairs bedroom moving to a nursing home the following day. The house left to Caroline Menton’s Kiera, by her golf loving grandmother. To be sold to pay for her Uncle’s residential costs. Only when Jack Weise’s Rio is hurled bodily from the house do laughs properly get going with the arrival of a second Uncle, Daragh. Garrett Lombard brilliant as a mediocre thespian suffering bouts of insecure vanity. Who, like the sensational Aislín McGuickin as Kiera’s maternally void mother, conceals a multitude of textual sins. An American real estate celebrity, Mommy dearest Sandra arrives with the irresistible force of frostbite, determined to stop the sale of the house for unconvincing reasons. Eventually taking the bull by the horns with a neat plot twist. Some clever, and long overdue physical action reviving Fair Deal’s flagging energies. Only for more trudging arguments, monologues and exposition to follow. The return of Rio, serving up a second shot of the defibrillator, sees everything explode into utter zaniness. Shoehorning in some violent showdowns before the ending staggers across the finish line in a dampened blaze whilst quoting Shakespeare. Caroline Menton and Garrett Lombard in Fair Deal. Image: Ros Kavanagh Throughout, Fair Deal throws everything at the comic wall hoping something will stick. And some things do stick, just not enough of them. Economy, timing, and set up mostly absent in McKevitt’s heavily trudging text. Where McKevitt succeeds is in two exceptional comic characters, albeit one dimensional, who shine through their excesses. Lombard’s Daragh, a painfully recognisable, self obsessed actor seen portrayed countless times before. Lombard milking the long running joke for all its worth and never coming up short. Complementing McGuckin’s sinister Sandra, a woman of stylish, sexy ruthlessness. Strutting around in Joan O’Cleary’s white trousers and blouse doing things Miranda’s Prada wearing devil would cringe at. Under Conall Morrison’s direction, Fair Deal takes a Carry On Up The Arsenic and Old Lace route. Morrison’s old school staging best during over the top moments in which McGuckin and Lombard shine. Leaving Menton mostly adrift as the proverbial straight support, along with Weise who has little enough to do. The production’s other star being Liam Doona’s detailed set littered with elderly paraphernalia, superbly lit by Eoin Winning. Garrett Lombard and Aislín McGuckin in Fair Deal. Image: Ros Kavanagh Some will forgive Fair Deal’s comic and narrative shortcomings for the inconsistent laughs it generates. Others will see it as an underwhelming, over talking, series of hit and miss comic moments masquerading as a play. One in serious need of more physical comedy; best when it overplays the implausible. Even if that means sacrificing its serious aspirations to explore family, power dynamics, societal structures or inherited responsibilities as outlined in the programme like a thesis proposal. Against which Fair Deal falls considerably short. Fair Deal succeeding best when played for laughs. For which it has Lombard and McGuckin to thank. Both being simply hilarious. Fair Deal, by Una McKevitt, runs at The Peacock Stage of The Abbey Theatre until March 28. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Timmy Creed and Martha Dunlea in Infinity. Image, Marcin Lewandowski **** What is the nature of time? In Canadian playwright, Hannah Moscovitch’s hugely engaging Infinity, an obsession with time leaves no time for anything else. Moscovitch’s troped tale from 2014 less a treatise on theoretical physics so much as a study of family dynamics. Articulating how, as in David Auburn’s Proof, or Adam Rapp’s The Sound Inside, very smart people share a striking resemblance to the very stupid. Academics capable of understanding the universe unable to comprehend what’s right before their eyes. Like time preaching zealot, Elliott. Timmy Creed exceptional as a pony-tailed, Phd candidate strutting about like Temu Jesus. Busily chasing time theories like a dog trying to catch its tail. Blind to the needs of aspiring violinist, and future wife, Martha Dunlea's Carmen, whose life is reduced to a long suffering, sigh of resignation. Perpetually on the cusp of a happy ever after that's endlessly postponed. Their precocious child, Sarah Jean, the poster child for never having children. Bláithín MacGabhann superb as both the adult Sarah Jean and her eight year old self who grows up to be her parent’s daughter. Sharing her mother’s ticks, love of music and need to be loved. Along with her father’s love of maths, need to get his own way, and inability to respond to the needs of another beyond trying to kiss everything better. Bláithín MacGabhann in Infinity. Image, Marcin Lewandowski In essence a memory play, Infinity is driven by Sarah Jean’s soul searching. Initially brooding in a mood as dark as her boots, she directly addresses her confidant audience. Two hard hitting truths forcing Sarah Jean to trawl through a litany of lovers next to scenes from her parents troubled marriage, including memories she could never have know. Aedín Cosgrove’s clinical set foreshadowing what’s to come whilst underscoring science’s impersonal abstractions. Scarves and coats for both living and dying resisting science's impervious glare. Valentina Gambardella costumes foregrounding warmth and flawed humanity. Contrasting with Cosgrove's stringent lights and hygienically sanitised set. Martha Dunlea and Timmy Creed in Infinity. Image, Marcin Lewandowski Making Infinity one of the year’s best productions to date are three superlative performances under Julie Kelleher's exceptional direction. Martha Dunlea elevating Carmen from passive narrative device to fleshed out character, front-loading Carmen’s emotional depth during a beautifully articulated opening. Why Carmen allows herself disappear is a flaw on Moscovitch’s part. Carmen never given space to fully articulate herself. Yet Dunlea articulates why in every restrained sigh. Meanwhile Timmy Creed’s Elliot articulates everything for everyone to suit himself. To the point where Carmen staying simply defies belief. Until Elliot’s keynote speech. Creed revealing, in the briefest flicker of a glance, how Carmen is Elliot’s ride or die. Suddenly you get it, because Creed gets you right where it matters. As does MacGabhann, hilarious as an eight years old child and superb as a self-obsessed adult. MacGabhann never softening Sarah Jean’s egoism or delusions, but exposing her naked soul in its messy complexity, self-inflicted and otherwise. Kelleher refusing to define, or reduce Moscovitch’s characters to flaws alone. Or allow them neatly escape by eliciting false sympathy. Redemption, like being unrepentant, always costs, and in Infinity the price is paid in full. Even if a too tidy, final image strives for self conscious sentimentally; its deeper evocation unearned. Bláithín MacGabhann in Infinity. Image, Marcin Lewandowski To paraphrase John Lennon, time is what happens while you’re waiting for time to happen. If time does exist, we only go around once, there’s no second chance, and no one gets out alive. Infinity confirming there is only this, only each other, and what we choose to do with the time we have. As a play, Infinity is hugely affecting if rather flawed. As a production, Cork Art Theatre’s offering proves rather brilliant. As representative of Cork Art Theatre’s Re:Directing Programme 2026, which sees a series of contemporary plays platforming three Cork directors, Infinity makes for a rather exceptional start. So here's to Infinity, and beyond. To a near perfect production of Moscovitch’s less than perfect play, unleashing joy, laughter and tears. For performances alone, Infinity deserves another run, and word of mouth might very well insist. If only time can be found. Infinity by Hannah Moscovitch, ran at Cork Arts Theatre as part of its Re:Directing Programme 2026 from Feb 5 to 14th. For more information visit Cork Arts Theatre

Patrick Ryan, Denis Conway, Andrew McCarthy, Marcus Lamb, Charlene McKenna, Rory Nolan in The Crucible. Image, SoundOfPhotography *** Premiering in 1953, Arthur Miller's classic, The Crucible, interrogates events other than those it depicts. Reimagining the Salem Witch Trials, 1692 to 1693, to interrogate the McCarthy era witch hunt for alleged communists in America. Seven decades later it could be seen to interpret another America. Where a misrule of law is used to delude people under the mantle of a higher cause. Intimidating protesters to comply or die as it seeks out undesirables. Society ordered to reject the evidence before their eyes for lies passed off as truth. Many subscribing to the new abnormal out of fear, faith or advantage. Yet Gaiety Productions’ current incarnation strives for political neutrality. Opting for historic reenactment not restricted by modern relevance. Director Andrew Flynn grounding action in a group of frightened young girls accusing their neighbours of witchcraft, a crime punishable by death, to escape punishment for ritually dancing in the woods one night. A production undermined by a cluster-bomb of theatrical styles. Restoration, Greek tragedy, melodrama and naturalism colliding in an untidy mess of genres. Risking The Crucible becoming another kind of cluster as it cranks up the emotional intensity. Andrew McCarthy, Brid NiNeachtain, Mazzy Ronaldson Niamh McCormack, Anna Nugent in The Crucible. Image uncredited. Like sitting next to a mini man-spreader, there’s a sense of the undersized trying to present as oversized. Maree Kearns’ infrequently glimpsed forest supernaturally dark and deep. Lost to a claustrophobic barn design, illuminated by Ciaran Bagnall’s slats of shadowed light, that buries events beneath a dirt heavy oppressiveness. Sinead Cuthbert’s period costumes reinforcing an old world earthiness. Meanwhile, Carl Kennedy’s sweeping intermezzos soar in search of a movie, screaming ‘look at me’. Should they ever find their movie they might very well make for a terrific soundtrack. For The Crucible, they appear to be trying to escape it rather than score it. The Crucible. Image, SoundOfPhotography As accusations fly and the court case begins, an invested cast rarely appear to be reading from the same page, never mind the same play. Marcus Lamb’s Reverend Parris declaiming as if in a Victorian melodrama. Rory Nolan’s complex Reverend Hale strutting and fretting like a Shakespearean lead. Adam Rothenberg’s tormented John Proctor growling like a Greek myth. Even Denis Conway’s delightful Giles Corey appears to have rambled in from a Yorkshire pantomime where he played comic relief to brilliant effect. All creating a babel of uneven accents against which Niamh McCormack’s Abigail Williams, and Charlene McKenna’s Elizabeth Proctor deliver character studies steeped in naturalism. Reminding you that a whisper can be more powerful than a scream. A touch move mountains a roar can only bluster at. That less is often so much more, especially when more delivers so much less. Lilymai Clancy, Gina Costigan, Lara McDonnell, Bríd Ní Neachtain, Anna Nugent, Tierra Porter and Mazzy Ronaldson doing likewise, even when screaming. Confirming that its women, and its emotional subtly, have always been key to unlocking The Crucible’s secrets. The Crucible. Image, SoundOfPhotography A point made abundantly clear by a superb Andrew McCarthy, whose inquisitorial Deputy Governor Danforth is the second best thing about this production. If vocal projection is often subdued, McCarthy’s calm, level delivery punctures a tendency towards relentless histrionics. McCarthy’s attention to gestural detail revealing Danforth’s impregnable egotism and Machiavellian malice, informing a posturing, Napoleonic authority without endlessly raising his voice. Even so, it’s a tightrope walk. Danforth at risk of toppling into moustache twirling villain rather than protector of the people who genuinely believes he’s doing God’s will. McCarthy’s compelling performance tilting to the right side of melodrama. Mazzy Ronaldson, Niamh McCormack, Lilymai Clancy, Lara McDonnell in The Crucible. Image uncredited As does Niamh McCormack’s Abigail; McCormack the best thing about this troubled production. Poorly used, McCormack digs deep as a wld woman scorned, and an antagonist to be hated, feared and pitied. Like McCarthy, she appears to have rambled into the wrong play, but never gets embroiled in emotional upstaging. Even if characters do, actors should know better. But it comes at a cost in the first act. McCormack retreating, or being positioned to the rear like being put in a time out, making it impossible to tell whether Abigail is scheming, plotting, or reading the room. The loss revealed in the penultimate scene as Proctor and Abigail await Elizabeth Proctor’s defining testimony. Rothenberg’s Proctor an unmoved statue. McCormack’s Abigail story made flesh. Eyes anticipating every syllable as hands clutch the folds of her skirt. Rapidly processing a torrent of emotions with which she carries us along. Andrew McCarthy, Rory Nolan, Lara McDonell, Mazzy Ronaldson, Niamh McCormack, Lilimai Cancy in The Crucible. Image uncredited. Every production is political. Trying not to be political is itself political. There’s something admirable in Flynn’s attempt to just tell the story, despite its datedness. Especially as Miller never intended The Crucible to just tell a story. The Crucible enduring because its characters live and breathe beyond mere political testimony. When Flynn finds those sweet spots, and there are many, The Crucible articulates a flawed humanity struggling within political and spiritual polemics. With McCarthy and McCormack leading the way with two excellent performances. The Crucible by Arthur Miller presented by Gaiety Productions, runs at the Gaiety Theatre until March 21. For more information visit The Gaiety Theatre

Darragh Gilhooly and Ruarai Lenaghan in The Anatomy of Burke and Hare. Image, incredited ** When it comes to The Anatomy of Burke and Hare by Darragh Gilhooly, the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray. Which describes not just the downfall of serial killers William Hare and William Burke, but the problems of a troubled production. Its tale of two Irish emigrants who terrorised Edinburgh in 1828 to provide cadavers to paying surgeons going over the top in all the wrong ways, and not far enough in others. Fraught with problems director Gwenaelle Gillet doesn’t resolve so much as compound. Take Gilhooly’s script, which is less a story so much as a loose litany of clunky, badly structured, historical details. Its weak, descriptive prose infrequently peppered with weaker moments of poetry. In which Gilhooly and Ruarai Lenaghan, each playing several characters, set off with unnecessary set ups that confuse more than cohere. Eventually introducing Hare and Burke. The whiskey swilling landlord and cobbler presented with a unique opportunity following the death of a tenant. Like a slow rollercoaster climb, action drags through the first and second death, after which it plunges through the remaining murders in a matter of minutes, all without tension or excitement. Finally arriving at a hurried trial and a foreshadowed revelation you see a mile off. By the time it's come full circle it’s impossible to care, or even be curious, about the fate of its two reprehensible protagonists, portrayed with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Efforts to suggest a quiver of conscience in Burke about as convincing as claiming Elvis lives on Mars. Darragh Gilhooly and Ruarai Lenaghan in The Anatomy of Burke and Hare. Image, incredited Under Gillet’s direction performances are driven by semaphored gestures evoking pantomime, silent movie, or cartoon overacting. Efforts to inject theatricality by way of a tea chest, coat and blanket also looking amateurish, like the Psycho Killer inspired dance sequence. Add the notorious Dr Knox and his assistant, Patterson, looking like a low budget Dr Frankenstein and Igor and it’s hard to decide if Gillet is aiming for bedtime Gothic horror or dubious documentary? Introduce some blood and gore, or the excesses of Hammer Horror, and The Anatomy of Burke and Hare would have made for Grand Guignol. Which might have been more effective given Gillet and Gilhooly ensure everything hits with the subtlety of a brick. Even allowing that one man's taste is another man's poison, The Anatomy of Burke and Hare sees little evidence of accuracy, clarity, or economy in text, direction or performance, let alone subtlety. Granted, cast and crew are sincere in their intentions, but sincerity is an empty virtue. Still, The Anatomy of Burke and Hare has its heart in the right place, even if its head is all over it. Gilhooly and Lenaghan’s invested performances aspiring to greater things. Enough to suggest better things to come. The Anatomy of Burke and Hare by Darragh Gilhooly, presented by Naming Cows Theatre Company and The Viking Theatre, runs at The Viking Theatre until February 14. For more information visit The Viking Theatre

Philippa Dunne, Ayesha Antoine, Stephen Brennan, Kae Alexander and Rowan Finken in Eureka Day. Photograph: Helen Murray **** To paraphrase Abraham Lincoln, you can please some of the people some of the time, all of the people some of the time, but never all of the people all of the time. Not that the board of California’s Eureka Day Private School don’t try. Woke inclusivity, cultural sensitivity, social justice and a host of appropriate hashtags you never even knew about are all brought to bear on every decision. Absolute consensus required by the board for any ruling to be passed. Jonathan Spector’s absurdist comedy, Eureka Day, beginning as an interrogation of woke culture and our hypocritical human failings. Before taking a handbrake turn into lightweight comic drama. Becoming, instead, a debate between pro and anti-vaxers when a child is placed in a medically induced coma following an outbreak of mumps. Forcing the board to convene an emergency meeting to determine what best to do for their young students, not all of whom are vaccinated. Trying to achieve a consensus in a way that honours, respects and validates all opinions, each vying to be accepted as objective truth. A goal about as realistic as determining the weight of the colour seven. Ayesha Antoine, Rowan Finken and Philippa Dunne in Eureka Day. Image, Helen Murray Set in an Elementary School library, Loren Elstein’s elegant design, superbly lit by Sinéad McKenna, reminds us that these are adults in name only. Oversized children running around in Joan O’Cleary’s grown up clothes, arguing every social and cultural toss. Rowan Finken’s adulterous Eli, Kae Alexander’s knitting knot Keiko, Philippa Dunne’s upright Suzanne, and Stephen Brennan’s boring board director, Don, debating a drop down computer menu as if life depended on it. The arrival of Ayesha Antoine’s rational, self-righteous Carina introducing stolid, no nonsense judgements into their scone loving ruminations. Setting up a decisive battle with anti-vaxer Suzanne, consumed by a pained past poignantly informing her persistent present. Philippa Dunne, Ayesha Antoine, Stephen Brennan, Kae Alexander and Rowan Finken in Eureka Day. Photograph: Helen Murray Under Roy Alexander Weise’s evenly paced direction, Spector’s comedy is played for laughs without getting dumbed down. The opening scene, suggesting God’s policy writers dictating life’s terms and conditions, surpassed in humour only by a community Zoom call whose hilarity lies in its embarrassing insights. Michael Dunne’s AV design, evoking social media interactions, a stroke of comic genius. If the shift from broad comedy to pressing drama is managed well, it’s not quite as perfect. Performances, whilst strong, often highlight a singular tone at the expense of deeper, subtextual range. Kae Alexander one of two exceptions, portraying Keiko’s interior struggles with crafted nuance. Then there’s Philippa Dunne’s staggeringly brilliant Suzanne. Declining simplistic generalisation, Dunne absorbs you so completely into the uniqueness of Suzanne’s inner world you understand, empathise, laugh and pity even if you vehemently disagree. Quivering lips, darting glances, and wringing hands articulating Suzanne’s humble arrogance and calm, defiant apologies. Dunne explicating everything and its opposite, leaving you mesmerised. Eva Hein West, as the board’s latest acolyte, rounding out a terrific cast in the play’s final, Covid predictive scene. Serving up one last joke for the road. Philippa Dunne in Eureka Day. Image, Helen Murray An international success, Eureka Day is a play for today, being a smartly observed comedy with an on-point political message. A living testament to that old chestnut of theatre holding a mirror up to society. Reflecting us back to ourselves so we can learn, and learn to laugh at the failings of others. Eureka Day proving a laugh out loud delight, featuring top drawer performances, and a masterclass from Philippa Dunne. Eureka Day by Jonathan Spector, runs at The Gate Theatre until March 7. For more information visit The Gate Theatre

Eimear Barr and Clodagh Mooney-Duggan in In Vitro. Image, Al Craig *** Mark Twain claimed you should never let truth get in the way of a good story. When it comes to Aoife O'Connor's intriguing In Vitro, it's sound advice. Only the advice isn’t heeded. Its eagerness to share truths about the pressures of surrogacy undermining, and undermined by, O’Connor’s far more effecting story. That of a troubled couple, Sam and Lily, together two years, living together one, thinking of having a child together. One partner endlessly complaining it can’t be done to the other who's already doing it. In Vitro offering less a treatise on the challenges of surrogacy for same sex couples so much as a picture of a couple completely unsuited to having a child in the first place. Indeed, you could be forgiven for thinking In Vitro is trying to convince you to believe the opposite of what’s right before your eyes. Given weak back story and exposition, you infer, but never quite believe, that Sam and Lily sincerely want a baby. Lily, yes. But Sam talks the talk while clearly not ready to walk the walk. Leaving you certain that whatever their problem, it has nothing to do with the expense, pressures or legalities of surrogacy. Indeed, the cumbersome process is made to look like a justifiable safeguard offering a blessing in disguise. In Vitro also undermining its claims that surrogacy inordinately impacts on the working class. Sam's tough tomboy with a troubled past, from a dysfunctional, unsupportive family, having low income with chips on the chips on her shoulder is portrayed as a completely unsuitable parent, reinforcing the case for stringent safeguards. In contrast, the maternal, middle class, family supported, financial responsible, privileged bank employee, Lily, is mothering made flesh. Both political stereotypes, with no evidence to suggest Sam would be a good parent under any circumstance. Didactic rants might make intriguing points, but the story never makes a compelling case. Clodagh Mooney-Duggan and Eimear Barr and in In Vitro. Image, Al Craig Where In Vitro succeeds is in its detailed depiction of a young couple deeply in love. O’Connor’s evocations of everyday affections effortlessly charming. The play’s circular structure and easy flow of scene and dialogue almost cinematic. It’s a sign of an astute writer, and director, when they allow scenes emerge in silence. Letting lights by Colm Maher negotiate mood, Mar Parés Baraldés claustrophobic set establish homeliness, HK Ní Shioradáin’s sound design underscore emotion before a word is even spoken. In which the crackling chemistry between Eimear Barr's tetchy Sam, and Clodagh Mooney-Duggan's eternally patient Lily ignites. A couple blinded to a truth everyone can see for fear of losing the other. Their touching reality conveyed by two impeccable performances. With In Vitro, it's hard to buy Sam and Lily as a couple who desperately want a child, let alone one beat down by expenses and legalities. Rather, you see the process as revealing, rather than causing, their inherent issues. Leaving you to fear for any child they might have. Yet in its depictions of a loving relationship, O'Connor confirms she is a writer of serious promise. Equally significant, In Vitro reveals Katie O'Halloran as a skilled and brilliant director. Composition, performances, energy, pace; nothing escapes O'Halloran's detailed gaze. Not car keys on the hook, nor an empty and full bottle of beer. Even transitions are packed with information and action, ensuring In Vitro never lags. Ending, poignantly, as it began, with a silent, powerful image. In Vitro by Aoife O'Connor, runs at Bewley's Café Theatre until February 21. For more information visit Bewley's Café Theatre

Amber Norelai (Sharp Ears) in INO's The Cunning Little Vixen. Image, Ruth Medjber *** From Aesop’s Fables to Watership Down, anthropomorphic allegories continue to enjoy universal appeal. A big word to describe little stories in which animals display human characteristics. Usually with a moral, and frequently with a dark side. If Beatrix Potter, Wind in the Willows and Walt Disney sanitised nature’s blood torn bodies, Leoš Janáček’s 1924 opera The Cunning Little Vixen reflects nature’s uncompromising cruelty. Making for an ambitious opera posing several problems for an easily traumatised, visually literate, feminist 21st century. Problems never satisfactorily resolved in Irish National Opera’s current production. James Platt (Priest), Oisín Ó Dalaigh (Pasek), Benjamin Russell (Forester) Heather Sammon (Mrs. Pásek) & William Pearson (Schoolmaster) in INO's The Cunning Little Vixen. Image, Ruth Medjber Inspired by a comic strip novella by Rudolf Těsnohlídek, Janáček’s libretto over three acts describes the tale of Sharp Ears, the eponymous vixen. Her capture, imprisonment, escape, discovery of love, idyllic family and Bambi-like legacy. Animals a distinction without a difference when it comes to humans. Both vain, cruel, manipulative and caring in their respective worlds. A disharmony of opposites Janáček tips into feel-good schmaltz, which, like a terrified chicken, is never going to fly. Foxes will do as foxes naturally do, no matter how glorious the new dawn. The end as much a tagged on convenience as an organic awareness of the circle of life, undermining Sharp Ear's final scene. Megan O'Neill (Pepík), Oryna Veselovska (Forester’s Wife) , Amber Norelai (Sharp Ears) Caroline Behan (Frantík) & Benjamin Russell (Forester) in INO's The Cunning Little Vixen. Image, Ruth Medjber Under Sophie Motley’s direction, visual, vocal and musical elements are rarely in accord. Like three trains running on parallel tracks, one is always edging ahead while the others try keep pace. The result less a working marriage so much as a competitive ménage à trios. A race in which music takes the gold by some distance. Janáček’s score more a symphony, or a cinema soundtrack, built on concise, expressive musical economy. Conductor Charlotte Corderoy superbly marshalling Irish National Opera Orchestra, pared back to a touring thirteen. Evocatively releasing the controlled, radiant energy of Janáček’s sprightly music, summoning up its emotional richness. Meanwhile, silver goes to singing, featuring cameos from several promising young talents. Leaning into accentuating key notes, phrasing often feels pedestrian for lacking a richer coloratura. Janáček’s opera imposing restrictions which sopranos Amber Norelai as Sharp Ears, and Jade Phoenix as Gold Spur, along with baritone Benjamin Russell as The Forester negotiate with surges of grace. Sharp Ear’s seduction, and The Forester’s final soliloquy finding music and singing welding together beautifully. The wedding and bar scenes proving less satisfying. The decision to sing in English rather than Czech creating a further disconnect between music and lyrics, placing a rhythmic gauze between the two. Amber Norelai (Sharp Ears) and Jade Phoenix (Gold Spur) in INO's The Cunning Little Vixen. Image, Ruth Medjber Taking the bronze for broad strokes, comic book, back to basics staging, Motley’s direction rarely rises above the basics. Maree Kearn’s series of sliding panels functional yet forgettable. Similarly Neil O'Driscoll's silhouette projections, often running past like a view from a train. Both evoking a 1970s children’s program. Sarah Jane Shiels’ lights working wonders at injecting vibrancy, tension and atmosphere, inking key scenes to perfection. Even as Saileóg O'Halloran's costumes can't seem to make up their mind. Whilst the period attire of humans looks authentic, animals evoke kindergarten kitsch, suggesting a DIY, early years school musical. A mutilated Muppet, clucking Carmen Mirandas, even orange coated vixens seem cobbled together from discarded leftovers of whatever colourful paraphernalia happened to be lying around. Action further hindered by a plodding pace that drags behind Janáček's vibrant music, along with lengthy, lifeless transitions. Choreographer Emily Terndrup having an easy day at the office. Granted, humans playing animals is tricky. But adults mimicking creatures like enthusiastic spirit animals is rarely a good look, and should be banned for anyone above the age of seven. Staging not helped by an accompanying publication by MTU students (part of INO's Open Foyer Series) capturing the comic book verve the production aspires to but rarely attains. Several onstage images, like comic book panels, looking less staid than onstage action. Designed for young children, INO’s The Cunning Little Vixen only succeeds in reminding you this is not an opera designed for young children. INO's The Cunning Little Vixen. Image, Ruth Medjber The Cunning Little Vixen, seen here at the warm and welcoming Siamsa Tíre, explores life, death, renewal and rebirth. The relationship between animals and humanity. Shows intrigue with socialism, anti-capitalism and ecology. Yet, contemporary as all that is, everything is weighted by Janáček’s misogyny in its unvarnished, unchallenged dominance. Complications in his private life, his insatiable loathings and longings for women, seen here disdaining every woman represented on stage at some level. The Cunning Little Vixen looking not so clever after all. Still, if it falls short on several fronts, The Cunning Little Vixen is speckled throughout with charm, humour and an abundance of heart. Along with Janáček's spry and sensuous score. The Cunning Little Vixen, music and libretto by Leoš Janáček, presented by Irish National Opera, is currently on tour: Feb 5 (Thu): Cork – The Everyman Feb 7 (Sat): Limerick – Lime Tree Theatre Feb 10 (Tue): Galway – Town Hall Theatre Feb 12 (Thu): Sligo – Hawk's Well Theatre Feb 14 (Sat): Letterkenny – An Grianán Feb 17 (Tue): Navan – Solstice Arts Centre Feb 19–22 (Wed-Sun): Dún Laoghaire – Pavilion Theatre For more information visit Irish National Opera

Ross Gaynor and Ian Toner in Simon Stephens' A Slow Fire. Image, Irem Akay New Critical Voices: encouraging a diversity of critical viewpoints through real time opportunities for aspiring critics. **** We tell ourselves stories in order to live, Joan Didion declares in the famous opening line of The White Album. How do we make sense of tragedy and chaos? Storytelling, Didion answers. We look for the sermon in suicide. We impose narrative upon disorder and uncertainty. In his new play A Slow Fire, Simon Stephens takes a page out of Didion’s book. In a bunker in the aftermath of an amorphous apocalypse, Ashton (Ross Gaynor) and Reece (Ian Toner) pass their time acting out significant moments of their past. What they try to find in these post-mortem sequences is unclear. But the entertainment is decidedly limited. For Ashton, a theologian and former professor, there is also cartography: the mapping of the dead landscape for future generations. Reece, who used to be a porter at Ashton’s university, is emotionally uncommitted to maps. Ashton however clings to the passion from his youth like the memories of his childhood best friend, and presumably first love David. Brilliantly played by Gaynor, Ashton is armoured in masculinity. A solid front of composure and competence. Wanting to be in control and keep their world contained. Gaynor’s portrayal capturing the quiet tension between outward stoicism and inner vulnerability. Revealed in fleeting glimpses of tenderness that simmer visibly throughout. Ashton embodies not only a suppression of reality but also of his desire for connection. Exemplified in a tender scene of both physical and emotional intimacy. Bashfully slow dancing to a hummed version of The Ink Spots’ To Each His Own. Celebrating their 4th Christmas in dystopia the dance transgresses the pantomimed intimacy of the performed moments. Displaying the search for tenderness in the bleakest of settings.When Reece tries extend the moment, asking to share a bed, Ashton pulls back. The scene as fragile and uncertain as reality itself. Toner delivering a performance of profuse complexity. Waving guilt and hope. Rugged yet open. Wearing his heart on his scruffy sleeve. Grounding Ashton’s abstraction with a humanity that feels both desperate and deeply sincere. Simon Stephens' A Slow Fire. Image, Irem Akay Stephen's plays are perpetually concerned with questions of loss and life after tragedy. Unlike Sea Wall, which is stark realism, A Slow Fire investigates these themes through a refractive frame. Investigating grief and connection at the end of civilisation. Through plays-within-a-play Stephens reflects on storytelling as an antidote to stagnant grief but also as a dissociative barrier to reality and real connection. Men locked in a male limbo. Seeking intimacy but keeping it at arms length. Reminiscent of Sartre’s No Exit or even John Carpenter’s The Thing. But it’s not a shape-shifting organism that intrudes on their men-cave, or rather Brokeback Bunker. It’s a sketchy survivalist called Presley (Fionn Ó Loingsigh) who comes bearing a gun, generator and fresh meat. The latter enough to distract Reece from otherwise Machiavellian vibes. His arrival in the second act immediately challenges the frame and nature of Ashton and Reece’s life and relationship. What happens if three men hole away from the patriarchal structure of civilisation because there’s no such order left? A strange but profound homosocial love triangle set in the wreckage of it. Like Sophie’s Choice with Chekhov’s Gun. Ó’Loingsigh managing to embody a character of immediate duplicity but charming vulnerability. From the first moment we know he’s no good, but, damn it, look at his sad eyes! Presley appearing like a wounded wolf in sheep’s clothing, immediately threatening Ashton’s monopoly. Fionn Ó Loingsigh, Ross Gaynor, Ian Toner in Simon Stephens' A Slow Fire. Image, Irem Akay His arrival is eerily prophesied by the only female character - more ciphering apparition than actual person. While the moment aspires to a haunting, post-apocalyptic resonance, the overlaid distortion flattens the vocal texture, producing a cluttered polyphony that distracts more than it unsettles. A diegetic inconsistency in an otherwise perfectly balanced sound and set design. With tinny, grating noise supported by Jess Fitzsimons Kane’s urgent, harsh lights complement Andrew Clancy’s claustrophobic set. Both minimalist and clustered. In and out of darkness. Evoking that dreadful sense of purgatory in imminent collapse although the apocalypse is left vague and off stage. Much like the narrative, the setting appears disjointed and defamiliarised but also viscerally intimate. Director Rex Ryan takes full advantage of the tight space of the Glass Mask Theatre, where the curtain opens right in front of our noses. The effect uncanny. The play pressing into our shared reality as Ashton and Reece’s reenactments push against the confines of theirs. A weird form of meta-theatre that makes us weirdly identify with the characters. But the story never relies too heavily on this tool. Instead, it gradually strips itself of it until only bare reality remains. Ross Gaynor in Simon Stephens' A Slow Fire. Image, Irem Akay A Slow Fire doesn’t look for the moral or social lesson in apocalypse or death. Rather, it puts a poetic and experimental lens on the complexities of unraveled male relationships. If there is any lesson it’s quite simply love, in whatever form, can prevail. Stephens resists the temptation to romanticise despair or provide neat resolutions. Instead, he lets the embers of tenderness, grief, and memory smoulder. The result a play that burns not with spectacle, but simmers with intimacy. Finding meaning in fragments and connection despite collapse. Living defined by shifting unpredictability and endless big and small grievances. Hope alive within the moment, not memories. The play resolving in a gentle embrace that feels like neither end nor beginning. Unstuck in conclusive narrative structure. Lingering with affect and tenderness that feels genuinely genderless. A story that leaves you with no definite answer is one you carry home - like A Slow Fire. With, very possibly, the melody of To Each His Own. A Slow Fire by Simon Stephens, runs at Glass Mask Theatre until February 14th. For more information visit Glass Mask Theatre Helene Ott is a student of English, Drama, and Film at University College Dublin. Alongside her studies, she works as a writer, painter, and freelance photographer specialising in portraiture and visual storytelling.

Amara Okereke and Phillip Attmore in Top Hat:The Musical. Image uncredited New Critical Voices: encouraging a diversity of critical viewpoints through real time opportunities for aspiring critics. ***** Cheeky and charming, Top Hat:The Musical is a classic love-letter to 1930’s Hollywood. Based on Irving Berlin’s iconic 1935 film of the same name, Matthew White and Howard Jacques faithfully re-imagine the love story played famously by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers for the theatrical stage. Speckled with contemporary references from Teddy Baldock to Burlesque, Top Hat:The Musical flourishes as a time capsule to the bedazzling past of Hollywood. Berlin's movie being one of the foundational archetypes for musical theatre. The story follows the classic boy-meets-girl trope. Following the plot of the movie, famous tap-dancer Jerry Travers (Phillip Attmore) is in pursuit of the elegant Dale Tremont (Amara Okereke) looking to capture her heart. Naturally it’s a rocky road to success, mostly due to mistaken identity. Like Romeo and Juliet there is major significance in Shakespeare’s “What’s in a name?” thankfully with comedic confusion instead of tragedy. Attmore ensuring viewers fall in love again with Fred Astaire’s iconic Jerry Travers, paying an impressive homage to Astaire’s suave swagger, making it difficult not to love the guy. His charm eventually proving irresistible to the reluctant Dale Tremont (Okereke), their chemistry alluring. Where Attmore’s talent in dancing shines, Okereke complements with her powerful singing. As a duo they pay satisfactory respect to Astaire and Rogers, using their combined talents to capture the romantic elegance of the famous pair. Amara Okereke and Phillip Attmore in Top Hat:The Musical. Image uncredited The second act allows secondary characters to shine and steal the heart. James Hume and Emma Williams owning their roles as ambivalent couple Horace and Madge Hardwick. With phenomenal chemistry and talent, they hoist their duet Outside of That, I Love You to the top of the iconic discography, competing with Cheek to Cheek and Puttin’ On the Ritz for best song of the show. Comedic relief by Alex Gibson-Giorgio’s fashion designer Beddini and Connor Hughes’ manservant Bates re-ignite the charms of classic Hollywood to an undeniably entertaining degree. Making it hard to remember that this is a live performance and not a movie. Direction by multi-Tony and Olivier Award winner Kathleen Marshall cements the elegance and glamour of Hollywood’s Golden Age. Despite focus on the language of dance, choreography missed opportunities to truly amaze. However, Peter McKintosh’s wow-factor set makes up for the loss capturing an idyllic Hollywood. The rotating, semi-circular clock-face backdrop allowing scene transitions seems cinematic and picturesque. Paul Groothus’ sound design and Irving Berlin’s score graciously emphasise Hollywood’s colourful past, topped off by Tim Mitchell’s sumptuous lighting. If staging was difficult to look away from, costumes by Yvonne Milnes and Peter McKintosh made looking away impossible. Authentically vintage and captivating, each costume perfectly expressed character, from Beddini’s dresses to Bates’ various disguises. Top Hat:The Musical. Image uncredited Awash in Hollywood’s classy demeanour, Top Hat:The Musical ticks all the entertainment boxes. Romantic, classy, with jazzy appeal, it is the epitome of 1930’s glamour captured delightfully on stage. A feel-good, sensational escape into dreams of early Hollywood, Top Hat:The Musical is an experience you won’t want to pass you by. Top Hat:The Musical, a Chichester Festival Theatre production presented by Kenny Wax and Jonathan Church Theatre Productions, runs at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre until January 31. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre Shannan Turner is an undergraduate student of Classics and Drama Studies at UCD. A hobbyist writer, theatre-goer and artist, select works of Shannan’s can be found online, most prominently in Gothic New Weird literary magazine Labyrinthine.

Philip Attmore and cast in Top Hat:The Musical. Image uncredited **** It's a brave endeavour staging an adaptation of the classical movie Top Hat. One might say foolhardy. Irving Berlin 1935 classic movie featuring the inimitable Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, and a sublime supporting cast, effortlessly graceful and faultlessly charming. It's boy meets girl with a twist of mistaken identity leaving you hoping love conquers all. This being the Golden Age of Hollywood you've a pretty good idea how it will all play out. But in Chichester Festival Theatre Production's Top Hat:The Musical it gets there with inimitable style. Not enough to match the flawless original, but enough to ensure that if you enjoyed the movie, you'll be wild about Top Hat: The Musical. Amara Okereke and Emma Williams in Top Hat:The Musical. Image uncredited. A stories go, its tale of a cocky celebrity and the woman he pursues, his troubled producer and world weary wife, an egotistical fashion designer and spy quoting manservant doles out lashing of humour and charm. Martin White and Howard Jack's adaptation making lots of smart choices. Leaning not just into the movie, but into Vaudevillian staging. Song and dance acts, comic scenes and joke telling routines combine to create a tapestry of interlinked scenes. Director Kathleen Marshall marshalling her troops superbly, even if, choreographically, dance is less ambitious and graceful than its source material. Suffering an untidiness in sychronisity inevitable when it comes to touring productions. Yet Top Hat: The Musical remains a visual spectacle. Top drawer design, led by Peter McKintosh's art deco inspired set, looking opulently scrumptious. Its revolving, semicircle arc transforming hotel rooms into bars and lobbies, or outdoor parks. Gorgeously illuminated by Tim Mitchell. Yvonne Mills and McKintosh's costumes sumptuous and evocative, right down to a Zeigfield Follies routine. Against which comedy, charm and romance play out in an utterly enjoyable evening, enriched by some of Irving Berlin’s most classic songs. Amara Okereke and Philip Attmore in Top Hat:The Musical. Image uncredited. When it comes to performances there's some serious upstaging. Philip Attmore as Jerry Travers captures Astaire's suave shuffle foot stylings to the point of suggesting an impersonation. Like Astaire what he lacks in vocal power Attmore compensates for with confident warmth. Amara Okereke as love interest Dale Tremont makes a compelling foil. Commanding, self-assured, Okereke’s Dale packs tonnes of vocal power. Yet charming and wonderful as the central relationship is, the show belongs to James Hume's doddery producer Horace and his troubled wife Marge, a superb Emma Williams. Both setting the stage alight post intermission with wonderful singing, acting and yes, even a little dancing with a show stopping rendition of Outside of That, I Love You. All brilliantly supported by James Clyde as manservant Bates, and Alex Gibson-Giorgio’s hilariously egotistical Italian designer, Alberto Beddini. Add an energised chorus, some strong dance routines and a glorious set, and Top Hat: The Musical serves up a Hollywood cocktail sure to delight. Theatrical snobs might dismiss Top Hat: The Musical as a nostalgic sugar rush down memory lane to tap into the wallets of an older generation. But so what? Where is it written that all art has to be Avant Garde? It's okay to be entertained, the question is how good are you at it. Top Hat: The Musical was never going to beat the original, but as unadulterated entertainment its a stunning success on its own terms. Unapologetically nostalgic, Top Hat: The Musical delivers a truly enjoyable experience. Top Hat: The Musical, a Chichester Festival Theatre production presented by Kenny Wax and Jonathan Church Theatre Productions, runs at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre until January 31. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre

The Flag by Emily Aoibheann. Image, Steve O'Connor **** It’s difficult to pigeon-hole award winning artist Emily Aoibheann. One of the founding members of the short lived, but hugely influential aerial troupe Paper Dolls, Aerial Artist naturally springs to mind. But Emily Aoibheann has long moved on to newer challenges. Frequently pushing the body to the edge of physical and durational limits, Performance Artist might seem more apt. Yet that term also falls miserably short. The closest might be Collaborative Multidisciplinary Artist, though that could mean anything. It could mean a writer, director, choreographer who engages in site specific, promenade work built from dance, sculpture, music, visual art, tubas, circular horns, a signature designed speaker, lashings of green ribbon and a little of whatever you're having yourself. Which, oddly enough, is a rather apt summation of some of the elements informing Emily Aoibheann’s current production, The Flag. A multidisciplinary, site specific, promenade performance gracing The National Gallery’s Shaw Room. Exploring national identity as a lived experience, particularly for women, whose tensions are steeped in cultural conditioning. The Flag interrogating The National Gallery as both shrine and purveyor of cultural consumption. Resulting in a work of near unbearable beauty refined by visceral, sensual power. Comprised of three individual dance sequences and a musical coda, with the entirety repeated three times, it's safer to think of The Flag as a visual triptych rather than an interconnected narrative. A mother, daughter and holy ghost of women shaped by, and shaping, cultural narratives of identity. Commencing, unannounced, with elemental sounds like breaths, or water, or wind soon married to music. Preceding dancer Amberlee Toumanguelov crafting statuesque bodily sculptures straining against, yet shaped by, inner and outer tensions. The strictures of classical form etched in poses defined by Michelangelo-like musculature and formal ballet positions. Positions held, moved in and out of, or repositioned for the audience’s gaze on all sides of the room. The body’s inhuman efforts heightening its power and fragility as a sculptural and performative site. Like the pillared busts around the room, Toumanguelov’s gaze seems to both register and ignore you in meditative silence. There is nothing frenetic to witness here. Just looking giving way to feeling in a delicate exchange of surrender. In the artist’s disclosure of themselves and a reciprocal audience disclosure, less intense perhaps, with both disclosing the self to itself. The Flag by Emily Aoibheann. Image, Steve O'Connor As silently as it began, the first sequence ends and a second commences with Anja Nicholson’s clarion call on the circular horn. Beginning a seductive swirling, playful conversation with the instrument, again contemplatively paced, with movement and sound establishing momentary, individual tableau. Nicholson’s external smile offering a private glimpse of some inner delight. Lithe, nimble, at once serious and playful, Nicholson later frames her head within the horn’s circular form before sticking her tongue out like a mischievous pixie. You can’t but spontaneously smile in response. More playfulness follows, meticulously and pain-stakingly crafted. Recognising that whatever this woman is, angel or nymph, she is lighter, freer, more playful than her predecessor. The final sequence unites Toumanguelov and Nicholson with dancer Annique van Niekerk, reinforcing The Flag’s three part design. A ritual of unbearable tension; you can forget reformer pilates classes. Your core will sympathetically tighten in psychosomatic response as all three bodies, like aerial artists grounded holding v-shaped positions, slowly, meticulously, painfully wind green ribbon around their arms, legs, hands and neck. A steady pulse from a Horn-Mounted Speaker issues frequencies whose vibrations trace tectonic tensions glimpsed in tremors of muscle. The durational tensions making exacting demands on the artists, yet rewardingly transformative for the audience if they surrender to it. The air, space and bodies, the indifferent artworks, disinterested busts and glorious chandeliers releasing trapped energies emanating from, yet channelled through, three taut bodies. Cohering in a visceral, breathtaking experience in which past and present, room and artist merge in connected aliveness. The unannounced arrival of tuba player and composer Adam Buttimer not so much ending as offering release with a beautiful musical coda. Until it all begins again, from the beginning, and then once more. The Flag by Emily Aoibheann. Image, Steve O'Connor If a flag is culturally symbolic of national identity, our cultural conditioning to such ideas is richly exemplified by The Shaw Room. You might argue that upstairs with its famous sculptures might have better severed as a space for a work centred in the body. But you only need to step through into adjacent Room 21 to understand why it had to be The Shaw Room. Despite excellent paintings, Room 21 is an architectural banality whose walls are lifelessly dull. The Shaw Room with its paintings, staircase, busts and architecture is inhabited by energies decades and centuries old. Like the dancer’s bodies, the space has absorbed history like body memory. Housing energies through form and shape that impact, even when motionless. Indeed, our cultural conditioning prefers if we stand still in contemplative silence and reverently and passively spectate. Or check the name of the artist, taking a photograph if famous, before quickly moving on to the next work. Something The Flag always challenges yet never truly subverts, despite stringent efforts to do so. Despite being encouraged to promenade, of which clearer instruction might have been useful, the audience pause on the precipice of the performance, unsure how to enter the room. An uncertainty compounded by Emily Aoibheann’s design. The Flag taking place in what is essentially a room within The Shaw Room. Another frame within a room framing frames. One loosely delineated by Buttimer and his tuba, Emily Aoibheann, and van Niekerk on tech at one end, and the Horn-Mounted Speaker, designed by Emily Aoibheann and Ed Devane at the other. A loosely contained space people seemed uncomfortable entering even when encouraged to move closer. And they should. Whether standing, seated, on the floor, close up, far way, inside the room, on the stairs, or outside gazing in, shifting frames and perspective infinitely enriches and transforms the experience. Multiple focalisations repositioning the subjective gaze and, therefore, the experience of looking. Doubly important given the quality of audience attention impacts directly on performances. The Flag by Emily Aoibheann. Image, Steve O'Connor In reimagining the museum as a performative space, The Flag aspires to reimagine our engagement with that space, our responses to it and its artworks, and our resulting sense of national identity. Un-conditioning, or differently conditioning our expectations of art, museums, cultural identity and cultural conditioning. Enriching art as a private act of solitary reflection whilst opening it to a more shared, sensual engagement, it attempts to reclaim identity from blind, cultural consumption defined by culturally specific paradigms of meaning. So begin at the beginning, middle or end. Leave, come back at anytime during the performance, and leave again. Move in and out of the performance space, ever mindful of the performers. Do so till you realise The Flag is not a visual experiment but a visceral experience. A tense, gentle, contemplative fanfare in which the body is strained and sensual. A site for the subversion of cultural identity, consumption and conditioning. As creator, choreographer, and director, Emily Aoibheann’s collaborative style encourages signature stylings in service of a singular vision. Which, in The Flag, is forever in search of integrity, intensity and depth. In which artworks representing the past press against a performative present in which display can give way to experience if you allow it. The Flag proving intense, wildly ambitious and just that little bit mad at times. Or touched by a measure of genius. An apt description of Emily Aoibheann perhaps. The Flag by Emily Aoibheann, developed in collaboration with the artistic team, runs at The Shaw Room, The National Gallery of Ireland, until January 31st. For more information visit The National Gallery.

Ross Gaynor in Simon Stephens' A Slow Fire. Image, Irem Akay **** T.S. Eliot famously claimed there is more in a poem than the poet knows themselves. The same might be said of playwrights and their plays. Olivier and Tony award-winning playwright Simon Stephens' latest work, A Slow Fire, receiving its world premiere at Glass Mask Theatre, making the point. Described as two men trapped in a post-apocalyptic bunker looking for hope in the stories they tell each other, you could argue that the act of telling stories is what denies them hope. Art, or at least the barbed art of storytelling, tethering them to values and ideals of a dead past they can never hope to reclaim. Both men trading reality for fantasies and seeking escapism in reliving selected memories. Ashton, a former theology professor making maps of their deserted city, declares it an act of hope for the future. But the lad doth protest too much for being determined to avoid the real cost of building a future. Something Reece, a simple porter, dreams of. Each co-dependent and ailing when the unexpected arrival of the mysterious Presley shatters their claustrophobic universe with his generator, a gun, and ruthless survival instincts. Setting the cat and pork amongst their proverbial pigeons. Hard choices and unvarnished truths suddenly forced upon all three. Asking what is to be hoped for following an existential, social, cultural, moral and environmental apocalypse? How do you rebuild from the ruins without rebuilding the ruins? Especially the ruins of masculinity? Ross Gaynor and Ian Toner in Simon Stephens' A Slow Fire. Image, Irem Akay And there’s the rub. That dirty word that chronically has ‘toxic’ welded to it. For A Slow Fire might explore hope when the future looks hopeless, the present unliveable, and the only place of escape is the past, but it does so from a male perspective. A play by a man, about men, played and directed by men exploring what it means to be a man in the ruins of patriarchy. A play much needed and long overdue. Not that masculinity is Stephens' sole focus, but you could argue it’s his primary one. Grounded in an exploration of the stories men tell of ourselves. The case for stories questionable merit given support by the play’s structure. A Slow Fire neatly divided into two acts, each built from several scenes. The first act primarily concerned with telling stories in the form of mini plays. It’s two shabbily attired protagonists, costumed superbly by Migle Ryan, capturing faded elegance and practical functionality, retelling hopeful events from their former lives as a way to escape a hopeless present. The second act, with the arrival of the insidious Presley after an accusing premonition worthy of Don’t Look Back, sees consoling fictions traded for raw, brutal facts. Fantasies giving way to reality as plays within a play find themselves performed to an audience other than the audience. A darkly humorous scene where Presley engages with their storytelling device sees Ashton looking on, laconically bemused, like a discouraged playwright or a disappointed director. Yet ultimately it's not stories, or even theatre, that connects these broken men, but music. The Ink Spots To Each His Own beautifully accentuating their tactile avoidance. Heightened in a touching song and dance sequence, later resolved into a powerfully subversive final image. Ross Gaynor in Simon Stephens' A Slow Fire. Image, Irem Akay When it comes to narrative and characterisation, Stephens keeps stakes and conflict to a minimum, leaving a terrific cast to dig deep to establish substance. All three delivering meticulously crafted performances pitched at a level that brims with subtextual intensity. Their world of artifice rooted in lived reality. Ross Gaynor offering a sublime treatise on the insecurity underscoring Ashton’s need for security. Fionn Ó’Loingsigh's terrifically understated Presley a manipulator with dark tendencies. Modest Alpha males to Ian Toner’s sensational Beta male Reece. Whose hopes are caught between two men, neither of whom understand who he is or what he might be capable of. Toner delivering a masterful performance in a masterclass of sensitive performances imbued with awkwardness, embarrassment, longing, confusion, and perplexity. Rex Ryan's vigorous direction balancing pacing and the composition of plays within a play and performances within performances to harness visceral energy. Ensuring you may not always know what’s going on, but you always feel it. Evident in the rapid shifting of eyes, momentary pauses for understanding, in gentle but firm insistences. Pressing against the confines of the stage, eager to burst out and envelop the audience. Visually and thematically, shades of Beckett and Enda Walsh’s absurdist landscapes are married to the claustrophobic, male intimacies of Sebastian Barry’s On Blueberry Hill and Frank McGuinness’s Someone To Watch Over Me. Tones mirrored in Jess Fitzsimons Kane’s artificial glare and orange lights troubling the grills of Andrew Clancy’s cramped and disheveled nuclear set; both awash with loud grumblings torturing the air during scene changes. Reinforcing a sense of doom and futility in a landscape where nothing can grow, let alone hope. And yet. Fionn Ó’Loingsigh, Ross Gaynor and Ian Toner in Simon Stephens' A Slow Fire. Image, Irem Akay As the world worries about its fraught future, and masculinity continues to redefine itself, plays like A Slow Fire are crucial in allowing men to speak to men, about men, so as to articulate new paradigms of shared and contrasting male identities. A brave, experimental work that struts and frets its two and a half hours upon the stage, A Slow Fire signifies not the last word but the beginning of a conversation. That the conversation sometimes stammers is not to undermine its power. A Slow Fire suffering an excess of scenes, and scene length on occasion, which causes durational drag at times, reinforced by lengthy scene changes. Some, like the semaphoring watch reveal, begging to have been managed better even for economy’s sake. Even so, if A Slow Fire is a sometimes imperfect production of a sometimes imperfect play, it’s proof positive that a Simon Stephens play is far richer than the sum of its individual parts. Forever aspiring to tenderness and strength. A Slow Fire asking if men might learn to take care to, and of each other, as lovers, or brothers, bonded in passionate, vulnerable embrace? Now that’s a future worth hoping for. That would be something fresh and wonderful to see. As, indeed, is A Slow Fire. A Slow Fire by Simon Stephens, runs at Glass Mask Theatre until February 14th. For more information visit Glass Mask Theatre

Brendan Gleeson in Conor McPherson’s The Weir. Image, Rich Gilligan Another year closes, giving way to another new beginning. But first, easing out of another seasonal food coma, let’s commemorate the year that was 2025. Requiring a critical shift from spotlight to floodlight. Separating fairy dust from fairly dusty affairs. 2025 a year you had to kiss quite a few frogs to find your theatrical handsome. Thankfully, there were a few worth kissing. 2025 being a year of countless adaptations, often from other mediums. Of Marina Carr’s endlessly deferred double bill. Of the Arts Council’s loss being Druid Theatre’s gain. Of Druid’s 50th anniversary. The year of Eileen Walsh. The year the shameful handling of The Complex highlighted the precarious nature of support for performing arts. A year of some highs, a few lows, and too many middling productions. A year of unearned, hair trigger standing ovations. A year of some truly impressive talent. Ever mindful of all those productions I never got to see, here are some of the girl boss Dorothys and curtained wizards that constituted 2025. Poor by Katriona O’Sullivan, adapted by Sonya Kelly. Image, Ste Murray Beginning in Dublin, where it was business as usual for the Big Two. Both doubling down on predictable fare like corporate, fast food chains. Flashily advertised promises rarely as tasty as their social media plugs. The Gate proving the more flavoursome. If their year began with a lamentable King Lear, Abi Morgan’s far more enjoyable Lovesong followed, before Martin McDonagh’s menacing The Pillowman probed dark and desperate places. Serving as a striking contrast to Katriona O’Sullivan’s Poor, adapted for the stage by Sonya Kelly. A feel good, true story of a working class heroine, O’Sullivan’s light entertainment, Rocky refit knocked it out of the park in terms of bums on seats. The emotional sugar rush due to return in 2026. The Gate rounding out its year with its ho-ho-humbug A Christmas Carol, whose 70s children’s TV vibe delighted kiddies, even if adults might have wished for more. Éilish McLaughlin and Eileen Walsh in Marina Carr's The God and His Daughter. Image, Ros Kavanagh Meanwhile The Abbey, likely to be rebranded The Marina Carr Arts Centre (allegedly), continued down its road of good intentions. Taking determined shots at productions of substance, though frequently missing the mark. Yet not always. The emotionally charged, physically theatrical MILK مِلْك by Bashar Murku and Khulood Basel, a co-production with Khashabi Theatre, Palestine, spoke to the horrors of war, occupation and survival. Leaving its follow up, a revival of Mary Manning’s Youth’s The Season?, which echoed Grainne in being another forgotten Irish work, looking washed out. A knock off Vile Bodies that had some interesting things to say to about Anglo Irish perceptions of their private selves in the years following Irish Independence. Then came Kevin Barry’s The Cave, which ticked all the right boxes and felt about as hollow. Malua Ní Chléirigh, Niamh McCann, Bláithín Mac Gabhann, Liadán Dunlea and Bebhinn Hunt-Sheridan in BÁN, written by Carys D. Coburn. Image: Rich Davenport. A quick trip next door to The Peacock saw the lights temporarily back on for some new works. Proving, yet again, that quantity does not equate with quality. Caitríona Daly’s dissatisfying The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4 and Jimmy McAleavey’s spaced out Static leaving a lot to be desired. Still, both looked like works of genius next to the Hip Hop version of Thomas Middleton’s 1606 Jacobean play The Revenger’s Tragedy, co-presented with 353 and Kevin Keogh. A production which should have come with a free-phone, helpline number for those distressed by how poor it was. Leaving it to Carys Coburn’s mostly brilliant BÁN to save the year. If its untidy, expressionistic retelling of Lorca’s The House of Bernarda Alba saw it stumbling over its own shoelaces at times, its enviable ensemble, Claire O’Reilly’s brilliant direction, and Coburn’s generally taut script was a breath of fresh air. BÁN the highlight of The Abbey’s mostly messy year, with worst yet to come. Conor Murray and Hannah Power in Don't Tell Dad About Diana. Image, Erica Verling Not one, but two durational drudgeries, and expensive ones at that, brought the Abbey’s year to a heavy handed close. Barbara Bergin’s Dublin Gothic serving up abridged ANU, minus the exciting bits, saw Dublin history compressed into three and a half, fast paced hours. Preceded by Marina Carr’s nervously anticipated, theatrical event The Boy, directed by The Abbey’s artistic director, Caitríona McLaughlin. The rhinestone in The Abbey’s slipping crown in which Carr reformed Sophocles’s Theban Trilogy into a didactic duet (The Boy and The God and His Daughter). A twinning polemic which blunted both plays, as well as the original’s respective edges. Plays which didn’t dialogue with each other so much as rinse and repeat, redeemed by performances from Eileen Walsh and Éilish McLaughlin. The experience confirming the presence of a long standing elephant in the room, lingering for some time now like a bad habit. Emily Terndrup in Offspring. Image, Patricio Cassinoni Carr has written some of Ireland’s most important plays, and might yet do so again. But Carr is rapidly becoming one of the most divisive playwrights in Irish theatre. Not on account of her work, but on account of the inordinate, lopsided investment in her work which is being produced almost annually on the stage of the National Theatre where she is Senior Associate Playwright. Even if Carr wrote groundbreaking plays every year, which she clearly does not, this preferential treatment sees time, money and opportunities presented to Carr in a manner that denies them to others. A worrying trend set to continue with 2026 unveiling yet another Carr premiere at The Abbey, Mirandolina. Caitríona McLaughlin again directing. Neill Fleming in Stuart Roche's Shard. Image, uncredited Meanwhile, Dublin’s smaller theatre’s produced much of the more interesting work. The New Theatre, registering low on the radar, popped up during the Dublin Fringe Festival with Cara Christie’s hugely promising Brambles starring a brilliant Aoife Cassidy. Yet again it was Bewley’s Café Theatre and Glass Mask Theatre who led the charge. Bewley’s Café Theatre premiering Benjamin Reilly’s darling Mortal Sins, featuring Reilly and Isolde Fenton. Then there was Stuart Roche’s excellent Shard, brilliantly directed by Alan Smyth, and starring Neill Fleming, giving the first of this year’s Outstanding Performances. Jimmy Murphy’s The Kiss, a vital reminder of how to tell a story and make a point at the same time, saw Luke Griffin mesmerising under Lee Coffey’s direction. Coffey re-emerging as playwright in Glass Mask Theatre with Jigsaw. The best of Glass Mask Theatre’s limited season being a Rex Ryan triple threat (writer, director, performer); the hugely impactful The Monk. Seconded only by Hannah Moscovitch’s intriguing slow burner, Little One, directed to perfection by Samantha Cade, earning the Best Director nod. Meghan Tyler in The Importance of Being Earnest. Image, Ciaran Bagnall For some of the best work, you often had to go outside Dublin. Like Belfast, where The Lyric Theatre saw Jimmy Fay directing two strong productions. If John Morton’s apocalyptic Denouement talked bigger than it walked, it attempted to engage with deep issues. Yet it was Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest which proved the real treat. In which Meghan Tyler revealed herself as one of the best comic actresses around, delivering another of this year’s Outstanding Performances. For a consistent vision on a national scale, you had to go to Galway, where Druid celebrated 50 years as one of the most influential companies of the last fifty years. 2025 seeing the ever impressive Maureen Kennelly join Druid’s ranks as CEO following her tenure at the Arts Council. Local yet national, traditional yet pushing at boundaries, mixing older works and talents with fresh new experiments and artists, for many Druid demonstrate in practice what The Abbey aspire to in theory: invigorating theatre that speaks to a nation. Patrick Lonergan’s definitive history, Druid Theatre Fifty Years (Lilliput Press), serving up an embarrassment of insights, and some embarrassing insights, into Irish Theatre during the past 50 years. The always superb Galway International Arts Festival hosting Druid’s double bill celebration, Riders to the Sea and Macbeth. The latter featuring a mesmerising Marty Rea in the eponymous role. A near perfect production only for the questionable casting of Marie Mullen as an oedipal Lady MacBeth. Mullen has earned the right to play Ophelia if she wants, but that doesn’t mean she should. Mullen’s maternal Lady Macbeth looking more likely to press coins into Macbeth’s palm to buy sweets rather than engage him in the beast with two backs. Still, Macbeth had moments of utter majesty, and Mullen, in Synge’s Riders to The Sea, was utterly magnificent as an ardent matriarch whose suffering knows no bounds. Mullen, along with the legendary Garry Hynes, one of many reasons why Druid Theatre are absolutely deserving of recognition for their Outstanding Contribution to Irish Theatre. Marty Rea and Marie Mullen in Druid's Macbeth. Image by Ros Kavanagh In 2025 festivals, yet again, proved big attractions. Dublin Fringe Festival delighting with Hannah Power and Conor Murray’s adorable Don’t Tell Dad About Diana. DFF also featuring two of the year’s Outstanding Productions: Emily Terndrup’s searingly brilliant Offspring, and FELISPEAKS' sensational Octopus Children. Offspring's slice of dance theatre interrogating personal responsibility towards one’s art and one’s children through a reimagining of Frankenstein. Octopus Children an old story of an outsider learning to find her voice and where she fits. Presented by THISISPOPBABY, Octopus Children wove textual, theatrical and thematic elements into a rich tapestry, beautifully performed. Earning it not just an Outstanding Production recognition, but Best New Play of 2025. Octopus Children by FELISPEAKS. Image by Pato Cassinoni In Róise Goan’s inaugural year as artistic director, Dublin Theatre Festival proved a rather dull, politically, self conscious affair. One whose highlight, Rough Magic’s sensitive production of Peter Hanly’s What Are You Afraid Of? premiered at Kilkenny Arts Festival. For real excitement Cork Midsummer again stole the show as Best Festival, in which the women had it. Women dominating Theatre for One: Made in Cork (Landmark Productions and Octopus Theatricals in association with Cork Midsummer Festival and Cork Opera House), Caryl Churchill's all female Escaped Alone (Hatch Theatre Company, The Everyman in association with Once Off Productions), along with Irene Kelleher's double bill Footnote and the visually haunting Stitch. Yet the festival belonged to Eileen Walsh who mesmerised in the twenty-four hour marathon that was Nat Randall and Anna Breckon’s The Second Woman (Cork Midsummer Festival and Cork Opera House). THE Theatrical Event of 2025, in which Walsh ran the emotional gamut and pushed improvisational limits in one of the year’s truly Outstanding Performances. Recognition also due to Irene Kelleher’s Stitch, a profoundly moving story about a young woman physically and psychically disfigured. Housed in an old shop in Cork’s Shandon district, Stitch proved to be the year’s Best Site Specific Experience (with a tip of the cap to ANU, Landmark Productions and MoLi's The Dead, which returned to MoLi in December, and is due to return again next year). Stitch’s success due in no small measure to the immense talents of Cormac O'Connor (light and sound), Jenny White (set and props) Valencia Gambardella (costumes and masks) and Regina Crowley (director). Earning not just Best Tech Team of 2025, but Mighty Oak Productions Best Company of 2025. Irene Kelleher in Stitch. Image, Marcin Lewandowski Away from theatre, opera had a good year, with Blackwater Opera Festival going from strength to strength. Wexford Festival Opera yet again proved the standard bearer, with exquisite revivals of Handel’s Deidamia and Verdi’s Le Trouvére, the latter featuring sensational mezzo-soprano’s Kseniia Nikolaieva and Lydia Grindatto. There was also Peter Brook’s terrific pocket opera La Tragédie De Carmen, superbly directed by Tom Deazley. But Irish National Opera takes Best Opera Production with director Cal McCrystal’s hilariously brilliant interpretation of Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore. In which soprano Claudia Boyle, one of our greatest operatic actors, and bass Gianluca Margheri set hearts aflutter. Eileen Walsh in The Second Woman. Image, Jed Niezgoda Despite Matthew Bourne’s utterly gorgeous Swan Lake crowning Dublin Dance Festival, locally, dance had a quieter year. The newly minted Luail, the Irish National Dance Company, announcing itself with the impressively promising Chora and the less imaginative crowd pleaser Reverb. Luke Murphy’s Scorched Earth proved an intriguing piece of dance theatre, as did John Scott’s Irish Modern Dance Theatre’s celebration of all things Merce Cunningham, Begin Anywhere. Yet the Best Dance Production, and one of the Outstanding Productions of 2025, was Emily Terndrup’s Gothic toned, Offspring, so good you wish you could see it twice. Claudia Boyle in Irish National Opera's L’elisir d’amore. Photo, Ros Kavanagh On the miscellaneous list, the under appreciated Viking Theatre, celebrated its 14th year with a lovely revival of Seamus O’Rourke’s The Sand Park rounding out 2025. The Viking also the starting point for the year’s Best Touring Production, Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong by Mary-Elaine Tynan, Don Wycherley and Niamh Gleeson. Don Wycherley simply sensational in another of this year’s Outstanding Performances. Meanwhile a brilliant revival of Conor McPherson’s The Weir (Landmark Productions and Kate Horton Productions in association with 3Olympia Theatre), featuring a formidable Brendan Gleeson, proved to be one of this year’s Outstanding Productions. The ever brilliant Landmark Productions also behind ANU's hugely successful The Dead, in association with MoLi. Elsewhere The Ferryman at The Gaiety was also something special, along with Steve Coogan’s Dr. Strangelove at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre earlier in the year. Children’s theatre saw Branar’s delightful How To Catch A Star and Dan Colley’s The Maker stealing young hearts and minds. Winning hearts and minds, Fishamble: The New Play Company took to touring Pat Kinevane’s work internationally to great acclaim. As well as producing The Black Wolfe Tone by Kwaku Fortune, which premiered in New York and showed immense promise. Back home, Smock Alley Theatre rounded out their year out with an impressive Uncle Vanya, directed by Cathal Cleary, while Decadent Theatre premiered Christian O’Reilly’s family drama, Ferocity, in Galway, in which Mark Lambert gave a stunningly creepy performance. Decadent, with Galway Arts Centre, also behind Simon Stephen’s T5 and Sea Wall at GIAF. Finally, two books well worth adding to any collection. If Patrick Lonergan’s impressive Druid Theatre Fifty Years (Lilliput) captures the sweep of history, one specific moment in history is explored in WTF Happened: #Waking The Feminists and the Movement That Changed Irish Theatre by Lian Bell Sarah Durcan (UCD Dublin). Both essential reading. Don Wycherley in Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong. Image uncredited. So what does 2026 hold? Jonathan Spector’s Eureka Day and Conor McPherson's The Brightening Air certainly whet the appetite at The Gate, along with Wilde’s An Ideal Husband. At The Abbey Una McKevitt’s highly anticipated Fair Deal and Do You Come From Gomorrah? by Frank McGuinness both intrigue. As does the return of Annie Ryan directing The White Headed Boy. Another revival of a forgotten play, accompanied by The Plough and The Stars, directed by Tom Creed, honouring its centenary, even if Druid covered it recently. Finally there’s Mirandolina inspired by Italian playwright Carlo Goldoni’s masterpiece, La Locandiera, by Marina Carr. Think that’s been covered enough already. Elsewhere, Glass Mask Theatre premiere a new Simon Stephen’s play A Slow Fire and Irish National Opera scale operatic heights with the classic that is Bellini’s Norma. Emer Dineen in A Misanthrope. Image, Ros Kavanagh Yet 2026’s real promise lies in a rich array of promising talent, many seen during 2025. Like the brilliant Sarah Morris, who shone in The Ferryman, Dublin Gothic and T5. Dan Monaghan, also shining in Dublin Gothic, was practically luminescent in Hannah Moscovitch’s Little One, directed impeccably by Samantha Cade. Emer Dineen in Matt Minnicino, after Molière’s A Misanthrope confirming, yet again, she is of superstar quality. As is Meghan Tyler. Then there’s Hannah Power and Conor Murray, who both delighted in Don’t Tell Dad About Diana, promising great things to come. Hannah Brady and Dan Monaghan in Little One, Image, Matthew Williamson Too often theatre can operate from a corporate mission statement rather than a sense of vision. The data all adding up, but amounting to not enough. Core values so abstract and generalised as to risk being practically meaningless, applicable to justifying any and every scenario. The dice feeling loaded, the game rigged as companies navigate the treacherous waters between shows that appeal to the masses and those specifically designed for a given audience. As a critic you try speak from a spirit of generosity. But sometimes the most generous thing to do is to say what’s not being said out loud. To highlight what’s often being ignored, even if it hurts in the short term. Currently, there’s immense unease and dissatisfaction in the air, vividly evident in the ongoing saga with The Complex. Hope lying in works like Octopus Children, artists like Eileen Walsh, and experiences like L’elisir d’amore. To those teasing out theatre’s uncertain future, making work under hugely challenging conditions, you have our deepest gratitude, even if we don’t always share your ideas. What we try promote are real, critical conversations. So here’s raising a glass in thanks to you all, and wishing everyone a productive and prosperous 2026. Slainte. Recognition of Outstanding Achievement 2025 Best Productions The Weir by Conor McPherson (Landmark Productions and Kate Horton Productions in association with 3Olympia Theatre) Octopus Children by Felispeaks (THISISPOPBABY) Offspring by Emily Terndrup (Emily Terndrup) Best Performances Eileen Walsh for The Second Woman (Cork Midsummer) and The Boy (Abbey Theatre) Meghan Tyler for The Importance of Being Earnest (Lyric Theatre) Neill Fleming for Shard (Bewley’s Cafe Theatre) Don Wycherely for Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong (Wooden Bridge Productions - Touring) Best Director Samantha Cade for Little One (Glass Mask Theatre) Best New Play Octopus Children by FELISPEAKS (THISISPOPBABY) Best Site Specific Experience Stitch by Irene Kelleher (Cork Midsummer) Best Company Might Oak Productions (Cork Midsummer) Best Tech Stitch by Irene Kelleher - Cormac O'Connor (light and sound), Jenny White (set and props) Valencia Gambardella (costumes and masks) and Regina Crowley (director) Best Opera L’elisir d’amore by Donizetti (Irish National Opera) Best Dance Offspring by Emily Terndrup (Emily Terndrup) Best Festival Cork Midsummer Festival Best Touring Production Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong (Wooden Bridge Productions) Outstanding Contribution to Irish Theatre Druid Theatre Company Theatrical Event of The Year Eileen Walsh in The Second Woman (Cork Midsummer Festival and Cork Opera House)

Mission Critical. Image uncredited. I’d intended to weave this into my end of year review. But then I remembered I touched upon similar issues in last year's end of year review. Also, reading Jimmy Fay’s abridged speech in The Irish Times last week gave me additional pause for thought. Maybe it needed a space of its own. I’m referring, of course, to The Abbey Theatre’s Mission Critical. A day long, one night stand, co-presented with The Irish Times, to discuss the future of theatre criticism. As I couldn’t stick around for cuddles afterwards, having personal matters to attend to, I missed the final two talks. But on the basis of what went before, we didn’t give a great account of ourselves. Talk of star ratings and pressing deadlines dominating over more pressing concerns. The assumption of value and the given of professional distance left mostly unquestioned. The rote challenging of privileged, middle class males sounding moot given that eight of the ten speakers at that point had been privileged, middle class women. Living legends, or self-professed dinosaurs, Fintan O’Toole and Ben Brantley, reduced to a reminiscing ramble down memory lane absent a legacy. Despite kudos to The Irish Times and The Abbey Theatre, there was an undercurrent of irony. The irony lost on no one that the illustrious Irish Times, for decades the bastion of Irish theatre criticism, doesn’t appear to have a dedicated theatre critic. Its gig economy model leaving the event to import The Guardian’s chief theatre critic, Arifa Akbar, for some requisite authority. Who, along with host Ruth McGowan, spoke smartly and eloquently. As did the endlessly graceful Helen Meany and the no nonsense Katy Hayes. Jimmy Fay’s speech reminding us of the love-hate tension between critics and artists. Of cramped bedsits packed with anxious companies waiting up till the nervous hours for hot off the press, first night, early morning newspaper reviews. A relatively recent long ago pressing against a digital dystopia not so far away. What emerged was criticism not as a career, much less a vocation, but as a desperate spinning of one of many monetising plates. A side gig for work light journalists, fitful freelancers, or idle academics, with content compressed to a few hundred words confined to a given production. The future belonging to Substack influencers posting social media love ups behind paywalls whilst proclaiming to hell with deadlines. Again, I missed the final two sections, but models of engagement from other media often sounded like mechanics giving advice on the best way to raise chickens. Even though podcasts have proven a viable option, too often the important was losing out to the urgent. Still, points were made even if the case for survival was not. Take the given of professional distance. The old journalistic chestnut that you cannot talk with those you write about, the bias often cutting both ways. Yet how can you have critical conversations if artists and critics are not talking to each other? How can artists challenge your concerns unless you’re speaking with them? How can you know theirs unless you’re listening? It’s not like a surgeon operating on a family member; we’re all adults here. And, as Mission Critical proved, we've a lot to learn from each other. Take an issue that frequently arises; that reviews, the brevity and quality of which is sometimes lamented, are not enough, ignoring many pressing concerns facing theatre. Like the closure of The Complex and the dearth of venues. Funding and the torturous application process. Programming. Gender imbalance. Development hell with nowhere to go. Questionable quality and curated favouritism. Opportunities for young critics. The lack of meaningful awards. The endless dissolving of brilliant companies. The shelving of experienced artists. The difficulties starting or sustaining a career. Actors as writers and the impact on playwriting. Art being colonised by activism. Exclusivity being masked as inclusivity. Invisibility masked as visibility. Accessibility singing to no one but the choir. Add your own. Whenever possible The Arts Review tries highlight issues, and knows others who would love to be able to do the same. But I’m aware The Arts Review occupies a unique and, for most, a completely untenable position. A one person operation that isn't looking to monetise itself. Personally, it's not worth the cost, which would be negligible at best. A movie or an album review can generate hits in the tens, possibly hundreds of thousands across a global audience making it viable to monetise, especially in cities with vast populations. Theatre criticism in Ireland does not, and never will, enjoy a comparable audience. Also, if you’ve ever tried cook from an online recipe, you know the nightmare of pop-up ads and banners interrupting every other second. I’d rather produce The Arts Review for free than waste time chasing what would be a measly pay day. Especially as I’m not restrained by editorial oversight, though some might wish I was. Leaving me free to review in depth, to speak to a variety of issues for not having a horse in the race, and never having to worry about word restriction. Of course, that means The Arts Review can be dismissed as an outlier of the mainstream. A well meaning amateur unaffiliated with respectable, recognised legacy organisations. Even as others see that as a plus. Either way, I leave the work to speak for itself. Vital and critical as rigorous reviews are, critics can do more than review productions. We can give voice to concerns about, and on behalf of the community that those in the community are often fearful of voicing, or sometimes don’t want to hear. Speaking for, with, and to them rather than at them. Criticism has no inherent right to exist. It must give value, provoke critical conversations. Tynan and Shaw employed criticism as an extension of theatre's art form rather than as a journalistic discipline far removed from it. It might well be that, like Mission Critical, it’s better if we’re all talking going forward. Critics. One part ecstatic child, one part grumpy git, one part prophet in the wilderness crying the Emperor’s showing his dangly bits. Like most critics I believe criticism is crucial, and valuable, and put my time and money where my mouth is. Yes, the financial rewards are negligible. Yes, I’m the voice of a well preserved, middle aged male (no, no need to clarify), but I try include diverse young critics who have a lot to say whenever possible. Yes, I am privileged. It is a privilege to be a critic and getting to see so much fascinating work. Yes, I know being a theatre critic is no longer a viable career choice. But having previously written for a syndicated, online US magazine, it was never lucrative even on its best days. Still, criticism has value beyond being a document of record or informed publicity. It can inform debates that shape theatre's future thereby justifying its existence. The question is, how much are legacy medias prepared to support that? Critics need to be paid. But if value is conflated with cost and reduced to monetised clicks and hits, it likely means trouble. On their best day, a critic can be the smartest person in the room. Once every twenty-seven years by my calculations. I, myself, am overdue a smart moment any day now. Yet even then, the best critics seek out the room with smarter people. There were a lot of smart people in the room at Mission Critical. Hopefully it leads to a second date. Who knows, maybe even to a long term relationship. Allowing criticism to move past the nostalgia of what was, past a troubled what is that is often little more than tokenism, towards something meaningful, fruitful and enduring. On behalf of all critics, a sincere thank you to The Irish Times and The Abbey Theatre for getting the discussion rolling. Here’s hoping the discussion continues. Critics, too, are deserving of criticism. Which, like our reviews, should come from a place of love for what’s best in theatre so we all learn and grow. Mission Critical took place at The Peacock Stage off The Abbey Theatre on November 14, 2025. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Maria Oxley Boardman, Risteárd Cooper and Nick Dunning in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko **** How much weight can the uneventful carry? Brian Friel's adaptation of Anton Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya at Smock Alley Theatre, directed by Cathal Cleary, offers a visceral answer. The titular Vanya (Risteárd Cooper) working a rural estate alongside his solicitous niece Sonya (Eavan Gaffney), sends all profits to Alexander (Nick Dunning). Sonya’s father and Vanya’s brother-in-law, Alexander is a professor of fading prestige and fortune. Vanya’s disillusioned envy not helped by his anarchist mother’s (Catherine Byrne) admiration of the Professor. An industrious Nanny (Eleanor Methven) and German-obsessed guitarist Ilya (Morgan C. Jones) complementing the tragicomedy ensemble. Topped off with discontented Doctor Mikhail Astrov (Adam Fergus) who visits the estate diligently, to Sonya’s delight. All victims of circumstance and routine, their conflicts unravel due to the interruption of uneventful normalcy by a prolonged visit of the Professor and his alluring but jaded wife, Elena, (a brilliant Maria Oxley Boardman). The subsequent emergence of seething disdain and desire reflecting differently on each character as Cleary probes the play’s many hidden tensions. Eavan Gaffney and Adam Fergus in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko At the centre of which is the tension between Elena and Sonya. Where Gaffney’s Sonya brims with earnest hope and hunger, loving naively and desperately, Elena observes and speaks with disheartened temptation. But while Boardman could've buried Elena under defeated ennui and despondency, she plays her as something preying that longs for release and connection. Boardman’s Elena a woman bored to death brought back to life. Her desire to escape her stagnant existence sustained through the relentless admiration of three men who leave her misconceived. Her husband Alexander too preoccupied with his ailments of old age to inspire passion. Vanya’s crude advances stemming from spite rather than genuine attraction. Only in Mikhail does Elena finds her match, the only man whose affection appears sincere. Mikhail might not truly see her, but he does like to look. Like Elena, he's not driven by love but seeking a remedy to stuff the hole inside of him. Embodying the unfulfilled doctor, Fergus’s impressive performance takes on much of the emotional weight and charming contradiction you traditionally expect to find in Vanya. Wrapped up in misery and obsession, Mikhail would rather confine himself in the crumbling estate to pursue Elena, rambling about forest preservation than actually committing to his environmentalism. Maria Oxley Boardman and Risteárd Cooper in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko Yet Elena imagines Mikhail a true visionary, whose eccentric passion interrupts her inertia. Boardman embodying a simmering desire that yearns to boil, but mostly stagnates in cold indolence. Lying in wait but resigned to never move. The pivotal farewell-embrace between Mikhail and Elena particularly cathartic, accentuating Elena’s sexuality and autonomy as she is the one kissing Mikhail. Rather than being an object of desire, she becomes a subject that desires both viscerally and dispiritedly. The love triangle given vivid life as Fergus realises Mikhail’s idealist monologues with a passion that inspires Elena’s attraction and Sonya’s hopeless adoration. Elena, whose initial admiration for her husband has faded, regards Sonya's infatuation with pity and envy, but seeks her friendship nevertheless. In mutual loneliness and desire, Sonya and Elena form a vulnerable bond, anchoring the audience in a reconceptualisation of the play as the focal point is shifted; centring not on the titular character but its heroines. Boardman and Gaffney taking the spotlight and casting Vanya into a state of passivity usually reserved for the women of this play. Gaffney leading with a beating heart that breaks and endures, prompting ours to do the same. Guiding you through emotional unweaving until you wonder why the play isn’t called Sonya. Risteárd Cooper in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko Unfortunately, and strangely, all this is achieved at the cost of Vanya. Cooper portrays the play's supposed protagonist as trapped in a slouching aimlessness where resentment and restlessness are articulated but not believably conveyed. His snarky comments carrying the same emotional gravity as his monologues, whether bitching to a wall, or himself, rather than the audience. Only when breaking down in front of Sonya do we get a glimmer of Vanya’s ungovernable grief and Cooper’s wasted potential. If Vanya is left wrecked by anguish about his failure at shooting the Professor, the violent attempt feels so utterly unprovoked. Further undermined by ineffective staging of the gun scene that renders the climax unanticipated, undeserved and unsatisfying, eroding the emotional impact of its aftermath. HK Ní Shioradáin (rear) and Maria Oxley Boardman in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko As the end nears the desolation of things falls back into place as the Professor, Elena and Mikhail leave and an enduring monotony spreads over the estate once again. Evoking something quietly devastating in Sonya’s soldiering on through rejection and heartbreak. Gaffney’s performance materialising a love for Mikhail that, in the end, hangs in the air with nowhere to go. A devastation made possible through Sonya’s previous enthralling innocence. Vanya’s final loss of dignity, on the other hand, leaves you indifferent as his emotional journey is not satisfyingly realised. The performance evoking no fall from grace, or even descent from decency, only a man rolling into himself like a Sisyphean snowball of accumulating self-pity. Trapped in a small world of desire and defeat. Eleanor, Methven, Risteárd Cooper and Maria Oxley Boardman in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko A world given form by Maree Kearns minimalist set design, featuring the basic elements of a living room, like vestiges of a life un-lived and a space uninhabited, both familiar and estranging. The stage, wide and enclosed, a claustrophobic threshold between worlds; the crumbling estate and everything beyond. The confining set generating a wonder and ache for the outside world which encroaches, creating a bond between the characters and the audience. Cleary’s directing undeniably effective in achieving a fragile immersion that pushes at the edges of realism. At certain times all actors crowd the stage and your eyes linger on a specific, highly intimate moment that completely shifts the scene's affect. A flinch, a brief touch of hands, lost on everyone but you. Wherever you turn your gaze a private encounter sustains the play's realism, shattered when you break your gaze from one character to another. This breach of passive automaticity captivating and constant. A looming piano centred in the backdrop, eerily played by HK Ní Shioradáin, her back turned, alienates the audience and defamiliarises the realist stage. The discomforting further imposed by Martha Knight's agitating sound design and Stephen Dodds disuniting use of beam lights. This transgression of realism recovering some element of the overstimulating, sensory experience of life itself, becoming more real as a consequence. Morgan C. Jones and Adam Fergus in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko By the end, you might not be wrecked by existentialism, overwhelmed by spectacle or heartbroken by the unbearable weight and spool of routine, but the play lingers with profound intensity. Cleary’s Uncle Vanya going beyond what’s expected to reveal what lies beneath. An entire reality so compellingly compressed onto the small stage, when you stagger out of the theatre you get brief whiplash. Witnessing Uncle Vanya like living through a full life of simultaneous insignificance and deep meaning. The production brimming with the essence of what it means to be, and to want and to not be able. Cleary’s intimate staging and the alluring ensemble rendering the experience deeply personal. Eavan Gaffney and Risteárd Cooper in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko Maxim Gorky once fondly accused Chekhov of ‘killing realism’, arguing ‘no one can write as simply about such simple things as you can’. With every Chekhov production comes the inevitable responsibility to stage realism only to kill it all over again. Until the claim that “nothing happens in a Chekhov play” is buried right next to the corpse of realism. Unlike Vanya, Friel and Cleary were very successful at their attempted killing. As delightfully boring, painful and elating as reality itself, Uncle Vanya delivers a brilliant adaptation of Chekhov's masterpiece. Uncle Vanya by Anton Chekhov, presented by Smock Alley Theatre and Cathal Cleary Theatre Company in association with Once Off Productions, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until December 20. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre Helene Ott is a student of English, Drama, and Film at University College Dublin. Alongside her studies, she works as a writer, painter, and freelance photographer specialising in portraiture and visual storytelling.

How To Catch A Star. Image, Anita Murphy ***** Before CGI and digital animation there was puppetry. A staple on TV screens for adults and children alike. Thunderbirds, The Muppets, Bosco, Sesame Street, Spitting Image; puppetry was everywhere. Nowadays it’s harder to find, like a shooting star. So when it crosses your sky you should do everything in your power to witness its wonder. Like Branar’s delightful forty-five minutes, How To Catch A Star. A puppet show, without words, based on a story by award-winning Irish author Oliver Jeffers. In which a small boy in a red and white striped jumper looks through a telescope at the stars. Sat on the roof of his house beneath twinkling constellations, one night he discovers a star different from all the others. And so begins a warm, beguiling tale, so good you’ll want to see it twice. The blurb says it’s about following your dreams and finding a friend. And it is. But How To Catch A Star is so much more. Its compact tale a masterclass in storytelling and characterisation. Puppetry by Neasa Ní Chuanaigh & Cillian O Donnachadha, with puppets by Suse Reibisch, articulating the warmth, joy and laughter of a boy seeking a friendly connection, conveyed through meticiously crafted gestures and behaviours. His frustration at rockets that won’t fly, or administering CPR, or mirroring movements, along with the panic of an anxious worm and the rudeness of an aggressive seagull, delighting with playful mischief. Maeve Clancy’s interconnected three part set - an ingeniously crafted house, a single tree field and a wooden pier - illuminated magnificently by Ciaran Kelly. Whose night sky peppered with stars, or dawn bright days, brim with hints of magic. How To Catch A Star conjuring real magic, evident in the spontaneous outbursts from its audience, young and old, as they piece the story together. The young mesmerised by the magic of the impossible, the older mesmerised by the magic of what’s possible. Colm Mac Con Iomaire’s evocative score, cradled in the sound of scratchy vinyl, another magical link across the generational divide. How To Catch A Star. Image, Anita Murphy There’s a reason puppetry has endured from even before the 1600s, when Punch and Judy shows first appeared. When puppetry is this good, it’s irresistible, speaking to something fundamental in how we engage, connect and tell stories. Directed by Marc Mac Lochlainn, How To Catch A Star sees life, theatre and storytelling pared back to their life loving basics. A modern fable that tells its story without speaking, How To Catch A Star is perfect for the Christmas season, and for any season. Do not miss it. An utterly, charmingly, gorgeously enjoyable experience. How To Catch A Star, presented by Branar, based on a story by Oliver Jeffers, runs at The Ark until December 30. For more in formation, visit The Ark

Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin. Image, Ros Kavanagh *** Barbara Bergin’s debut play Dublin Gothic promises a performance of ‘the epic of the everyday.’ Straight out of a People in History schoolbook, it presents hidden heroes of Dublin who struggle to adjust and survive various changes from the nineteenth to the twentieth century. Over one-hundred years characters face historical crises such as rent wars, the AIDs epidemic, the questionable powers of the Catholic church, emigration and rebellions for freedom. Dublin Gothic offering historical changes viewed from a working class perspective. Set in O’Rehilly parade, the history of the lives of its tenants over a century see many characters come and go. The sole consistent being the Gatelys, starting with Honor (Sarah Morris) and ending with her great-great grandchildren and parent (Morris again) in the 1980s, with Morris’s characters establishing a generational link. Each generation faces personal, psychological, social and cultural challenges, many emphasising the struggle of women. Challenges they ultimately survive that redefine their stories. Sprinkles of an accurate Dublin history found within the plethora of incidents and characters, many of whom pay homage to real-life figures ranging from James Joyce to Brendan Behan. The plot is vast, with too much briefly told rather than shown, seeing many characters cast back into the shadows which undermines the purpose of highlighting their untold histories. Clara Fitzgerald, Kenneth Hudson, Joshua McEneaney, Roxanna Nic Liam, Sarah Morris and Emmet Farrell in Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin. Image, Ros Kavanagh Bergin pays respect to theatre’s epic Greek predecessors with an ensemble that shows an ‘Irish epicness’ drawing on ancient Greek Choral performance. A large, impressive cast including Thommas Kane Byrne, Sean Duggan, Daniel Monaghan and Karen Ardriff portray characters ranging between sleazy oppressive men and women who are constant victims of the patriarchy. Sarah Morris shining brightest, her passionate performance promising hope despite the impossible – we may struggle but we can overcome anything, no matter what our history. Even though our ghosts might haunt us, even as they haunt the stage, influencing our future. Morris, the strongest voice, is followed closely by the entire cast who serve collectively as narrator, explaining more often than showing. Director Catherine Byrne makes a solid attempt to bring justice to the tale. However, the attempt further weakens the message promised by Bergin as Byrne leans too heavily into the grim and dirty aesthetic of ‘old’ Dublin that enhances its ‘school history book’ presentation. Costumes by Madeleine Boyd are staples of their eras, from ragged cloaks to flashy neon shell suits. Costume changes highlighting the transition of time, which is also announced by the cast. Pacing is fast, the show, despite being three hours, including two intervals, feels nothing of the sort. Each act closed with compositions by Giles Thomas, which needed more time to come out of their quiet volume to truly empower themselves. Lighting by Aedín Cosgrove, depending too much on presenting a dark and grimy Dublin, often made characters and actions almost impossible to identify. Compounded by Jamie Vartan’s set, where further distractions arose. Despite the set’s remarkable size and clever display of panels depicting tenement rooms, it was difficult to distinguish where to focus onstage. Sarah Morris, Erika Roe, Thommas Kane Byrne and Emmet Farrell in Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin. Image, Ros Kavanagh There are other enjoyable mediums for stories besides theatre: podcasts, novellas, audiobooks. All capable of presenting a story like Dublin Gothic to which it might be more suited. As a play, it seems more of a theatrical school text than a myth-busting history ‘from the shadows of a Dublin both strange and familiar.’ Ambitious, brave, daring in its way, Dublin Gothic has a lot to recommend it, even if it falls short of its own ambitions. Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin runs at the Abbey Theatre until January 31st 2026. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre Shannan Turner is an undergraduate student of Classics and Drama Studies at UCD. A hobbyist writer, theatre-goer and artist, select works of Shannan’s can be found online, most prominently in Gothic New Weird literary magazine Labyrinthine.

Maria Oxley Boardman and Risteárd Cooper in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko **** Brian Friel had deep admiration for Anton Chekhov. His 1998 adaptation of Uncle Vanya, intriguingly directed by Cathal Cleary at Smock Alley Theatre, making it easy to understand why. Remove the Russian names and there’s something peculiarly Irish about Chekhov’s 1897 masterpiece, predictive of Eugene O’Neill and Tom Murphy. Wherein one family’s ties, lies and misdemeanours make up the meaning of their lives. Their end all and be alls, which prove to be not that much after at all. Residing in their country estate, they treat life like a game played far too seriously, or not seriously enough. Nick Dunning’s Alexander, an older professor of dubious merit, intends on persuading them to sell the property. Maria Oxley Boardman’s Elena, Alexander’s bored, cosmopolitan, much younger trophy wife, evokes passionate love triangles whichever way she turns. Like Adam Fergus’s hopelessly romantic, drunken doctor Mikhail, and Risteárd Cooper’s hopelessly pathetic, drunken estate manager Vanya, both her persistent suitors. Leaving Elena seeking companionship in step-daughter Sonya; Eavan Gaffney’s plain Jane an innocent in love with dishevelled environmentalist Mikhail. A lovelorn child whose naivety and virtuous work ethic risks her becoming a sickeningly one dimensional, second rate Disney character. Throw in Morgan C. Jones as sponging guitarist Ilya, Catherine Byrne as formidable anarchist mother Maria, and Eleanor Methven’s tireless Nanny and relatives and neighbours are gathered for a lively, family soap opera. Where time is passed in passionate boredom. Or bored passion. Let’s call it life. Where everything happens, but nothing of consequence, and nothing changes. Chekhov enjoying as a bad joke the existential notion that we fashion our own meanings and live satisfactorily ever after. Maria Oxley Boardman, Risteárd Cooper and Nick Dunning in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko In Uncle Vanya, Chekhov proves master of the universe in a grain of sand and of the universe as a grain of sand. Where the world’s a stage with life a poor performance. Maree Kearns pared back set, featuring Stephen Dodd’s conspicuous light rig, foregoing all attempts at Stanislavski’s naturalist staging, the famed acting teacher Chekhov’s staunch supporter. The effect drawing greater attention to performers who offer exquisite examples of Stanislavski’s heightened naturalist acting. Had the hybrid stopped there all would be well. But a tip into expressionism by way of HK Ní Shioradáin’s ghoul like pianist, and a slow-mo styled bullet scene as Vanya tries kill Alexander, weakens the framing. Even as the unmoving pianist reinforces the performance area as a theatrical space and not as a representational, true to life stage set. HK Ní Shioradáin (rear) and Maria Oxley Boardman in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko If Cleary presents Chekhov’s interweaving narratives in their abundance of contradictory glories, allowing high brow reflections settle next to low brow comedy, the experience is all the more enjoyable for it. Yet efforts to askew a feminist reappraisal delivers a stunning, one sided victory at the cost of a battle lost. The loss being that of Vanya, a perpetually petulant man-child hysterically delivering maudlin monologues caked in self-pity. But Cooper goes down swinging, and when allowed be more than a loudmouth mope, sears you with emotional honesty reminding you what’s been discarded. A dignified Vanya’s crushed hopes, frustrated aspirations, and the crushing responsibilities of being second to the favoured son, too often reduced to an undignified whine. His pursuit of Elena a way of taking back from his brother what was taken from him lost amidst drunken diatribes as men are accentuated as collectively pathetic. Impetuous, immature, delusional; imbalanced gender roles are never challenged so much as reversed. Alexander a pompous, delusional oaf, Mikhail all boyish good looks and reckless enthusiasm. Allowing Chekhov’s women to come into their own as thwarted agents, much to Elena’s benefit. Even if the binary imbalance exacts a cost on the play. Eavan Gaffney and Adam Fergus in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko When Gaffney infuses Sonya with youthful innocence in the first flush of love, Gaffney is adorably spellbinding. In contrast to her resolve at the end which resembles a Catholic nun reciting her catechism rather than a young woman trying to press on. In contrast, Elena proves much more fascinating, which an understated Oxley Boardman delivers with understated aplomb. Elena might still refuse to help the poor, but Oxley Boardman plays down the trophy wife and presents a woman of rich complexity. Talented, intelligent, worldly wise and bursting with thwarted agency, Elena reaches out to her love struck step-daughter seeking to connect, whilst at the same time ready to steal from her the man she loves for having grown bored with her own husband. Elena’s complexity given vivid life by Oxley Boardman in a captivating performance. Retaining tired boredom with a longing to feel something more, but never at the expense of her easy life. Sonya might forsake all her worldly goods for a man, Elena knows better. Even so, as Chekhov’s characteristic leave taking scene arrives, a superbly directed pinky moment between Elena and Mikhail, missed by those seated on the sides, is devastating in its suggestion of alternate possibilities. Almost as devastating as the final hug between Elena and Sonya. One of many moments of overpowering beauty crafted to perfection by Cleary. Risteárd Cooper in Uncle Vanya. Image, Olga Kuzmenko In Uncle Vanya, everything is equally and utterly important, and equally and utterly unimportant. Populated by people who, in their minds, if not their lives, are towering giants of thwarted dignity. Guided by their misguided beliefs rather than life’s experience setting up inner and outer conflicts. In foregrounding the feminine, Cleary unleashes hidden tensions often ignored in staging Chekhov’s masterpiece. If only Cleary had resisted loading the dice in representing a troped masculinity, a sense of feminine agency and resistance would have been better served. Still, if Uncle Vanya loses some battles, ultimately it wins the war. A bright, often brilliant production, Uncle Vanya is a crowning success. An emotional rollercoaster of messed up humanity given visceral life by an enviable ensemble delivering exquisite, top drawer performances. Uncle Vanya by Anton Chekhov, adapted by Brian Friel, presented by Smock Alley Theatre and Cathal Cleary Theatre Company in association with Once Off Productions, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until December 20. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre

Seamus O'Rourke in The Sand Park. Image uncredited ***** Male monologues are enjoying something of a five star moment. Stuart Roche’s Shard, Jimmy Murphy’s The Kiss, and now The Sand Park by Seamus O’Rourke. A moving meditation on life, death, community and masculinity. Framed as a character study of a quiet man, widowed by grief, looking for something to do and someone to talk to. James Anthony Lowry Snr, settling down with his flask and mug onto a weather beaten bench over a recently dug grave. Next to which an older, settled plot is marked by a smaller stone in The Sand Park, named for reasons soon divulged. There to talk to his son, James Anthony Jnr. His recently deceased wife, Rose, being given time to settle into the great beyond before joining their conversation. In which memory, history, hurling highlights, two demanding daughters, and a special love song recapture something still tangible. Where what is, what was and what has to be living in a tight knit, rural community creates a luxurious backdrop of ordinariness. O’Rourke’s ramblings as eloquent as poetry and as seemingly natural as thinking out loud. Like Pat Kinevane and Mikel Murfi, O’Rourke has fashioned part of his career from brilliant, self-created, one man monologues. Like that of James Anthony Snr. A gentle man bewildered by life, struggling with grief, raising two daughters, a dog called Trixie and trying to remember the exact words people use to describe things. Like the thingamy thing women are good at. You know the one. The ability to do lots of things at the same time. Multi-tasking. An apt description for O’Rourke’s deceptive script and performance, with both looking effortless, as if being made up on the spot. Meandering, folding in on itself, combining multiple ideas, themes and images that get dropped then later returned to. Looking haphazard when in truth it’s crafted with bewildering complexity. An extraordinary telling looking like the most ordinary thing. A world you irresistible lean into. O’Rourke ensuring you cry with laughter and laugh through tears. True, The Sand Park is touched by a pinch of sentiment, yet so is grieving. So are memories of a love well lived and a love that never got to live. Of a search for healing and the ability to go on for older men trying to find new ways to navigate a changing world. The Sand Park. Image uncredited While O’Rourke deserves every plaudit as writer, director and performer, Philip McIntyre's commanding set deserves its own acclaimed recognition. A wall dripping with foliage dominating the under appreciated theatre space that is The Viking stage. The Viking Theatre also deserving of recognition, celebrating its 14th year this week. The love child of Laura Dowdall and Andy Murray, the venue can be unfairly dismissed as catering to memory lane plays for an older audience. Which it unapologetically does, with some proving remarkably good, some not so good. But the venue offers so much more, including works of staggering quality. Acclaimed, aspiring; all shapes and sizes have graced its DIY boards. The award winning film Horseshoe, currently on nation-wide release, having risen out of a small group of scrappy mavericks who began as an in-house theatre company at The Viking. One of countless artists given a home, or whose work was given a stage to grace. It’s a thankless, tireless insanity running a space like The Viking. Fighting the good fight for independent artists looking for somewhere to perform. Like Seamus O’Rourke’s revival of The Sand Park. A hearfelt heartbreak, and hilariously moving experience. Confirming O’Rourke as a storytelling genius, an effortlessly charismatic performer, and a national treasure. And The Viking as a venue offering warm, welcoming, unwavering support for artists across the country. Take a bow, Viking Theatre. The Sand Park by Seamus’s O’Rourke, runs at The Viking Theatre until December 13. For more information visit The Viking Theatre

Neill Fleming, Carolyn Bracken, Eric O'Brien, Jed Murray in Horseshoe. Photo, Jaro Waldeck ***** Art is elevated by curious alchemies. That elusive X factor, a crackle of chemistry, the perfect light, chord, or brushstroke. Or by a holy alignment of cast, director(s) and screenplay. Alchemies realising something larger within the work. Like Horseshoe, the award winning, debut feature written by Adam O’Keeffe and directed by Edwin Mullane along with O’Keeffe. A taut tale set in the west of Ireland where four troubled siblings of the Canavan clan are given a twenty-four hour ultimatum following the reading of their late father’s will. A widowed patriarch whose ghost haunts his three sons and only daughter. Each in desperate need of redemption from a legacy of abuse that’s left them broke, bitter and estranged. Horseshoe delivering an emotional powerhouse weeks in the shooting and years in the making. Its core ensemble, wrought in the furnace of Dublin’s unforgiving theatre scene, displaying a near telepathic chemistry. Transforming Horseshoe into a divine cinematic experience, rich in dark magic and easy intensity. Made all the more resonant by the unapologetic economy of its telling. Jed Murray , Neill Fleming, Eric O'Brien, Carolyn Bracken in Horseshoe. Photo, Jaro Waldeck Theatre aficionados might have spotted the unsubtle play on Corp Ensemble. A talented company of theatre mavericks who began life in The Viking Theatre in 2016. Self-funded, self-motivated, earnestly sincere, this scrappy bunch of maverick can doers fought the unfunded odds in an effort to produce invigorating theatre, growing stronger and more capable with each new production. Until Covid and an impoverished theatre scene put paid to it all. Horseshoe reuniting several Corp Ensemble members whose shared history enlivens every scene. Irish cinema’s success recognising Irish theatre's failure. A medium where artists struggle to survive, let alone thrive. Mary Murray in Horseshoe. Photo, Jaro Waldeck With understated elegance, Horseshoe begins as it means to proceed, with deceptive simplicity. Leaning into mainstream arthouse ethos, Jass Foley's shadows of isolation are burnished with bruised, rusted light. If not quite hope, then resilience. Or the possibility of hope. Anna Malarkey’s music, coupled with songs by John Francis Flynn, offering evocatively sensitive commentary. Enveloping Jed Murray’s psychically wounded Jer striding reflectively through fields and mountains. Jer’s loneliness reinforced by the arrival of company. A spellbinding Lalor Roddy as the obstreperous, demeaning patriarch, Colm. Less a character so much as a stream of characters. Roddy capturing Colm’s various relationships with his children with exquisite clarity. Ghost or projection, Colm’s confluence of a bellowing Bull McCabe and ratchety Bird sees Jer instantly shrivel, his hulking mass reduced to a hollowed husk. Murray’s Jer a walking wound without a shred of self pity. Exuding childlike embarrassment at the unexpected interruption by Mary Murray’s beguilingly loveable Toni. Two figures on a country road struggling to meet. One of many images pregnant with loneliness made deeper when pressed against the warmth of hope. Singular images set against a cold, lonely landscape a recurring visual motif, beautifully subverted in the film’s final, heartwarming moments. Landscape serving up tone and mood at once breathtaking, desolate, immutable. Jed Murray and Lalor Roddy in Horseshoe. Photo, Jaro Waldeck Already it’s tempting to regard Horseshoe as reinforcing cliched, Irish stereotypes. Supernatural and psychological influences set against a familial history of whiskey fuelled violence. Like Eugene O’Neill, but with a picaresque backdrop. But O’Keeffe’s screenplay straddles a transitional cultural space. Sifting nuggets from the dross of Ireland’s Big House past and mixing them with elements from a gluten free, climate change, yoga practicing modernity. O’Keeffe’s language forged with muscular economy. Aphoristic, insightful; words pierce like phrased bullets fired with marksman precision. Words lesser things next to detailed performances wherein deeper truths reside. Carolyn Bracken, evoking a peroxide Bette Davis, illuminating the screen with a lexicon of tones, expressions and gestures in which syllables and silence tell stories. Bracken’s chameleon talent evident in the touching reveal of the sarcastic Cass’s softer soul during a questionable yoga practice. Even with her back to camera Bracken mesmerises as the world weary mother and sister, beaten but not defeated. A woman whose worldly success outshines that of her brothers. Lalor Roddy and Carolyn Bracken in Horseshoe. Photo, Jaro Waldeck Like the gormless hurler Evan. Eric O’Brien’s delightful concoction of Father Dougal and Lear’s perceptive fool. Evan’s childlike wisdom masking a hidden secret. It’s truth, apparent to all, hidden by a self denying innocence. Leading to a final confrontation as family and community collide in a beautifully exquisite resolution. The moment set alight by Neill Fleming’s tortured Niall. A dynamism of energy and wild, passionate laughter disguising ill concealed pain. A divorced father, trapped by the lawlessness of a blinded court system denying him access to his son, struggling with an indoctrinated urge to rage. His heart three parts love and a dynamite stick of anger likely to blow his, and every other world apart. Including that of Seán Doyle, superb as the good looking bad boy Ian. One of several supporting characters enriching Horseshoe’s intimate universe. Including John Connors in a brilliant comedic turn as the duplicitous Cormac, and Andy Crook in a juggling cameo. Neill Fleming, Carolyn Bracken, John Connors, Jed Murray, Eric O'Brien in Horseshoe. Photo, Jaro Waldeck Drained of faith and disillusioned by family, Horseshoe’s detailed character studies suggest darkness is not the absence of light but the pathway towards it. Living a stunted existence, alive just enough to feel there must be more, the Canavan clan must seek redemption through the very people that wounded them most. Tempering pain with comedy, but never using comedy to mask its wounds, Horseshoe’s dark night of four souls confronts psychic demons and psychology wounds by plunging into the heart of darkness whilst remaining irresistibly lightweight. Resisting lazy positivity, its joyous truths and understated charm resonate powerfully as a result. Horseshoe cinema as soul catharsis, as crisp and refreshing as a clear, winter’s sunrise. Refusing to spoon feed, to dumb itself or its audience down, Horseshoe acknowledges its audience’s intelligence in allowing them join the narrative dots. Never labouring points, never compromising, never condescending, its visual and narrative logic resists fluctuating intensities. Even as moments of rage, despair, or the need to cower beneath a table ensure you never settle into easy pessimism. The cry for joy and connection a beckoning backdrop that serves as both possibility and accusation. Neill Fleming, Carolyn Bracken in Horseshoe. Photo, Jaro Waldeck Where there’s a will there’s relatives. Where there’s a unique alignment of forged talent there’s art of staggering depth. For every accolade received, and those sure to come, Horseshoe deserves its recognition. For some it will not be enough. For others too much. Whatever is said, Horseshoe is a resoundingly brilliant debut. Winner of Best First Feature at the Galway Film Fleadh, Horseshoe goes on limited release nationwide from Friday, December 5th. Horseshoe, presented by WaveWalker Films & 3 Hot Whiskeys Films, written by Adam O’Keeffe, directed by Edwin Mullane & Adam O’Keeffe. Produced by Mo O’Connell, Edwin Mullane & Adam O’Keeffe. Executive Producers: Jeff Baggs, John Dennehy, Sean Bruen, Declan Bruen, John Leamy, Oisín O’Neill. Associate Producers: Hillary Dziminski, Ger Leamy, Keeley Smith, Johnny Mooney.

Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin. Image, Ros Kavanagh *** It’s often claimed texting is responsible for the demise of good writing. Resorting to acronyms, emojis and words without vowels. Which still doesn't account for the upturn in problematic playwriting. Take Barbara Bergin's Dublin Gothic. An ambitious, three and half hour, award nominated litany of trun out details. Its tone suggesting an official reading of Anecdotal Records from a Tenement Life Report, circa 1830 to 1982, complete with encyclopaedic glossary. Begging the question, WT actual F? By which we mean what’s the actual finances being spent here? Back to back big budget, big cast, durational offerings at The Abbey suggesting investment in the semi-dark Peacock might have better served the development of new writing. Mind you, given recent works like The Revenger’s Tragedy, some might prefer for The Peacock to remain dark. Sarah Morris, Erika Roe, Thommas Kane Byrne and Emmet Farrell in Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin. Image, Ros Kavanagh In a nutshell, Bergin’s generational love letter to Dublin doesn’t deliver what it says on the tin. Being less a play so much as a distressed novel looking for excitement by masquerading as story telling theatre. One where everything is told and little is shown as we follow a series of wronged women residing at the same address over several troubled decades. Proverbial mothers, virgins and whores given vivid life by the incomparable Sarah Morris. Nor is Dublin Gothic an epic, despite a truncated Greek chorus and efforts to cram a century and a half of information down the audience’s throat. It’s not even a series of stories so much as a same old story. That of a put upon woman and waster man and the impact on their children over generations. Except the women are not the real voices. Though they’ve endless walk on parts, there’s only one central character and that's Bergin. No matter who's talking, the author’s narrating voice is all we truly hear. Building a limiting picture from reportage details punching above their literary weight. Text, like its use of language based comedy, landing an occasional good line, captive phrase or fleeting insight. Mostly it lacks rhythm and timing, ensuring relentlessly flailing punches frequently miss their mark as we jump from the 1830s to the 1910s, the 1950s to the early 1980s in a dull blur of details. Áine Ní Laoghaire, Denise McCormack, Gus McDonagh, Sarah Morris, Roxanna Nic Liam, Kate Gilmore, Clara Fitzgerald and Penny Morris in Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin. Image, Ros Kavanagh Most significantly, this is not Dublin but a mirrored, multi-verse, fictionalised alternative. A game of spot the reference; Brendan Behan, Matt Talbot and Father Michael Cleary to name but a few. A Dublin minus its core, where the untidy threads of one family’s history highlight poverty, emigration, Catholicism, landlords, sex work, AIDs, the patriarchy, add your own. A veneer of social history at which you don’t dare blink less you miss another heavy handed detail flying past. Abortion, crude sex, and women abandoned by lustful men establishing a narrative baseline for three and a half hours. In fairness, it never feels it. Clara Fitzgerald, Kenneth Hudson, Joshua McEneaney, Roxanna Nic Liam, Sarah Morris and Emmet Farrell in Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin. Image, Ros Kavanagh Issues don't lie entirely with Bergin. Director Caroline Byrne’s staging is rarely deeper than deftly moving bodies from place to place. Byrne shining a wide social floodlight, rather than an emotionally deep spotlight, leaving the whole hurried and hollowed out, with blurred characters reduced to rough sketches on Jamie Vartan’s imposing set. Its skeletal interior of a haunted tenement frame sees a cellar evoke an archaeological and theatrical past. The whole resembling pop art, comic book panels, each competing for attention rather than leading the eye. Madeline Boyd’s costumes reinforcing clichés whilst Aédin Cosgrove’s lights look so dim they suggest they're trying to keep the electricity bill down. Giles Thomas’s cinematic compositions arriving quietly, like they’re embarrassed and not entirely comfortable being there, evident in painful attempts at half baked songs. Meanwhile a superlative cast confirm the well-known truism: strong performances cannot elevate a weak play. Karen Ardiff, Jonathan Delaney Tynan, Carolyn Donnelly, Seán Duggan, Emmet Farrell, Clara FitzGerald, Kate Gilmore, Kenneth Hudson, Thommas Kane Byrne, Barry John Kinsella, Denise McCormack, Gus McDonagh, Joshua McEneaney, Dan Monaghan, Penny Morris, Roxanna Nic Liam, Áine Ní Laoghaire and Ericka Roe giving life to the one hundred character scraps thrown to them. Monaghan, McDonagh, Gilmore, Kane Byrne, Ardiff, Kinsella, Ni Laoghaire and the dream duo of Roe and Sarah Morris standing out in an invested ensemble. Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin. Image, Ros Kavanagh Nostalgically sentimental once the house lights decline, this is Dublin City built from rare old times. Delivering a salacious page turner more Jackie Collins than Michael Collins. Fifteen years in the making, Bergin’s ghostly aspirations are true and sincere, with Dublin Gothic a dynamo of energy and aspiration. Yet thematically dwarfed by Ulysses and Strumpet City, theatrically Dublin Gothic is dwarfed by the ghost of O’Casey and the spirit of ANU. A company who have definitively chronicled invisible histories, frequently of women, from Dublin’s rich and varied past over the past decade. Next to which Dublin Gothic looks redundant, having too much to say and too little to offer. As memory, history and culture, Dublin Gothic is a well intentioned conflict of medium and message. It’s said a play might be good, but not good enough to be an Abbey play. Begging, yet again, the question, wt actual f? One wonders if rethinking such standards might not be overdue. Dublin Gothic by Barbara Bergin, runs at The Abbey Theatre until January 31st, 2026. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Lloyd Hutchinson in A Christmas Carol. Image, Ros Kavanagh **** T’is the season. The season for Charles Dickens iconic A Christmas Carol, guaranteed to be playing at a venue near you. And why wouldn’t it? It remains the most captivating Christmas tale of all time even though it’s been endlessly reimagined. Throwing yet another reimagining into the ring, the Gate Theatre presents Neil Bartlett's clunky interpretation from 2002. One that leans into Alistair Sim’s 1951 classic movie, borrowing much of its detail but none of its depth, its incident but none of its rhythm, its themes but none of its charm. Trading emotion for energy director Claire O'Reilly whisks up a Christmas confection in which the young are sure to be swept away. Caught up in touches of horror, carnival, children’s tv, and a sprinkle or two of pantomime. Fiona Bell and Lloyd Hutchinson in A Christmas Carol. Image, Ros Kavanagh It's still the same old story. Four ghosts visit miserly Scrooge on Christmas Eve reminding him of who he was, and who he became, so that he might learn to keep Christmas better than anyone. An invested ensemble of Fiona Bell, Wren Dennehy, Emmet Kirwin, Maeve O'Mahony, Ian O'Reilly, Michael Tient, and Síofra Ní Éilí cohering as a unit playing a cast of thousands like adults in a 70s children’s tv programme. Satellites circling Lloyd Hutchinson's bah humbug windbag of a Scrooge. As is usually the case with A Christmas Carol you know where it's all going, the question is how is it going to get there? The answer is like a piece of pop up Street Theatre. A Morality Play with songs. O’Reilly, exploiting Bartlett’s use of rhyming verse which supports songs, sing song and singalongs, leans heavily into the carolling of the title, with carols and bells used as recurring musical motifs. A Christmas Carol. Image, Ros Kavanagh Under O'Reilly's direction A Christmas Carol steers towards the current rather than the classic. Good Teeth’s whirling bed frame, like a Christmas market stall, John Gunning’s shadowed lights, and Catherine Fays’ shabby costumes conspiring to low budget staging. As if Scrooge had foot the design bill prior to his conversion. Yet low-key visuals, with Gunning’s lights and Fay’s costumes adding the occasional impressive flourish, pay off in their way. If, like gluten free Christmas pudding, they get the job done without being all that tasty, they reinforce the Punch and Judy, street theatre vibe O’Reilly frames Bartlett’s script in, flattering it far beyond anything it deserves. A Christmas Carol. Image, Ros Kavanagh O’Reilly’s street theatre ethos very much in evidence with scenes played in the auditorium, including the appearance of Marley’s ghost. Carl Kennedy’s sound foregrounding the supernatural with loud, shocking noises also playing with basic level theatricality which, if it works, don’t fix it. Leaving Gunning’s occasional stadium level light array, and David Van Wolvelaere’s spectacular digital imagery, like the ghost of Christmas Future, looking out of place against dated, tacky visuals such as the Ghost Train costumed Grim Reaper. A Christmas Carol stronger when it adheres to its street ethic and children’s tv ethos and keeps it simple for the kiddies. Wren Dennehy and Lloyd Hutchinson in A Christmas Carol. Image, Ros Kavanagh If The Gate’s 2019 A Christmas Carol was a five course feast for all the family, its 2025 offering leans into street food chic for children. Playing liveliness against a militant humbuggery, it makes its easy points easily. Still, where grown ups might see an old man with a white beard, children see Santa. O'Reilly's A Christmas Carol delivering a show for children of all ages. A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, adapted by Neil Bartlett, runs at The Gate Theatre till January 18th, 2026. For more information visit The Gate Theatre

Luke Griffin in The Kiss. Image, Amelia Stewart Keating ***** There’s something in the water at Bewley's Café Theatre. That, or their ascendant star sign is in lunar retrograde signalling a particularly propitious moment. How else can you explain lightning striking the same place and in the same manner twice? The little theatre that could delivering back to back, five star productions. Stuart Roche’s tautly scripted, exquisitely performed and superbly directed one hander, Shard, followed by a tautly scripted, exquisitely performed and superbly directed one hander, The Kiss. A cracking revival of Jimmy Murphy’s monologue which Lee Coffey directs with sensitivity and grace. In which Luke Griffin is born to play a grieving man awaiting a court verdict after his partner is killed following a homophobic assault. 2015 proves a significant year. Marked, consciously or otherwise, by a Hophouse 13 display in a dimmed echo of a once thriving bar. Where an unsteady Eddie smuggles in a shoulder of vodka to top up his drink as he awaits the jury’s verdict. Aside from being the year The Kiss premiered at the much missed Theatre Upstairs, and when Hophouse 13 first came on the market, 2015 was also the year of the Marriage Equality Referendum. If time has tempered some of its facts, especially those around legal rights for same sex couples, the play remains painfully prescient. For the fact remains that homophobic assault is still a real and present danger. Luke Griffin in The Kiss. Image, Amelia Stewart Keating Murphy understands that the most powerful polemics are people. The flesh and blood of lived experience saying far more than activist rhetoric. Murphy’s determination to put character first paying huge dividends. The Kiss less a lecture so much as a personal encounter with the quotidian details of a life glazed with tragedy. Eddie’s Hinterland informed by our shared humanity. Direct address recounting having to move back home with his parents and a taxi job to pay them for the privilege, a life changing visit to Barcelona, his first encounter with lover Val and their plans and hopes similar to all who risk a life together, be they gay, straight or otherwise. Structurally, the offstage courtroom not only supplies real time context, it highlights how life is shaped by things outside our control, be they assaults, scurrilous barristers, or verdicts that can never undo what was done. Tensions Murphy sensitively explores rather than sensationally exploits. Griffin's Eddie a man trying to hold it together rather than a victim falling apart. Never making a big display of pain but looking uncomfortable and embarrassed by it. Wrapped in self-blame Eddie endures his survival, living through the emptiness of going on when you can't go on. Talking calmly so you can't hear him scream. Each raised tone, each flicker of anger, each momentary pause landing like a hammer blow for not trying to emotionally bludgeon you. Instead, Griffin effortlessly breaks your heart. Coffey’s gentle direction, like a skilled gondolier, keeping the craft on its smooth, straight course with fleet, imperceptible course corrections. Luke Griffin in The Kiss. Image, Amelia Stewart Keating Retrospective narratives often make for poor plays. Especially those that don’t end so much as stop at the crucial moment. The tragedy of The Kiss lies not in will they or won't they be exonerated, but that the beating should never have happened in the first place. It's easy to forget that pre-referendum same sex, public displays of affection were seen as transgressive acts that could invite danger. If legally that danger is criminalised, the danger still remains. The Kiss offering a poignant reminder that we’ve still some distance to go before live and let live becomes a reality rather than empty last words. A first class script, excellently directed, with a beautifully judged performance, The Kiss packs a lifetime into a lunchtime. The Kiss by Jimmy Murphy, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until November 29. For more information visit. Bewley’s Café Theatre

Marion O'Dwyer and Mark Lambert in Ferocity. Image, Ciarán Bagnall **** The 1980s cemented the shift from who we were as a nation towards who we might become. A decade in which Catholic conservatism gave way to social unrest. Christian O’Reilly’s family drama, Ferocity, set in a Big House in North Kerry over the Christmas season tapping into the tensions of the time. Between old traditions and the emerging young. Between keeping secrets and being freed by the truth. O’Reilly’s composite of theatrical styles converging in a kitchen sink drama which flings several kitchen sinks into its jumbled mix. The result an untidy concoction of competing conventions infused with moments of brilliance. . Marion O'Dwyer, Molly Logan, Clelia Murphy, Aisling Kearns and Patrick Ryan in Ferocity. Image, Ciarán Bagnall It’s been a time since we’ve had a new Christmas play to equal, say, The Man Who Came To Dinner. Ferocity, alas, isn’t it. Initially you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. With English accents sounding like strained Noel Coward action opens on Christmas Eve 1981, at a quirky family gathering in Aunt Alice’s house to celebrate the festive season. The matriarchal spinster Alice, and her tank topped brother Roger, hosting the sensitive Rose and her peace at any price daughter Sally, along with Sally's window smashing son Kevin. Sally’s estranged husband, the belligerent writer Jonathan, adding fuel to the family fires with his unfiltered, drunken outbursts. Ensuring housemaid Cathy is in for a rollicking good Christmas watching the comedic sparks fly. Patrick Ryan and Ronan Harney in Ferocity. Image, Ciarán Bagnall Except nothing is quite as it appears, narratively or theatrically. Alice, a restrained Marion O’Dwyer, has a pressing secret. O’Dwyer excelling as a woman realising everything she thought she knew was wrong whilst trying to make everything right. Aisling Kearn’s beautifully tempered Sally concealing her own secret; a spine of acumen beneath her apparent fudging around life’s edges. Even Molly Logan’s earthy maid Cathy has a dark secret to tell. But the biggest secret belongs to young Ronan Harney as Kevin. The sensational thirteen year old, oozing presence, having to flip flop between Enid Blyton character and Adolescence level intensity, the latter which he delivers with silence alone. Kevin’s need of a father finding an invested Patrick Ryan as man-child Jonathan swanning about boisterously like a pantomime villain. Even as the real villain is hid in plain sight. Ronan Harney and Aisling Kearns in Ferocity. Image, Ciarán Bagnall Switching uneasily between Noel Coward comedy and Eugene O’Neill tragedy, Ferocity makes impossible demands. Yet it proves richer than its clumsily assembled parts as director Andrew Flynn astutely plays each scene allowing the whole to land where it may. When funny, Flynn can ensure funny. Or, as in a devastatingly brilliant scene post intermission, tease out tensions of unbearable intensity. The young Harney and a spellbinding Mark Lambert strikingly brilliant in a skin crawling encounter. A monumental Lambert making you like Roger, hate him, then hate yourself for liking him. Lambert, along with a vastly underused Clelia Murphy as the ditzy Rose, a polar star of undimmed brilliance in Ferocity’s bright constellation. Murphy’s mesmerisingly detailed performance simply extraordinary in its expressiveness. Ferocity rounded out by Ciarán Bagnall’s lights and set. A compromise of compact convenience immersed, like Sinead Cuthbert’s costumes, in classic tones. Leaving Carl Kennedy’s music design to best convey the period through its time conscious soundtrack. Along with an ever present Atari console that remains unopened. Like that ever happened. Aisling Kearns, Clelia Murphy and Mark Lambert in Ferocity. Image, Ciarán Bagnall Like twins of good and evil, there’s a powerful family tragedy and delightful Christmas comedy incubating inside Ferocity. If only they would get out of each other’s way. Instead, they fight for dominance, shifting between heart rending scenes of devastating power to moments of brash humour about drunken sex on a chaise lounge. Ferocity relying on pop psychology tropes as its hurried end arrives via an overly self-conscious monologue and a convenient, get out of jail conceit. Even so, when it’s good, as it most often is, Ferocity is very, very good indeed, with Lambert and Murphy worth the price of admission alone. Then there’s Harney, announcing himself as a bright young talent for the future. And that scene, post intermission. So harrowingly brilliant it forgives, condemns, and elevates everything around it. Ferocity by Christian O’Reilly, directed by Andrew Flynn, presented by Magic Pill Productions in association with Town Hall Theatre and Decadent Theatre Company, runs at The Mick Lally Theatre, Druid Lane, until November 15. For more information visit Decadent Theatre Company or Druid Theatre.

Liath Hannon in The Dolldrums. Image, Isabel Hamilton **** While the 21st century embraces more trans artists, the 1970s was when gender fluidity went mainstream. From Bowie to Bryan Ferry, Rocky Horror to Roxy Music, the body as a site of gendered performance was being constantly questioned and reframed. Artists like Leigh Bowery, pushing at the boundaries of androgyny and presentation, paving a path for artists that followed. Like Liath Hannon. Whose play The Dolldrums embraces similar interrogations of the body’s relationship to self and society. Transsexual woman Lily wrestling with her subconscious as she navigates a world which has no place for her, and only a sexualised place for her body. Following a serial killer styled prologue, Lily makes her grand entrance in Jodie Doyle’s centre piece costume, hinting Sunset Boulevard meets Josephine Baker. Utilising key birth years, she unfolds her story of life pre and post operation. Recounting the 90s and her first boyfriend who didn't know she was a boy, and later her college lover who she never told she was once a male. Lily not a liar so much as a pragmatist by her own reckoning. But she’s a lie unto her unconscious self. If pragmatism affords her a social defence, Lily's defences are killing her. Ruairi Nicholl’s role-call of violent, red masked men doing the dirty work of inflicting Lily’s death wish suicide. Agents for her unconscious who’s clearly got a societal agenda. Ruairi Nicholl and Liath Hannon in The Dolldrums. Image, Isabel Hamilton Part monologue, part performance of a performance, The Dolldrums occupies an untidy space between performance art, one person confessional and theatre performance. Even so, structurally, The Dolldrums coheres as a Netflix, ready-made screenplay with questionable contrivances concerning who knew what or how much? Flirting at the edge of transgression, there's an uneasy relationship between body and stage with a shy exhibitionism informing countless costume changes. Ultan de Stáinleigh’s superb sound design an unsung hero of mood and atmosphere. Along with Doyle’s throbbing red set, evoking Amsterdam’s red light district with its promise of seedy sex. Making for a telling contrast with a girl who only wants to stand before a boy and hear him tell her he loves her. As evidenced in her breakthrough performance in Girls & Boys; the camera simply adores Hannon. The stage, however, is a more problematic relationship. Hannon’s expressive immediacy constrained without the close up of the lens. Her presence and personality, though undeniable, lacking sufficient self-confidence to command a stage alone just yet. Evident in far away stares self-consciously avoiding eye contact, poor voice projection, and an emotional stiffness that sounds like The Dolldrums is being recited rather than performed. Yet how else can you learn but by doing? Director Ois O'Donoghue elevating both script and performance into something profoundly moving and visually engaging. Composing strong stage images, ensuring energy and flow cohere and that space and body yield up their full riches. Putting a shine on Lily’s polished poise whilst being true to her unvarnished honesty. O’Donoghue cementing their reputation as one of the most intriguing young directors around. Liath Hannon in The Dolldrums. Image, Isabel Hamilton 70s comedian Johnnie Casson often joked, “wherever you go, there you are.” Which encapsulates the core dilemma of The Dolldrums. Lily may change her body, change her boyfriends, change her careers and change countries, but she cannot change herself. Her learned pragmatism, in a world mediated through the same old experiences as self-fulfilling prophecies, sees history repeating itself for a woman with no sense of history. But there’s hope in seeing prophecy for what it is: a societal imposed judgement, potentially fatal, unconsciously embraced. Hannon challenging her own limitations in a brave, hugely impressive production. Whose clever play on the title’s original meaning and the colloquial term ‘doll’, which refers to transsexual women, sees The Dolldrums fashion a trans story that can speak to the mainstream. Confirming Jaxbanded’s posse of exciting young talents are destined to go far. The Dolldrums by Liath Hannon, presented by Jaxbanded Theatre, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until November 8. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre

Celine Byrne and cast in Madama Butterfly. Image, Ros Kavanagh ***** There’s a tedious tendency to present classic operas as political polemics. Costumed in modern military uniforms that speak to colonialism, fascism, or the latest troubled war zone. Suggesting an opera has become so dated it’s incapable of standing on its original two feet. A tendency Puccini's Madama Butterfly from 1904 has frequently succumbed to. Not so Irish National Opera's current production, co-produced with Scottish Opera, despite the temptation of low hanging fruit. American exceptionalism, inferior races, a 15-year-old girl taken sexual advantage of by an exploitive, older man; the polemic practically writes itself. But director Daisy Evans resists the obvious to get back to basics. Slow cooking the complex emotional richness of Puccini's tragic opera to release its full, sumptuous flavours. Delivering an intoxicatingly beautiful production that delivers a far more potent polemic as a result. Tapping into a rich vein already present in Puccini’s classic. Ewan Gaster, Celine Byrne and Hyona Kim in Madama Butterfly. Image, Ros Kavanagh Like turning a ship’s wheel one degree, Evan’s takes a whole new trajectory without appearing to have changed course. Making you realise what was always there, reclaimed to reveal the unbearable emotional intensity of Puccini’s music and Giuseppe Giacosa and Luigi Illica’s libretto. Unfolding the tale of Cio-Cio-San, a 15 year-old Japanese child bride abandoned by her heartless American husband, Pinkerton, with whom she has a child. Alienated, rejected by her people, she desperately waits his return. The action reframed to foreground Cio-Cio-San's nameless, relinquished son discovering the truth of his birth mother upon his father’s death. His adoptive mother, Kate, presenting him with a suitcase of memories so he can uncover the truth of his Japanese heritage. Kat Heath's sliding panels and satin screens, washed in Jake Wilshire’s pastel watercolours, shadowed silhouettes, or blushes of vigorous light evoking classic Japanese prints. Images frequently tempered by mists of dry ice or cherry blossom petals. Japanese culture encoded in Catherine Fay’s excellent costumes. A superlative, collective design framing rather than imposing itself over action and singing. The stage’s templed corridor endlessly reframing like the aperture of a camera lens, facilitating close-ups or deepening perspective through which the fated Butterfly’s story unfolds. Madama Butterfly. Image, Ros Kavanagh Symbolic foreshadowing in the opening image sees mezzo-soprano Imelda Drumm’s Kate, dressed like a German governess, cradling a teddy bear waving an American flag. As if the teddy bear was being claimed as American property. Throughout, her ghostly presence lingers, along with Sorrow, Cio-Cio-San’s son, who stalks the stage offering silent commentary as spectator and accuser. Repositioning Madama Butterly as a memory opera built from interlocking flashbacks. The final act sharing focus between Cio-Cio-San and an older man taking care to his child self. The effect rendering the eponymous heroine even more visible. Deepening the tragedy of a young girl who believes her romanticised ideals rather than life's lived experience. Madama Butterfly juxtaposing cynical and romanticised love in which the same expressions are given opposing meanings, each one false; one intentionally so, the other naïvely. The ever present Sorrow, for whom memory explodes illusions, tapping into Puccini’s luxuriant, emotional simplicity and elevating Madama Butterfly beyond an empty rhetoric of romantic despair. If not quite elevating its delusional heroine beyond naivety, it accords her greater dignity and, ultimately, agency. Celine Byrne in Madama Butterfly. Image, Ros Kavanagh All that being the tip of the tip of an emotionally expressive iceberg. Irish National Opera Orchestra, under conductor Fergus Shiel, allowing Puccini’s score to rise, sweep, tumble or draw breath, most notably during the vigil where the full heft of its wait is felt. Whether a fifteen minute seduction, the repetition of key musical phrases, or informing the final image Shiel never rushes the score, but savours its lush, emotional complexity. Against which singing visibly deepens in power and intensity as the action progresses. Tenor Otar Jorjikia as the duplicitous Pinkerton, baritone Iurii Samoilov as the moral conscience Sharpless, bass-baritone John Molloy as the patriarchal Bonze, and tenor Peter Van Hulle as glorified pimp Goro each mesmerising. As is mezzo-soprano Hyona Kim as maid Suzuki, who leaves you wishing for more. Satellites circling soprano Celine Byrne who is peerless as a vibrant Cio-Cio-San. From impressionable ingénue to passionate mother, Byrne infuses Cio-Cio-San with youthful intensity and openheartedness, and her singing is superb. Michael Mullen as the silent Sorrow, and a delightful Ewan Gaster as the younger Sorrow deepening the impact of the Butterfly’s tragedy. Michael Mullen and Celine Byrne in Madama Butterfly. Image, Ros Kavanagh Opera is an imperfect art form. Yet despite its melodramatic contrivances, at its core lies integrity and a heartfelt humanity. Lose that and what remains is stunning spectacle and beautiful sounds. In which songs, technically proficient, remain emotionally flaccid. Not so INO’s Madama Butterfly. From solos to duets, quartets to chorus, off stage singing to utter silence, Puccini’s conspiracy of emotional intensity undulates with new freshness. An opera for all time, Madama Butterfly is not to be missed. Madama Butterfly by Giacomo Puccini, libretto by Giuseppe Giacosa and Luigi Illica, presented by Irish National Opera in a co-production with Scottish Opera, in association with Bord Gáis Energy Theatre, runs at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre November, 4th, 6th and 8th. For more information visit Irish National Opera or Bord Gáis Energy Theatre

Neill Fleming in Stuart Roche's Shard. Image, uncredited ***** Perhaps he's homeless, this barefoot man in threadbare clothes stalking the round. Perhaps he belongs to a cult. Ferocious intensity, excessive nervousness and outbursts of Renfield cackles give weight to the possibility of mental health issues. The air around him vibrating with violence, like a war veteran with PTSD. Skin covered in dirt, Elizabeth Boykewich’s costume of worn waistcoat, camouflage trousers and Keffiyeh scarf evoke a Palestinian crawled out from under the rubble. His thick beard a resolution of defiance against bureaucracy, capitalism and death. But his eyes hold secrets, unfolding in a slow burning tale. In Stuart Roche's superbly adroit Shard, one man’s attempt to leave corporate society exacts an unexpected sacrifice. Roche's one man character study, brilliantly directed by Alan Smyth, given animal life by an electrifying Neill Fleming in an astounding, career defining performance. Under Smyth’s vitalising direction, Roche's critically acclaimed radio play is transformed into a visceral piece of story telling theatre. Smyth, along with Fleming, mining Roche’s script for rich veins of interpretive possibility. Smartly allowing physical action to establish context; Fleming gluttonously drinks tea and shovels digestive biscuits into his mouth even as his gums cause him to wince in agony. He takes time before speaking, making the audience his confidants. Facts revealing his character’s name as Spooner, a man psychically concussed by a demeaning, if lucrative job in finance which fuels the end time fires. Spooner lured by the charismatic Kemp and the mysterious, if barely sketched Dominique, to sell most of his possessions, abandon his economically comfortable life style, and move to a commune island off the coast of Mayo. There to live at one with the spirits of nature. Discovering that whatever life you pursue exacts a sacrifice. Spooner’s new found hope exacting a price from an older, blood drenched tradition. Neill Fleming in Stuart Roche's Shard. Image, uncredited A parable of worry, with tense energy and dream like drift, beneath the pseudo simplicities of Roche's script deeper themes emerge. Including an interrogation of the societal and political impact of late stage Capitalism on a struggling Ireland, alongside tensions between the mythic and the secular. Ideas conveyed as personal experiences. Fleshed out by an invigorating performance in which Fleming doesn’t so much point a finger at the moon as fling both hands wide to reveal galaxies, pulsars, black holes and supernovas. Fleming’s gravitational pull utterly irresistible. A towering strength of immense vulnerability, Fleming leaves Lear’s rage sounding like an apologetic whisper. His unremitting performance disturbing the comfortable and comforting the disturbed. Fleming, knowing you should never roar to excess, softens with pain, humour, or conversational normalcy, supplying nuance and subtlety that enrich the whirling tornado. Even so, Shard is not without its flaws. If Colm Maher’s lights craft sensitive texturing, Amelia Anello’s sound design proves intrusive and a million miles short of Fleming’s superlative performance, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb. Roche’s script could also benefit from some judicious pruning to heighten its impact. Also, its set up of horrific, mythic forces could have been better exploited, structured and balanced. Yet all is forgiven by Fleming, who delivers one of the most striking performances of this, or any year. Every artist, if they persist and have the requisite talent, breaks through to the other side of brilliance. Roche’s Shard being touched by the aura of brilliance, with Fleming’s performance, from crossed toes to mastery of accents, being brilliance incarnate. Whose final, masterful revelation speaks to the dangers of seeking escapist resolutions. Tense, overwhelmingly powerful, superbly directed and performed, Shard raises as many questions as it addresses, but its power, and Fleming’s sensational performance, are impossible to resist. Shard, by Stuart Roche, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until November 8. For more information visit. Bewley’s Café Theatre

Patrick O'Kane and Anna Healy in Denouement. Image, Ciaran Bagnall **** If Millennials aren’t aging well, in John Morton’s dystopian Denouement, Gen Alpha doesn't get to age at all. Doomed to die in the not so distant future as the world is destroyed during their watch. Married Millennial's Liam and Edel wiling away their final hours in the societal wilderness that is The Sticks. Liam typing a hard copy of his memoirs which no one will likely read, Edel attempting to contact their emigrant children for a final goodbye. Meanwhile, their marriage is crumbling around them. Leaning into sci-fi apocalypse, Denouement comes up sci-fi short. Its weak ploy of society tethering on the brink of collapse facilitating an introduction to Existentialism 101. Positing Camus’ suicide dilemma; how to live in the face of an impending, absurd and meaningless death? Denouement punching above its philosophical and sci-fi weight. Yet, under Jimmy Fay’s well honed direction, landing some killer blows and winning on points. Anna Healy in Denouement. Image, Ciaran Bagnall As sci-fi allegories go, Morton’s real time affair never compellingly articulates its dystopian universe. Luckily designer Maree Kearns picks up the slack and fashions a windswept, Universal Horror night-scape engulfing a bric a brac shed of broken pasts and breaking technologies piled high and ready to totter. Chris Warner’s sound and compositions delivering irregular interruptions of booms, barks, radio transmissions and on the nose retro tunes from Billie Joe Spears to Patrick Hernandez. Kearns and Warner's terrific designs transforming Morton’s lazily sketched metaphor into a vivid reality. One richly informing the play’s uneasy relationship between intimacy and distance. Papering over a lack of tension as, dramatically, it's hard to get excited about will he, won’t he finish his memoir, or make her call, before the final countdown blows the world to bits. Like Edel craving her husband’s attention, Denouement makes something of an ask of your indulgence. Patrick O'Kane and Anna Healy in Denouement. Image, Ciaran Bagnall Which is handsomely repaid by a terrific Anna Healy and Patrick O’Kane. A loving, lovelorn couple caught between the lure of nostalgia and living in the moment when the moment is one you don’t want to live in. Looking to give their lives and marriage meaning by navigating a personal litany of half baked failures and misunderstandings to arrive at something that resembles closure. A kitchen sink drama with a pretty unique sink. Offering simplistic, sentimental answers inadequate to the depth of Denouement’s questions. Even so, the final image speaks to truth. As does a wild dance sequence on some of the fastest acting cocaine ever snorted, a zoom call when pretence is dropped, the relentless typing to leave some etching of legacy, and a momentary phone call that heals an eternity and seeks, as does Denouement, to speak to our crying need for connection. Patrick O'Kane and Anna Healy in Denouement. Image, Ciaran Bagnall “When nothing makes sense, the only thing to hold onto is sense.” Alas, that’s like repeating the same action and hoping for a different outcome. And assumes we know what sense is. A muddled meander down memory lane to give meaning to something that requires none? Whatever rocks your Armageddon boat, and Denouement certainly rocks on occasion. If it punches above its sci-fi and philosophical weight, at least it’s in the ring taking swings at the bigger, meatier questions. As is Lyric Theatre, Belfast. Preparing to celebrate 75 years of some of the finest, most exciting theatre during 2026. Denouement, by John Morton, runs at Lyric Theatre, Belfast, until November 15. For more information visit Lyric Theatre, Belfast

Deidamia. Image, Pádraig Grant **** When it comes to spectacle, conductor and director George Petrou knows a thing or two. Petrou’s revival of Handel’s oft forgotten opera seria, Deidamia, announcing itself with the visual excitement of a theme park simulator ride. Dark billowing clouds, bodies arising from the dead, all gob smackingly gorgeous to behold. Petrou’s production a Grecian theme park in which myth marries modern. Homer colliding with Shirley Valentine’s tourists as the past contrasts, competes, compliments and bleeds into the present. Yet like all theme parks there's a painfully long wait before the ride kicks in. Paulo Antonio Rolli’s strained libretto trapped between duelling tensions it never resolved. Explaining, in part, why Deidamia disappeared after only a handful of performances following its premiere in 1741 and wasn’t revived till the twentieth century. It being a very good thing that it was. Handel’s Deidamia presenting one of opera’s most formidable and memorable heroines. Deidamia. Image, Pádraig Grant Story proves a lightweight affair, in which king Lycomedes hides the young Achilles, disguised as a maiden, to forestall the prophecy of Achilles death in the Trojan war. Prompting a disguised Ulysses to seek out the hidden hero. Whose love of hunting, amongst other things, rouses suspicions. The matter complicated by Deidamia, passionately in love with a bi-curious Achilles (remember Patroclus), being apparently pursued by Ulysses. The tension between love of country and the heart’s true love as old as time. Given modern resonance as the bittersweet end arrives. Bruno de Sá in Deidamia. Image, Pádraig Grant Whilst Rolli’s libretto trots along nicely when confined to narrative, a tendency to wax lyrical, and wax badly, produces long passages of asinine aphorisms and bad poetry one step from a Hallmark card and a million miles from wisdom. Meaning that lots gets said but little is of interest, with less of interest actually happening. Even in 1741 it must have presented a challenge. That, and Baroque going against the new, prevailing operatic winds was sure to signal Deidamia’s demise. But Baroque has many charms, including a high degree of individual vocal virtuosity and a love of visual spectacle, both very much in evidence here. Giorgina Germanou’s dexterous set elevated to heavenly heights by Arnim Friess’s spectacular projection designs. Which includes an underwater interlude and an AI Odyssey you never knew you wanted. Deidamia. Image, Pádraig Grant Sung in Italian with English surtitles, some ravenously beautiful singing proves divine in solo and rapturous when harmonised. A rollercoaster rise and plummeting through scales that’s near orgasmic at one point. Countertenors Bruno de Sá as Achilles, and Nicolò Balducci as Ulysses, delivering a superb blend of playfulness and passion. Baritone Rory Musgrave’s Fenice, in love with soprano Sarah Gilford’s Nerea, finds the object of his desire doing things with scales not done in polite company. Soprano Sophie Junker as Deidamia delivering a powerhouse performance as a strong, capable woman who refuses when accused to succumb to victimhood, or to accept what the fates have decreed without a fight. If the final image cedes the stage to Achilles, it’s the wrong choice; de Sa’s Achilles might steal the scenes, Junker’s Deidamia steals the show. Sophie Junker and Bruno de Sá in Deidamia. Image, Pádraig Grant Baroque and Handel don’t immediately top operatic best of lists. But Petrou has dusted off all reservations and delivered a top draw production with some truly sublime singing. One that reclaims Baroque opera as something to be enjoyed rather than endured. In which Junker’s towering performance reclaims one of opera’s true feminist heroines. Deidamia by George Frideric Handel, libretto by Paolo Antonio Rolli, runs as part of Wexford Festival Opera 2025, in a co-production with Göttingen International Handel Festival, at O’Reilly Theatre, National Opera House October 18th, 22nd, 26th, and 30th. For more information visit Wexford Festival Opera 2025.