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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 31 st  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 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. Such as 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 to 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, Horsesho e 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, Ciar á n 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, Ciar á n 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, Ciar á n 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, Ciar á n 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, Ciar á n 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 .

Sarah Richmond in Carmen. Image Pádraig Grant. ***** It bears repeating, a pocket opera is not opera minus the boring bits. It's an abridged opera. Like a taster menu. A collection of tapa sized moments of operatic deliciousness to tempt the inexperienced towards a five course meal. A way to introduce the curious to the joys of an opera, and the seasoned to memories of one. Like La Tragédie De Carmen from 1981, script adapted by Peter Brook and Jean-Claude Carrière, with score adapted by Marius Constant. George Bizet 's classic opera reframed yet retaining its original passion. Posing something of a problem given it packs more pleasure into its punchy pocket than many a full scale production. Tom Deazley's direction and mezzo-soprano Sarah Richmond reminding you the best gifts often do come in small packages. Those who take issue with broad gender tropes might find La Tragédie De Carmen's framing a little dated. But dig deeper and tropes are being challenged, evident in a revised, mirrored ending. The opening still very much as it was. Virginal good girl, Micaela, in love with upstanding police officer, Don José, loses him to the tempting femme fatale, Carmen. Cowled like a witch, the devil’s very seductress sits toying with tarot cards. Temptation made flesh in a long, red skirt. Her off one shoulder top revealing a black wing tattooed on her exposed shoulder blade. Long dark hair and ink black choker framing her scheming eyes, dark as sin, yet twice as seductive. Her smile a coquettish smirk marking a woman who knows the power of her allure. The kind of allure that could cause St. Francis to rethink his vocation. A woman whose confidence hides insecurity, whose rage conceals hurt, whose indifference obscures her need to love and be loved in a world of lusting cowards and jealous boys. She’s no saint, but only because Carmen has had to learn to survive. All this, and Richmond hasn’t begun to sing yet. Once Carmen commences her Habanera , you're doomed to love her. Roisin Walsh in Carmen. Image Pádraig Grant. Not that other cast members, singing in French, are vocal passengers. Soprano Roisin Walsh’s Micaela and tenor Dafydd Allen’s Don José are equally terrific. Philip Kalmanovitch, Conor Cooper, Vladimir Sima and Jonah Hamilton also strong, adding narrative and emotional depth whether singing or with English dialogue, the latter frequently fun. If the absence of surtitles irks, restricting engagement at the micro level, the whole is never difficult to follow. Lisa Krügel’s costumes and set a triumph of imagination over restriction, lit engagingly by Maksym Diedov. Against which Deazley harmonises movement and energy to perfection, whisking up a storm of understated power. The eye of which is an irresistible Richmond, whose Carmen infuses tradition with the contemporary. An iconic role, Carmen is not just a voice. She is an attitude, a swagger, a life loving wound singing wide and deep embodied in each note, each burning gaze, each defiant flick of a cigarette. You don’t sing Carmen, you must be Carmen. Convince the audience you could destroy souls, mostly your own. Richmond’s sensual, seductive, soul passionate Carmen a fiery, independent woman in search of a man who can match her in strength and tenderness. Encountered up close in what could also be called a parlour opera, the intimacy of the smaller production deepens the connection. Musical director Rebecca Warren on piano providing musical accompaniment like a silent movie pianist. But La Tragédie De Carmen is never silent. It sings, scorns, longs and cries ‘L’amour’. Rendering you powerless to resist. La Tragédie De Carmen , by Peter Brook, Jean-Claude Carrière and Marius Constant, adaptation after Carmen by George Bizet with libretto by Meilhac et Halévy, runs at The Jerome Hynes Theatre, National Opera House, as part of Wexford Festival Opera 2025 October 20th, 22nd, 24th, 26th, 28th, 30th, and November 1st. For more information visit Wexford Festival Opera 2025

Eduardo Niave and Lydia Grindatto in Le Trouvère. Photo Pádraig Grant **** Were it to premiere today, Verdi’s Le Trouvére might not be considered such a big deal. His revised Il Trovatore played down as a French Remix sporting minor musical modifications and a ballet insert. Of course, revisions come with a contrast and compare caveat. Like cover songs; is it as good or better than the original? Which is often the wrong question. Rather, like translations into another language, which is what we essentially have here, the question is can it stand on its own two feet? Such decisions often determined by bias and prejudice, commonly called taste. And while taste might not be the most objective of barometers, it’s often the only one that matters. Accommodating to French grand opera tastes in 1857, prompted by greater creative control and a decent pay day, Verdi translated his Italian masterpiece from 1853 into French. And it stands up marvellously. Delivering all the wild, sweeping thrills of a dark, romantic tragedy. Giorgi Lomiseli in Le Trouvère. Photo Pádraig Grant Libretto by Salvadore Cammarano, with French libretti by Émilien Pacini, serves up a plot of improbable conveniences. Action reset by director Ben Barnes to during the Spanish Civil War proving a loveless marriage of convenience. Where a gypsy curse sees warring rivals battle for country and the same true love. Tenor Eduardo Niave’s Manrique, a rebel troubadour, playing nemesis to baritone Giorgi Lomiseli’s jealous Le Comte de Luna. Both men in love with the angelic Léonore, mezzo-soprano Lydia Grindatto radiant as the good girl all the bad boys want. But divine mezzo-soprano, Kseniia Nikolaieva’s gypsy woman Azucena holds a secret close to her heart. To unravel the convoluted plot would be to ruin its twists and urgency, and more work than I’m prepared to undertake at this time of night given Wexford Festival Opera’s gorgeous programme has all you need to know if you want to spoil your fun. Suffice to say, action cracks along at roller coaster pace as incident after incident piles up: misunderstandings and mythic curses, tales of burnings at stakes and separated brothers, knives brought to a gunfight and poison vials; it’s all there. Ensuring several deaths later you are left dizzy and spellbound. Lydia Grindatto in Le Trouvère. Photo Pádraig Grant What coheres it all, and imposes strict limitations, is Ben Barnes striking, if often stiff direction. Less a flow of movement and energy so much as a series of pictures in a gallery, or images in a flick book. Liam Doona’s set as much a canvas as a stage, in which colour, texture and composition craft painterly images that often resonate with power. Daniele Naldi and Paolo Bonapace’s lighting superb, their attention to detail, including a peripheral cross of light on the floor at one point, adding depth to mood. An attention to detail echoed by Wexford Festival Opera Orchestra under conductor Marcus Bosch’s baton. Bosch unafraid to let the music pause a moment to accommodate a scene change, or for the action to catch its breath. Delivering a dynamic, lively sequence for the ballet preceding the third act. Kseniia Nikolaieva with members of the Chorus of Wexford Festival Opera in Le Trouvère. Photo Pádraig Grant To the question how successful is a ballet sequence when inserted into an opera, on current evidence it won't be making a come back anytime soon. Which is not to say it shouldn’t under certain circumstances. But rather to suggest that here it’s a vocal and narrative vacuum at the centre of a whirlwind, one adding little of value and subtracting pace and energy. Played out as a demented dream of a would be dictator, three dancers execute a series of yoga like moves straining in and out of momentary tableau whilst Le Comte de Luna sleeps. Dancers later crafting poses as if reenacting Communist propaganda posters. On a tent wall black-and-white images from the Spanish Civil War quickly numb into insignificance. The whole looking like it’s putting in time. Yet nimble moments occasionally strike a memorable image that suggests an opportunity missed. Reinforced by slow routines conflicting with the dynamism of the music. Lydia Grindatto in Le Trouvère. Photo Pádraig Grant Singing, in French with English surtitles, is another matter entirely. They say behind every great man is a greater woman, when it comes to Le Trouvér e this proves to be the case. Whilst Naive and Marcelli are individually strong, and frequently mesmerising, each is noticeably transformed when in duet with either a superb Grindatto or Nikolaieva. Naive’s lyrical sweetness and heroic strength elevated to another level. His desires contrasted with Marcelli’s, who commanding vocal authority reveals a man less driven by love, or lust, but by power. Driven to own that which he cannot have, be it a country or Grindatto’s Léonore. The latter serving as a spotlight on his vanity to which he is irresistibly drawn like a moth. A lithe Grindatto bravely performing opening night despite being unwell. Leaving you to wonder if this is how she sounds unwell, where is she hiding her wings? It’s not just Grindatto’s range, but her emotional texture and richness that seduces completely. Mirrored in a mesmerising Nikolaieva, whose powerhouse performance doesn't just soar heights and plumb vocal and emotional depths, but does so with such exquisite beauty it’s almost impossible to bear. Try as you might, but why would you want to, you cannot tear your ears away. With Le Trouvére, Wexford Festival Opera scores a genuine hit. There were opening night bumps, and yes, Le Trouvére is not a perfect production, most notably during the ballet sequence. But, in moments, Le Trouvére is a near perfect operatic experience. Not to be missed. Le Trouvére by Giuseppe Verdi, a grand opera in four acts, libretto by Salvadore Cammaranobased on the play El trovador by Antonio García Gutiérre, with French libretto by Émilien Pacini, runs at The O’Reilly Theatre, National Opera House, as part of Wexford Festival Opera 2025 October 21st, 24th and 29th, and November 1st. For more information visit Wexford Festival Opera 2025

Camilla Griehsel and Brendan Conroy in Cuckoo Time. Image, Beth Strahan *** Back in 2010 Carmel Winters ’ brilliant and brave B for Baby burst onto Dublin Theatre Festival like a breath of fresh air. A story about a woman who takes advantage of a mentally ill man claiming life is love. Fast forward to October 2025, where Winters premieres her latest production, Cuckoo Time , at Glass Mask Theatre. A story about a woman who takes advantage of a mentally ill man claiming life is love. Unfortunately, similarities end there. Where B for Baby was smart, brave and exciting, its production tautly directed, performed and designed, Cuckoo Time resembles its Dorian Gray portrait equivalent. A deformed resemblance of something once beautiful. Saved by a gutsy performance and a masterclass in acting. Raunchy jazz singer, Lovisa, sporting a world weary penchant for booze, is lashing out because her recovering alcoholic daughter hates her. There’s also an accidental fire from way back. Exposition and backstory not being one of Cuckoo Time’s strengths. A Swedish immigrant to what we assume is the west of Ireland, Lovisa’s hard drinking, foul mouth and brusque manner alienates the entire village. Chucked from her job, her accommodation, and refused admission to her daughter’s flat, she manipulates the recently widowed Michael, suffering from dementia, to let her stay with him. Informing him she is going to love him and care for him rather than let his daughter send him to a nursing home. A chance at redemption for being a failed parent, or to love and be loved before death, or simply needing a place to stay and a source of money becomes a potent mix that never ignites. Leaving a mostly one-sided conversation interrupted by bird sounds and clever snatches of songs. Original music by Maurice Roycroft having its moments. For if Cuckoo Time begins like a play with music, much of it brilliantly demonstrative of Lovisa’s feistiness, it soon drifts clumsily into weak musical theatre. Camilla Griehsel in Cuckoo Time. Image, Beth Strahan Structurally, Cuckoo Time’s mix of screenplay, play and musical makes for an uncoordinated trio. Starting like a fragmented screenplay, promise rises as a theatre script emerges during a beautiful first encounter between Michael and Lovisa. But in no time we're back into unnecessary cinematic scene changes; a visit to the shops imparting exposition that could have been relayed without needing another scene. The cinematic framing also placing huge demands on tech. Sound cues, Bill Woodlands lights, and set designer Ciara Murnane all over burdened; Murnane having the impossible task of trying to serve as cinematographer for an entire movie with one stage set. The result a cramped, claustrophobic clutter of visual information, much of it confusing and unnecessary. What keeps you engaged are two compelling performances, despite uneven support from Winters as director. Camilla Griehsel a revelation as the leopard print, torch singing chanteuse with a foul mouth and a quick temper. Yet under Winters direction Griehsel is never given expressive support to tease out the undercurrents of pain that fuel Lovisa. Instead, she’s always a shiny loud surface showing little of her underlying depths, a last song trying hard to cover the emotional distance. Leaving Brendan Conroy as Michael having little to lean on but himself. Conroy producing a masterclass of unparalleled intensity. Eyes forever searching, brightening with realisation, or clouding with confusion, Conroy never anticipates but awaits each moment’s newness so as to respond each time as if for the first time. His sketch of a character, barely a device, electrified with currents that compensate for huge deficiencies in Winters script, which feels like rejected bits from 2010. Issues an independent director might have challenged whilst supporting its invested cast in establishing a stronger connection. The chemistry is there, but the story and direction are not of a sufficient standard to harness it. Like watching two separate performances in the same play that never really connect. Brendan Conroy in Cuckoo Time. Image, Beth Strahan As the finish lines nears, Cuckoo Time doesn't end so much as suffer a long, lingering death. An abstract scene with an apology of wings looks like authorial self-indulgence rather than arising from character or narrative need. Undermining the finale which tries too hard and opts for the obvious. Confirming Cuckoo Time is not Winter's best work. Meanwhile Conroy reminds us that you should never pigeon hole an older actor. Else they might well remind you of why they've endured. Conroy a privilege to behold, taking the fishes and loaves offered him and turning them into a sumptuous meal for all. Griehsel no slouch either, her loud, larger than life Lovisa being something of a superstar. Cuckoo Time by Carmel Winters, presented by Glass Mask Theatre, runs at Glass Mask Theatre until November 1. For more information visit Glass Mask Theatre

Three Sisters. Image, Ros Kavanagh **** Mr Byrnes famously exclaimed in The Simpsons , after Marge painted a portrait of him nude, ‘I don't know if it's art, but I don't hate it’. Something similar might be said of Ciara Elizabeth Smyth's adaptation of Anton Chekhov's Three Sisters . Do we know if it’s Chekhov? The Russian writer’s 1900 tale of the three Prozorov sisters living a country life of busy banality is dry dramedy. Smyth the ideal person to adapt given both writers share an absurdist sense of understated humour. But then, you might also think, I don't know if it's Ciara Elizabeth Smyth. Exposition is clunky, passages overstay their welcome, and Smyth’s effortless blend of comedy and tragedy seems separated into conflicting energies. Yet perhaps the issue lies elsewhere, like director Marc Atkinson Borrull. Who conceived the current adaption along with designer, Molly O’Cathain and Smyth. Directing Three Sisters in large, broad strokes as a play of opposing halves. The first a high blown 70s sitcom of long suffering women and hapless men who believe themselves geniuses hard done by. The second a soap opera of melodramatic proportions. Like Fawlty Towers meets Eastenders , the twain never convincingly merge, leaving cast often looking hamstrung or adrift. Even as the solution was right there in plain sight. Meghan Cusack and Breffni Holahan in Three Sisters. Image, Ros Kavanagh A parade of parties, soldiers, fires and farewells begins with Breffni Holahan’s Olga jumping up as if her caffeine just kicked in. Wide eyed, wildly delirious, Holahan is hilarious as the oldest sister cawing about returning to Moscow with its parties and fresh beginnings. Rattling on to Máiréad Tyers' flower arranging Irina whose birthday it is, the youngest sister sharing her day with the anniversary of their father’s death. Bored, glum, buried in her book, Megan Cusack’s marvellous middle sister Masha is married to the monotonous, moustached Kulygin. Cameron Tharmaratnam’s monument to banality one of many characters reduced to comic book caricatures. Along with Noelle Brown’s Anfisa, essentially a doddery Mrs Doyle, and Alex Murphy’s hopeless Andrew, a hen pecked musician. Throw in Terence Keeley’s cologne loving Solyony, Darragh Feehely’s procrastinating Tuzenbakh, Michael Tient and Marty Breen’s soldiers, and Fionn Ó Loingsigh’s commander Vershinin, he of the suicidal wife, and who can blame her, and Three Sisters’ cast of comic, though not complex characters is complete. Barring sensitive outsider, Natasha. Saoirse-Monica Jackson as the anxious wife of Andrew who worms her way into becoming the family matriarch. Deliberately or by dint of circumstances? Now it’s getting interesting. Jackson, along with Lorcan Cranitch as Chebutykin, a doctor of questionable skill, fleshing characters with greater depth and ambiguity. Jackson sensational in a richly nuanced performance where comedy often cries and tragedy frequently laughs. Saoirse-Monica Jackson in Three Sisters. Image, Ros Kavanagh Visually, it was an easy day at the office for O’Cathain whose blue curtained walls with long table doesn’t tax, or assist, the imagination. Even if a superb fire effect is impressive to behold. Compensating for John Gunning’s descending light rig that feels like a military interrogation. A visual flip into a black box space where cast sit as if watching rehearsals confirms what some might have begun to suspect; that this production needs more time to get to the soul of things. The final, crucial encounter with Irina and Tuzenbakh feeling hollowed out of humour, drama and tragedy, even as the impressive Tyers and Feehely come close, with an unexpected kiss adding layers of ambiguity. Of which Chekhov and Smyth are masters, and which will hopefully deepen as the run progresses. Fusing Three Sister’s divergent metals into a single, precious element, with Tyers and Feehely leading the way.   Máiréad Tyers, Breffni Holahan and Meghan Cusack in Three Sisters. Image, Ros Kavanagh What is it all for? Philosopher poets believing there has to be something better to life? Is it art? Is it Chekhov? It’s certainly not Chekhov forever linked with Stanislavski. Still, if it’s not classical Chekhov, you don’t hate it. Indeed, there is much to enjoy in Smyth’s ambitious reimagining, including the hope it might marinate into something luxurious. Like Jackson and Cranitch, whose exquisite performances are a joy to watch. Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov, adapted by Ciara Elizabeth Smyth, presented by Sugarglass and Once Off Productions, runs at The Gaiety Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until October 12. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025

Caligula. Image, Julia Weber **** Some productions prove prescient. Like Ivan Franko National Academic Drama Theatre's production of Caligula . Albert Camus ’s 1944 play interrogating dictatorship, tyranny and how absolute power corrupts absolutely. Premiering after the Russian invasion of Ukraine, its subsequent performances are living acts of resistance. Its tale of the infamous Roman emperor whose cruelty and perversion became the stuff of nightmares painfully relevant. Even as director Ivan Uryvskyi never draws direct parallels with Putin, but portrays Caligula as speaking to all dictators. A prescient decision given the current global landscape. Caligula a megalomaniac dictator for whom to govern is to steal. The type who, through warped, self-fulfilling logic, convinces themselves, and their acolytes, that they are saviours, more sinned against than sinning, whose word, deeds, and policies are divine proof of their existence as Gods. Performed in Ukrainian with English surtitles, Uryvskyi’s adaptation remains grounded in Rome. Caligula, in deep mourning following the death of his sister Drusilla, lashes out in wanton acts of violence. Driven by a deep rooted death wish and a desire for divinity, he wants to raze the world if he can’t have the moon. Power, sex, corruption and death intrinsically woven into a rich visual tapestry. An impressive ensemble of Vitalii Azhnov, Oleksandr Rudynskyi, Tetiana Mikhina, Ludmila Smorodina, Akmal Huriezov and Renat Settarov like vivid cartoon characters in Petro Bogomazov’s magnificently clever set. Illuminated by Bogomazov’s lighting which offers a masterclass in mood. A tall, copper rusted wall reveals a series of doors that open to resemble comic book panels. Snippets of scenes playing out like images in a graphic novel; a Stasi-like acolyte recording conversations, Caligula embroiled in a lustful embrace, men conspiring in a shadowed doorway. The wall later a backdrop against which Caligula’s images prove stronger than its words. Words which feel self-consciously overwrought, their volume and pace frequently making surtitles redundant for being impossible to keep up with. Bogomolov’s visuals, along with Tetiana Ovsiichuk’s costumes and Oleksandr Kryshtal’s music and sound coalesced into visual poetry by superb performances. In which Caligula’s gender fluidity is beautifully conveyed. As is his childlike petulance, his hurt and grief, his hardened tenderness. Against which resistance, devotion, anguish and despair find equal expression. Like most Roman emperors the end is as inevitable as it is predictable. But the final twist is a cautionary image in which, yet again, sight and sound speak stronger than words. Theatrically, admirers of Jerzy Grotowski and Tadeusz Kantor will find much to enjoy in Caligula . Whose imagery is infused with power, passion and poetry. Not least the final image, which might well prove to be the most harrowing. Reminding us that theatre is strongest when it speaks to truth. Caligula a living testament that when the right to create is suppressed, artistic expression becomes an act of resistance. That others have an obligation to solidarity, and a responsibility to support. As Camus presciently observed in his 1957 essay, The Artist and His Age ; “ to create today is to create dangerously…art cannot be a monologue…we suffer together…the world is our common country…” Caligula by Albert Camus, presented by Ivan Franko National Academic Drama Theatre, Ukraine,  runs at The Samuel Beckett Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until October 11. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025

Bláithín Mac Gabhann, Malua Ní Chléirigh, Liadán Dunlea, Bebhinn Hunt-Sheridan and Niamh McCann in BÁN, written by Carys D. Coburn. Image: Rich Davenport. **** What is theatre’s fascination with adaptations? Whether from page to stage or reimagining canonical plays, there’s lots of them about. Perhaps companies consider some works need to be updated to speak to a modern audience? Or theatre has become so issue driven and splintered, an adaptation, riding on the coat tails of an established success, appeals to a broader audience? Or is it that, like opera, theatre’s contemporary appeal is shifting to ‘museum’ pieces rather than original works? Whatever the reason, if adaptations are your thing, Dublin Theatre Festival has you covered. Seven off the top of the head, including Hamlet, Three Sisters, Poor , and The Theban Trilogy . Then there’s Carys D. Coburn’s BÁN , a reworking of Lorca’s The House of Bernarda Alba . A production of two halves. Or rather one tenth and nine tenths. One tenth a meta-theatrical, self conscious crashing through the fourth wall like a cheap gimmick from out of nowhere. Delivering expositional monologues via direct address that add little of value and subtract from the other nine tenths. Which is a genuinely invigorating experience. BÁN a brilliant piece of writing and superlative cast directed to near perfection. Liadán Dunlea and Bebhinn Hunt-Sheridan in BÁN, written by Carys D. Coburn. Image: Rich Davenport. It could be Cork. It could be the 60s, 70s or 80s. What matters is not the specific time or place, but the period. An era when women were denied access to abortion or contraception. Where fear of unwanted pregnancies outside wedlock compelled families to painful choices that were socially normalised. The fear of ostracisation, of scandal, of being a social pariah driving many families to unthinkable acts to protect their reputations. A pervasive fear something BÁN never quite captures. But it’s there, like an undercurrent, felt more by those who remember the time. Established cleverly through props, music and salient references, like that of the late Jilly Cooper. A woman whose novels taught many women (and men) about sex when there was no sex education to speak of. Malua Ní Chléirigh, Niamh McCann, Bláithín Mac Gabhann, Liadán Dunlea and Bebhinn Hunt-Sheridan in BÁN, written by Carys D. Coburn. Image: Rich Davenport. Sisters seem to be having a moment. Bad Sisters. The Walsh Sisters . Now it’s the turn of The White Sisters. Who, entering quietly under Lee Curran’s mood perfect lights and Jenny O’Malley’s haunting composition, jitter like robotic Stepford Wives on the blink. Servants minus a husband and without a father whose funeral they are busy preparing. Garbed in Sarah Bacon’s funereal black, these women’s role and place in society has been predetermined. Domesticity writ large in their making of sandwiches and cleaning glasses, or later in the washing and folding of laundry. Their bitter frustrations finding relief in G&T’s, petty pranks, vicious remarks and any boy who’ll have them. Given the scant options available, three sisters are laying claim to the popular Peter. One sister, Malua Ní Chléirigh’s pregnant Annie (a revelation that’s more a confirmation seen a mile off) serves as warning to be careful what you wish for. Bríd Ní Neachtain’s maternal Bernadette, terror and toxic femininity made flesh, cutting ruthlessly with word and deed through any trace of weakness in her immature daughters. Now their father is dead, they are to be done with men. Famous last words. Bríd Ní Neachtain in BÁN, written by Carys D. Coburn. Image: Rich Davenport. Ten minutes spent in their bickering company and you might think long live the patriarchy if this is the matriarchy. Lies, betrayals, insults inflicted like razor blades, the depth of their abuse knows no bounds, all in the name of purity and power. A whirlwind of bitter frustrations, sibling rivalries and cruel pettiness underscored by quiet affection. The pain made visceral by a superb cast who make you care and understand deeply, even those you do not want to like. Along with Ní Chléirigh, Liadán Dunlea as the spirited Edele, Bebhinn Hunt-Sheridan as insecure Mary Rose, a scene stealing Bláithín Mac Gabhann as the obedient Mary Louise, and Niamh McCann as oldest sister Mary Elizabeth each turn in riveting performances that crackle with chemistry. Along with Ní Neachtain and Yvonne Gidden as house keeper Frances. Claire O’Reilly’s compelling direction seducing with spellbinding ease. Liadán Dunlea and Yvonne Gidden in BÁN, written by Carys D. Coburn. Image: Rich Davenport. Until a handbrake turn just before the interval tosses the contract BÁN established with its audience out the window. Selling the play and its audience short for looking embarrassed by its intense realism and shattering the frame. A cute momentary duet, musings on ghosts and ghosts of Christmases future, see the script fall down a meta-theatrical, expressionist rabbit hole that, like Bacon’s set, disappoints hugely. An angled red floor, retro washing machine and kitchen unit establish the kitchen sink family drama, but a soul sucking wall with uniform holes dominates the eye, sapping energy and risking dampening what are electrifying performances. All to convey information, most of which we didn’t need, that could have been conveyed in a smarter fashion. Malua Ní Chléirigh and Yvonne Gidden in BÁN, written by Carys D. Coburn. Image: Rich Davenport. Once normal service resumes, the rabbit hole revisited later, it takes awhile for BÁN to win you back. But its astonishingly brilliant ensemble, a director at the top of their game, and a brilliant script seduce completely. If its many reveals and dramatic consequences totter into mini-series melodrama territory, that only adds another flavour. The tragedy of when care is denied, or when women are reduced to second class citizens, still packs a powerful punch. BÁN proving impossible to resist. Niamh McCann and Liadán Dunlea in BÁN, written by Carys D. Coburn. Image: Rich Davenport. BÁN is about family. Not the 'family is everything' movie fantasy family. This is Eugene O’Neill’s family. Awash in pain, blood, anger, misery, laughter, tenderness, hope and despair. It’s a living, breathing, blood, sweat and tears family. One you fall hopeless in love with when not hating them. It’s such a slump when BÁN self consciously shoehorns in a theatrical distraction that diminishes rather than enhances both play and production. It didn’t need it. Even so, BÁN towers above most of its contemporaries. And that ensemble. That direction. Not to be missed. BÁN , by Cary D. Coburn, runs at The Peacock Stage of Abbey Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until October 11, continuing till November 8. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 or The Abbey Theatre

Deaf Republic by Dead Centre. Image, Johan Persson *** Like Dublin Theatre Festival, Deaf Republic is all about the -ity. Minority. Visibility. Inclusivity. Accessibility. Directed by Bush Moukarzel and Ben Kidd, adapted from the poetry book by Ukranian-American writer Ilya Kaminsky by Dead Centre and sign language poet Zoë McWhinney, we follow the inhabitants of Vasenka who collectively wake up deaf following the shooting of a deaf boy at a puppet show. Killed for not following an order to disperse which he could not hear. His death impacting on young couple, Alfonso and Sonya, about to have their first child, and a brothel madame and her female sex workers who seduce soldiers and kill them in acts of violent resistance. A story which supplies a through line on which are hung interrogations of deafness, occupying forces and acts of resistance. The production framed as a special performance for the hearing. Didactic in intent, condescending in tone, Deaf Republic proves technically scrumptious. Something to visually admire, but can often leave you feeling uninvolved. Given this is Dead Centre you can be sure of at least one crucial -ity; theatricality. Or, rather, a multi-disciplinary meta-theatricality. Self consciously deconstructed into snowstorms and aerial routines; blood squibs and a military jeep; a stage within a stage, and a stage within a stage within a screen; puppets enhanced by camera like a 1970s children’s program; surveillance drones capturing images of the audience; a gauze screen over much of the action so it’s viewed as if through cataracts, visually muffled rather than clear. Then there’s the use of signing and the sporadic use of surtitles. A masterpiece set by Jeremy Herbert, superb lighting by Azusa Ono,  brilliant v ideo direction by Grant Gee,  superb c ostumes by Mae Leahy, and excellent c omposition and sound by Kevin Gleeson foreground tech as being Deaf Republic’s primary artists. Supported by a strong human cast in Romel Belcher, Caoimhe Coburn Gray, Derbhle Crotty, Kate Finegan, Eoin Gleeson, Lisa Kelly and Dylan Tonge Jones who inject life into a parade of visual gimmicks and special effects. Yet a bath scene in the occupied war zone between Alfonso and Sonya catching a fleeting moment between baby cries and flying bullets, or a video of Sonya’s expressive face convey something lost to tunnelling through eardrums or read my lips close ups. A reverse dichotomy achieved. The effects ultimately looking prosaic, the people poetry. Still, next time AI might have something to say on that front if Tilly Norwood is anything to go by. Deaf Republic by Dead Centre. Image, Johan Persson Deaf Republic claims theatre is about bringing us together to better understand. To understand the experiences of living in a besieged country. Of being deaf. Or the demands of living with both and of living through horrors without an end in sight. Nice ideals, all achieved, except we were never brought together to understand. Less an interrogation of a theatre of war, this is theatre as war. Theatre designed to influence, sway and persuade its audience of a system of values represented as objectively justified. Which is not to say resistance to the unjustifiable invasion of Ukraine, or the horrors in Gaza, or the struggles of deaf people, add you own, do not need to be vigorously contested. The issues addressed in Deaf Republic are vitally important. It’s a question of theatre’s claims and function. Theatre is never neutral when weaponised for political ends. It is not accessible nor inclusive of all. Theatre does not unite, it divides. Striving to be politically engaged it risks disconnecting us from people and issues for seeing people as issues. Disconnecting us from theatre itself. No longer a cultural act to be viewed and shared, but a political act designed to manipulate the gaze of the viewer. People reduced to politics. Theatre reduced to politics. Art justified or vilified by politics. Theatre can do politics well. It can also do much more than that. When it’s not, the question should always be whose politics, and who’s pulling what strings? Because rest assured, strings are very much being pulled. Deaf Republic , directed by Bush Moukarzel and Ben Kidd, adapted from the poetry book by Ukranian-American writer Ilya Kaminsky by Dead Centre and sign language poet Zoë McWhinney, presented by Dead Centre & Royal Court Theatre runs at The Samuel Beckett Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until October 5. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025

Poor by Katriona O’Sullivan, adapted by Sonya Kelly. Image, Ste Murray **** Shameless meets Educating Rita in Sonya Kelly's Poor , an adaptation of Katriona O’Sullivan' s best selling autobiography from 2023. Telling of O’Sullivan’s escape from poverty in Coventry and Birmingham, her relationship with her addictive parents, and her move to Ireland where she eventually became a Professor. Kelly's patchy, hurried and clunky script succeeding in pushing all the emotional buttons. Which director Róisín McBrinn stages with theatrical inventiveness married to a cinematic eye. Poor made vivid and memorable by an extraordinary ensemble. So good you could give them the terms and conditions for your smart phone and they could make it sing. Holly Lawlor and Aisling O'Mara in Poor by Katriona O’Sullivan, adapted by Sonya Kelly. Image, Ste Murray In Hamlet the play’s the thing. In Poor it's the book. Kelly's play following O'Sullivan's book like Agnes DeMille. Wednesday Addams’s loving stalker who wants to look, sound and be like her idol, fearful of offending her. Kelly’s excess of reverence resulting in a rollercoaster ride in which O’Sullivan’s life is framed by chapter numbers like dear diary entries. Reading like bullet points on a social workers report. A highlight reel playing snippets from O’Sullivan’s greatest hits: Dad’s addiction and prison sentences, Mam’s sex work and neglect, failed fresh starts and disastrous holidays, the wide eyed innocence of a young girl and the harrowing rape of a child. Not that it's all darkness and gloom. While Mammy chases the dragon and Daddy shoots up on the settee, a kindly teacher discreetly provides the young O'Sullivan with practical care. Another provides encouragement towards education. A State home where the young O'Sullivan is placed for six months offers a glimpse of how life might be. It will take O'Sullivan time, tragedy and a troubled road to get there. To find forgiveness for her parents. To forgive herself. A journey marked by her older self taking care to her younger self, and her younger self reminding her of who she is. Hilda Fay, Holly Lawlor and ThommasKane Byrne in Poor by Katriona O’Sullivan, adapted by Sonya Kelly. Image, Ste Murray Flashing past at breakneck speed, much of the novel’s depth gets lost in a litany of information. Much of it reclaimed by a superlative cast. Along with a superb conceit. An excellent Ashling O'Mara as the older Katriona plays against a gutsy Holly Lawlor (Thursdays performance), or Pippa Owens, both rotating the role as O’Sullivan’s child self. Kelly’s dynamic duo sharing the same scene a device that keeps on giving. As does Aidan Kelly, stupendous as chain-smoking, drug addict Dad, Tony, who becomes holier than thou when reformed. O’Sullivan’s other familial lynchpin the incomparable Hilda Fay as mother Tilly. Fay’s grounded, powerful presence enriching every scene she plays, cutting through the cartoon quality of Kelly’s script to reveal the angry, red hearted hurt of a woman who never got to be her own story for having been trained not to be rude. Mary Murray, Ghaliah Conroy, Aisling O'Mara, Thommas Kane Byrne and Keiren Hamilton-Amos in Poor by Katriona O’Sullivan, adapted by Sonya Kelly. Image, Ste Murray For a show like Poor to effectvely deliver its supporting ensemble needs to match its impressive leads. In Ghaliah Conroy, Kieren Hamilton-Amos, Thommas Kane Byrne and Mary Murray Poor possesses one of the finest supporting ensembles, each demonstrating impressive range in countless roles and an enviable ability to change costumes in a second. Laura Campbell’s diverse array of costumes, Paul Keogan's superb lights, Sinéad Diskin’s retro sound design and Aedín Cosgrove’s Brady Bunch boxed set, featuring one of the most versatile couches to grace a stage, add immeasurably to the richness of the production. Which McBrinn's direction coalesces into a snappily paced whole. Aisling O'Mara in Poor by Katriona O’Sullivan, adapted by Sonya Kelly. Image, Ste Murray For some, Poor will seem to skate close to poverty porn. A working class tale of harrowing abuse told in one of the few formats permitted to working class people. The Rocky story. That of the singular hero overcoming all odds. Like Educating Rita, Erin Brockovich or Erin from Brassic , O’Sullivan is the woman smarter and better than her surroundings. A woman raped, abused, neglected caught in a cycle of generational trauma, yet whose very escape can be seen to undermine claims that there's no way out of poverty. Hard work will get you there. Yet O'Sullivan is keen to point out she is the exception, not the rule. That she did not do it on her own. That the Home she stayed in for six months, and the influential teachers who cared, show the System works when it genuinely chooses to. When it doesn’t, the poor are damned, never mind doomed. Like Tilly, whose innocence was shattered, her soul mortally wounded by the normalised abuse of young girls. A horror made vivid by Fay’s consummate performance charting the peaks and troughs of a woman who couldn’t break free. Burdened by the weight of abuse which slowly, over time, breaks her down till there’s nothing left but drink to block out the memories and drugs to numb the pain. O’Mara’s energised performance capturing the heart of Poor, Fay laying bare its shattered soul. Aisling O'Mara in Poor by Katriona O’Sullivan, adapted by Sonya Kelly. Image, Ste Murray If its sentimental ending sugarcoats realities, again this makes a point. Structurally, Poor is a monologue interrupted by memories. The monologue of a resilient and remarkable woman not liberated, but free in the wild ambitions of her soul. Who fought and crawled her way out of a poverty of mind, body and spirit as well as financial, political, and systemic poverty. Who nearly didn’t make it and who wants to help those who may not be as resilient. A little uplift, a little hope, a little singing, and a whole lotta love can go a long way to sustaining a wounded soul when the road ahead is darkest. Poor , by Katriona O’Sullivan, adapted by Sonya Kelly from O’Sullivan’s bestselling memoir, directed by Róisín McBrinn, runs at The Gate Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until November 2. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 or The Gate

Dan Colley and Raymond Keane in The Maker. Image, Ste Murray **** Its target audience are unlikely to know all the details, unless an adult has already explained them. That the tall, bookish man with a funny white face and costume is an inventor named Drexel, and the smaller man with a funny white face and costume is his servant Pipe. They don’t know because no one speaks in Dan Colley’s magical The Maker . Indeed, they might decide that these are not inventors but wizards conjuring objects by magic. A little dance here, a little wiggle there, maybe a sneeze, and viola, something appears in the small dark cubbyhole between the bookshelves. In a world where ducks snort, books fly, and shredded paper becomes snow, magic appears a much more likely explanation. Colley’s love letter to theatre and theatre making being awash with magic, whilst pulling back the curtain to reveal theatre’s true wizards in Johanna O'Brien. Adults can enjoy some smug superiority detailing the multitude of references that inform The Maker’s simplicity. Saileóg O’Halloran’s Commedia dell’arte styled costumes, Dan Forde’s silent movie sound and musical support, a relationship similar to Laurel and Hardy between Raymond Keane’s adorable Pipe and Manus Halligan's infuriated Drexel. Action built on micro movement detail admired by Buster Keaton and Charles Chaplin. The meta theatrical twist as a stage revolves revealing theatre’s unspoken heroes. All built on the barebones of character and a comic idea rather than a story. Not that its young audience appear bothered, whisked along by The Maker’s inventiveness. Asking questions, figuring it out, completely immersed. The Maker understanding that children are far smarter than they’re often thought to be. For the real maker is imagination itself, which children enter into wholeheartedly. While the lead up to the ending proves clever, the final moments could benefit from a little more oomph. Some children unsure The Maker had ended. All given a masterclass in making theatre, and likely instilled with a love for it. An imaginative space to create worlds within worlds, stages within stages, whether in front, on, or behind the stage. The Maker by Dan Colley, runs at The Draíocht, Blanchardstown as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until October 4. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025

Éilish McLaughlin and Eileen Walsh in Marina Carr's The God and His Daughter. Image, Ros Kavanagh *** ‘Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.’ So claims Shakespeare in Sonnet One. A modern rendering might go, ‘you’re your own worst enemy, giving yourself a hard time’. True, there's a family resemblance, but the depth, power and poetry of the original is lost. The same might be said for Marina Carr’s two play event The Boy , which refashions Sophocles’ Theban trilogy into a durational, multi-generational family drama in which reason and religion are seasoned with feminist revisioning. All three plays given a hearty, down to earth, Irish grounding. Think Thebes relocated to Tipperary for Succession styled fisticuffs. Where everyone betrays everyone else and dies feverishly blessing themselves or professing disbelief in the gods. Who, it transpires, are all women. Part One, The Boy , focuses primarily on Oedipus Rex . Part Two, with loaded title The God and His Daughter , focuses on Oedipus at Colonus and Antigone . Both productions joined at the hip like Kill Bill One and Two . Featuring fine direction by Caitríona McLaughlin who crafts an utterly gorgeous spectacle of operatic opulence, like a Hollywood religious movie of the 1950s. Centred around two towering performances from Eileen Walsh as a lusting Jocasta and Éilish McLaughlin as a commanding Antigone. Marina Carr's The Boy. Image, Ros Kavanagh Intentions are good. To marry Greek mythology with an Irish sensibility so as to explore the relationship between faith and reason. To question taboo. To reframe Jocasta and Antigone as survivors rather than victims. Women unafraid of their power or desire. Caught in a web woven by weak men who have offended the Gods. Tensions between reason and religion reinforcing old binaries. Carr’s cartoon, comic book gods not complicating spiritual ideas so much as confusing them. Tutting like Shakespeare’s witches and dressed like low budget supervillains, Jane Brennan's Queen of the Furies, Catherine Walsh’s Sphinx, Amy Conroy's Moon and Jolly Abraham's Godwoman are all comedy, no tragedy. Abrahams’s nimble leap onto a table evoking Cheetah from Wonder Woman 1984. Talk of blood laws and blood crimes absent Sophocles’ unedited mythology, or a workable alternative, leaves Carr’s introspections sounding like vague Ron L. Hubbard. A little bit of this, a little bit of that, with the original script trimmed to fit. The same ideas repeated over and over till it feels like brainwashing. Olwen Fouéré’s soulless Shee, a crone come high priestess, twisting truth to suit her purpose. If the gods are spiritual, and that’s up for debate, The Shee is religion made manifest. Frank Blake and Eileen Walsh in Marina Carr's The Boy. Image, Ros Kavanagh As The Boy begins Sophocles’ three plays of moral complexity are reduced to morality plays of questionable morals. In which paedophile king Laius, a delightfully sleazy Frank McCusker, brings a curse down on Thebes after raping a young boy without his father’s permission. Laius doomed to be murdered by his son, Oedipus, as punishment, who will then marry his mother, Queen Jocasta. So the prophecy goes, and one murder later bride and groom live happily ever after and see Thebes thriving. Until the gods get grumpy over people not believing in them anymore. Offended by Frank Blake’s hobbled country bumpkin Oedipus, who tries unconvincingly to pass himself off as a man God. Looking like a little boy lost next to Eileen Walsh’s sensational and sensual Jocasta. Frank McCusker and Olwen Fouéré in Marina Carr's The Boy. Image, Ros Kavanagh The first Act delivers much. The fight between Oedipus and Laius, and Oedipus’s first meeting with Jocasta grounding action and language in an engaging realism; McCusker, Blake and Walsh each riveting. Yet Act Two resorts to prolonged monologues as Carr pronounces a half baked mythology of half baked ideas. Freud and Joseph Campbell never too far away as Carr proves she’s no John Moriarty when it comes to remaking myths. Worse follows as Oedipus rattles on at length against the taboo of incest, debating whether he and Jocasta knew they were related. Carr getting her ducks in a row to investigate incest sees paedophilia inadvertently bask in reflected semi-acceptance. What’s good for the tabooed goose sounding good for the tabooed gander. Only Jocasta, displaying precision and economy, generates anything resembling real power as Walsh moves from the spoken to something that pounds and pulsates through the body. But by then characters have to make a mad dash for the finish line as there’s an outstanding blinding that needs to be executed. The Boy , drained of tension, ending in a flash of dissatisfaction rather than a need to be continued. Éilish McLaughlin and Frank Blake in Marina Carr's The God and His Daughter. Image, Ros Kavanagh Two, or twenty four hours later, depending on your choice, The God and His Daughter opens, as with The Boy , with references to the stories we tell ourselves. Here a blind Oedipus bemoans his sons over the grave of the Queen of the Furies. Refusing to return to Thebes, he seeks protection from Abdelaziz Sanusi’s cooler than cool Theseus. Meanwhile daughter, Antigone, begrudgingly administers to his care. Carr’s abridged reimagining resurrecting Jocasta so as to rinse and repeat tepid arguments familiar to The Bo y. And so it goes, and goes. Oedipus harangued by Seán Mahon’s Creon professes he wants to die. Finally he obliges, leaving everyone else to return to Thebes. Seán Mahon and Eimhin Fitzgerald Doherty in Marina Carr's The God and His Daughter. Image, Ros Kavanagh Saving the best and worst till last, Éilish McLaughlin's invigorating Antigone seeks to bury her brother despite being ordered by newly kinged Creon not to. Assertions to kingship providing richer meat as young activist Antigone demands the crown from old conservative Creon, who instigates her inevitable demise. The cost being his own activist son, Eimhin Fitzgerald Doherty's Haimon, doomed to die as history repeats itself. The moral seeming to be never to have kids. McLaughlin and Mahon creating genuine friction in energised political combat. Carr’s feminism far stronger than her confused religious ramblings, even as it recycles well worn patriarchal tropes. Religion revisited with false relief as The Shee’s drab final speech suggests a natural end. Only to be immediately followed by a tagged on, Anne Rice, fan fiction styled epilogue to anthropologically recap everything once again, presumably for the benefit of those who missed the first show. Zara Devlin wasted as a questioning interviewer to a vampiric Jocasta who reveals a few mildly interesting new details. Tedium reinforced by yet another final scene as the Queen of the Furies confronts Oedipus in limbo leading to another snappy yet dissatisfying ending. Neither additional scene adding anything that could not have been inserted elsewhere with more economy. The experience shifting from durational to dragging it out. In Greek tragedy it’s the characters, not the audience, who are meant to suffer an eternity. Éilish McLaughlin in Marina Carr's The God and His Daughter. Image, Ros Kavanagh Under Caitríona McLaughlin's impressive direction The Boy’s religious and psychological ramblings are elevated into a visual and audial spectacle. The theatrical equivalent of a big budget, special effects, superhero blockbuster. Only Carr’s The Boy proves to be Madame Web and not the original Wonder Woman . Tonnes of impressive visuals and sounds courtesy of Catherine Fay’s shoeless costumes, Jane Cox’s masterful lighting, Carl Kennedy's evocative composition and sound design and Dick Straker's multilayered video design. Cordelia Chisholm's extraordinary set scrubbing The Boy up nicely. Swishing curtains, shifting walls, descending screens and roof projections you can barely make out from the back of the auditorium evoke a myriad of cultural references from Beckett to Beetlejuice . Endless explosions of light and sound crafted into beautiful stage images by McLaughlin always magnificent to behold. Full marks there. It’s pure spectacle. But is spectacle enough? Eileen Walsh and Frank Blake in Marina Carr's The Boy. Image, Ros Kavanagh Who’d want to work at The Abbey? Where you’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t and damned for not doing it different. Taking the gamble that The Boy was worth its five year delay to become Carr’s crowning achievement rather than her biggest bomb. A box office bonanza and not a critically acclaimed flop. Guaranteed to reignite the debate as to whether we've had too much of The Abbey’s Senior Associate Playwright who appears to have enjoyed more productions in recent years (ten at a quick reckoning, nine at The Abbey) than any other female playwright. Some believing it‘s time to invest in other voices with challenging things to say. Especially considering the money spent on The Boy . A counter argument goes that if you want The Abbey to develop more new works give them more money. To which the reply might be, if this is how you spend the money you have, why should you be trusted with more? Amy Conroy and Catherine Walsh in Marina Carr's The Boy. Image, Ros Kavanagh There is only us and the stories we tell, Carr repeatedly states. With plays like The Mai, Portia Coughlan and On Raftery’s Hill , Marina Carr has given Irish theatre some of its most critically important stories, her name indelibly written into the canon of great Irish playwrights. Yet with The Boy Carr goes to the Greek well once too often. Stripping Sophocles’ trilogy of its essence and making it a coat tail on which to hang far less engaging subject matter. If Shakespeare is right, and there’s more under heaven than our philosophy can dream of, The Boy is never more than philosophy. Explaining instead of experiencing, and not explaining itself very well. Still, it's gorgeous to look at. And you don’t have to see both shows. If you decide you want to see both, you can see both together on certain days or separately on different nights. So, bomb or bonanza? What will the theatre gods decide? Will the audience think The Boy worth the investment of their time, effort and money? Does The Boy speak to, or for them? If not, who does it speak to? That’s the gamble, isn’t it? Not just for The Boy , but for theatre. The Boy , a two play theatrcial event written by Marina Carr, based on Sophocles' Theban Trilogy, runs at The Abbey Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until November 1. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 or The Abbey Theatre

Aer Campion and Peter Gowen in The Quiet Man. Image by Paul McCarthy *** The Quiet Man. John Ford's 1952 movie that made national treasures of Maureen O'Hara and Barry Fitzgerald, and made John Wayne the King of Cong. Adapted by the legendary screenwriter Frank S. Nugent from a short story by Maurice Walsh, the tale of siblings Mary Jane and Red Will Danagher, the widow Sarah Tillane, matchmaker Michaeleen "Óge" Flynn and Paddy Bán Enright, renamed Sean Thornton in the movie, romanticised Ireland, the returning prodigal son, and wild, red haired women. Twee, nostalgic, Oirish, The Quiet Man was, and remains, a divine pleasure, guilty or otherwise. Much of that pleasure translating into John Breen and Michael Murfi' s current stage adaptation. One that, despite lashings of charm, falls short due to patchy direction and longwinded writing. Delivering an uneven screenplay of daisy chain scenes that drags its heels and drags things out. Lightened by a riot of 'hup ya boy ye', screwball shenanigans. Art Campion and Margaret McAuliffe in The Quiet Man. Image by Paul McCarthy Those familiar with the movie will find it impossible not to make comparisons, against which Breen and Murfi’s version falls short. Even when making a conscious effort to view the revised version on its own terms, it still comes up short. Something of a quieter man, after a Donnybrook of Our Town theatricality, director Murfi settles for an excess of dialogue interrupted by outbursts of compositional and scenic inventiveness. In which true love's course never runs smooth. Sabine Dargent’s sheep heavy set focused around two enormous circles and clever props, Sinéad McKenna’s home warmed lights, Sinéad Cuthbert’s period costumes and Jack Cawley’s mawkish music all evoke the Halls Pictorial Weekly era with its twitching curtain morality. In which The Quiet Man shifts heavily into The Field territory, were it to meet a tamer The Taming of the Shrew . Niamh McGrath, Gus McDonagh and Donna Dent in The Quiet Man. Image by Paul McCarthy Yet where Nugent’s script exercised economy, Breen and Murfi don’t seem to know the meaning of the word. Mary Jane’s insistence on acquiring her dowry being repeated over and over completely overplays its hand. If an emphasis on the independent women of The Quiet Man proves far more rewarding, it comes at a cost. Donna Dent’s vivacious and strong minded widow Tillane, and Margaret McAuliffe’s lively, single minded Mary Kate Danagher, declining a frustrated feistiness in favour of calm authority, each upset the apple cart for looking like irate Mammy's reprimanding proud, petulant boys rather than women with men their equals. A passionate Peter Gowen as belligerent Red Will Danagher might have a vicious bark, but you don’t fear Will’s older dog bite. Meanwhile, Art Campion’s unimposing Paddy Bán resembles a gap year Horace Wimp having no idea how the real world about him works. Although both grow in real swagger, when the final showdown arrives, shabbily choreographed, it’s hard not to see it as a young buck beating up an older, physically weaker man rather than as a battle of equals. The only relationship you really buy is that of a brilliant Niamh McGrath as the widow’s maid, Marion, and Gus McDonagh’s as Danagher’s romantic right hand man, Michael. Others might have chemistry, especially McAuliffe and Campion, but there’s no spark. Sparks fly between McGrath and McDonagh, and then some, in a deliciously comic performance. Dan Gordon’s Michaeleen "Óge" Flynn, and Malcolm Adams worldly priest rounding out a hugely invested cast. Ably supported by players Siofra Ní Éilí, Shane McCormick and Alison Kinlan helping to bring it all home with a rousing finish. Margaret McAuliffe in The Quiet Man. Image by Paul McCarthy What carries The Quiet Man are its excellent performances. Yet if individually strong in terms of character, collectively the imbalance of power at the core of this adaptation often sees relationships struggle to gain credible purchase. Leaving an ensemble that feels like a first rate team whose manager needs to reconsider their tactics. Of which their MVP is, without question, Margaret McAuliffe. As Mary Kate Danagher McAuliffe exudes commanding presence and seductive authority enriched by a detailed, impeccably timed performance. Like O’Hara before her she’s red headed, impossible to tear your gaze from and possess genuine star quality that owns the stage. You might dismiss The Quiet Man as twee theatre for the nostalgia circuit, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Though some might wonder what that says about DTF? Still, despite structural issues, The Quiet Man is fun, entertaining and deeply pleasurable. In which McAuliffe shows genuine star quality. The Quiet Man by John Breen with Mikel Murfi, based on the short story by Maurice Walsh, presented by Loco and Reckless Productions in association. With The Civic Theatre, runs at The Civic Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until October 12. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025

Peter Hanly in What Are You Afraid Of? Image, Ros Kavanagh ***** What are you afraid of? Actor Peter Hanly is afraid of blanking, or drying. Terms used to describe when an actor forgets their lines. Not that Hanly, once one of the countries most sought after actors, ever blanked in a thirty year career. But for some inexplicable reason he began to fear he might. Beginning with a production at The Gate of Molly Sweeney in 2011, later mutating into TV and movie roles. So severe he began walking away from projects, costing him an income, a career, a sense of vocation and a sense of self. In What Are You Afraid Of? Hanly attempts to understand his crippling anxiety. If understanding proves elusive, Hanly’s relentless efforts still lead towards a possible new beginning. It's a clever conceit, one of many, Hanly being called onstage by an angry stage manager from where he sits in the audience. He's not meant to be in plays anymore. And yet, here he is, onstage, in a play he wrote. With an imaginary grandfather who serves as a supporting guardian angel, lovingly rendered by Domhnall Herdman, and a rota of judges, counsellors and questionable healers made infinitely engaging by a superb Niamh McAllister. The blind leading the blinded as they try help Hanly understand his fear of the scrutinising spotlight, his parent's progressive dementia, or imagining being naked on stage before a live audience. Needing to clutch his script like a security blanket, or be supported by cleverly inserted screens with surtitles just out of the audience’s direct view. Hanly worried his obsessive focus on recalling words, rather than on what lies beneath them, will impact on his performance. On his of sense of self. He is an actor. That's all he’s ever wanted. But God, it’s become exhausting. Virtually impossible. How can you change what can’t be changed, or find the wisdom to know the difference? Peter Hanly, Domhnall Herdman and Niamh McAllister in What Are You Afraid Of? Image, Ros Kavanagh Echoing Hanly’s directness and simplicity, set and lights by Zia Bergin-Holly, a text heavy video design by Eoin Robinson and simple, effective c ostumes by Sorcha Ní Fhloinn add to a sense of pared back vulnerability. Beautifully teased out by Lynne Parker’s delicate direction, crafting a delightfully easy-going, yet powerfully engaging piece of docu-theatre. You might argue it’s the equivalent of watching someone else’s drama therapy. Reinforcing ideas of anxiety as something that can never be healed. A theory up for debate given Hanly appears to have found the worst possible charlatans to support him; MacAllister hilarious whilst working on his aura. But if you can make the argument, you'd be hard pushed to make it stick. Also, it’s the wrong argument. The clue hidden in the title: what are you afraid of? A series of red cards distributed before the performance invite the audience to anonymously write down their own fears, a selection of which are read aloud. Making it clear anxiety is not an exception, it's the rule. Only when crippling does it become noticeable. Mostly we muddle through, like functioning alcoholics. Till we can’t. Leading to even larger questions as to why and what to do when rendered powerless? How do you go on when you can’t go on? Not understanding what anxiety is, why it happened, how to make it go away? Ordinarily, confessional autobiographies speak after the event, when the protagonist has overcome their issue or obstacle. In What Are You Afraid Of ? you're right in the thick of it. The hunt for healing, the idea that it might be achieved still ongoing. There might be no immediate answer but Hanly’s refusal of powerlessness through courageous acceptance opens a way forward. You cannot change what you have not honestly accepted. Living in honest, daily engagement with anger, rage, panic, humour, hope, bewilderment, confusion, loneliness Hanly's ongoing struggle is manifest onstage. His battle fought in the very arena he strives to avoid. Bearing his wounds, joys and terrors without the protection of a character to hide behind. And it is beautiful, brave and breathtaking. Originally premiering at this years Kilkenny Arts Festival, you’d be hard pressed to find a performance that asks more of itself, or gives more of itself. What Are You Afraid Of ? A privilege to behold. What Are You Afraid Of? By Peter Hanly, presented by Rough Magic and Kilkenny Arts Festival runs at Smock Alley Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until October 4. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025

The Sound Inside. Image Mihaela Bodlovic *** In Adam Rapp’s critically acclaimed The Sound Inside , those who can do, those who can't teach. On the evidence of Bella’s only novel, she’s where she belongs teaching creative writing as a tenured Ivy League professor. The blind leading the blind as, by her own admission, she's not much of anything. Her unsuspected cancer the most interesting thing about her life. Mid-life, middle of the road, she’s fifty shades of grey, and not the sexy kind. Dark grey trousers, light grey shirt, mid grey cardigan with rolled up sleeves, she screams cloistered academia. Less a blank canvas so much as a bland canvas in love with the sound of her own literary ramblings. Recited like explanations of life. A woman for whom writing is reality. A superb Madeleine Potter making Bella's drudgery deeply engaging. Even so, Bella has her admirers. Most notably Eric Sirakian’s creepy freshman Christopher. A wannabe novelist with whom she strikes up an Oleanna style relationship. Not sexual so to speak, but still defined by the power an academic can have over a student, and vice versa. Leading to a big ask you don’t really buy, and a contrived ending as turgid as Bella's prose. All saved by a strong performance by Potter. Like a washed out version of David Auburn’s Proof, The Sound Inside sees a famous academic and precocious student collide on the theme of death. James Turner’s dispersing mists and two chair set an innocuous background against which Bella delivers her one-sided conversation. Even when Christopher's speaking it’s still Bella. Or rather, Rapp, whose characters serve as mouthpieces in a modest tale of a modest academic who, like John Edward Williams' Stoner , lives a life most ordinary. Indeed, it’s not just its show-off, literary name dropping in which The Sound Inside plays half baked homage to literary academia, structurally it resembles some of its better fictional models. Skirting up to big ideas and big themes it doesn't appear able to handle. Cancer, euthanasia, suicide, plagiarism, fiction and truth. Referencing familial influences as if standing on the shoulder of giants, when in truth it appears dwarfed by them. Recording details drained of life and blanched to dull reportage. Enthusiasts of stories about American academia, especially tales about professor and student relationships that border on the inappropriate, will likely enjoy Rapp’s second rate novella dressed up as a play. Steeped in America’s obsessive insecurity about its own literary significance. The work must be inevitable, Bella says. There's nothing inevitable about The Sound Inside. But Matt Wilkinson’s direction keeps it ticking along with enough to interest, if not necessarily intrigue the faithful. The Sound Inside by Adam Rapp, presented by Pavilion Theatre, Pádraig Cusack & Half Moon Street Ltd, runs at The Pavilion Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until October 5. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025

Hamlet. Image Teatro de Plaza **** Really? Is this really the best way to launch Dublin Theatre Festival 2025? A production of Hamlet by a Peruvian company whose cast all live with Down Syndrome? What could this possibly tell us about Hamlet ? Hasn't newly incumbent, festival director Róise Goan already included so many plays with agendas that half the programme looks like an Oireachtas report? Don't we already have our own company, Blue Teapot, working with people with intellectual disabilities? Isn’t such tokenism condescending, being politically rather than theatrically motivated? I mean, aren’t these productions the equivalent of nativity plays for grown-ups where we applaud at how well everyone’s done without critical judgement? Hamlet’s eight strong cast have heard it all before. Have heard and endured far worse. Which is why they give a Smells Like Teen Spirit , grunge middle finger to their detractors. Reminding us that productions like Teatro La Plaza’s Hamlet don't make theatre smaller, they make it infinitely larger. Pushing at what’s possible, at what’s allowed, at conventions and at the conventional, at our notions of inclusivity and community. Which is not to say Hamlet will appeal to everyone. Adapted and directed by Chela De Ferrari from Shakespeare’s classic, and presented in Spanish with English surtitles, this is not Hamlet in any version you know of. But whose Hamlet is that exactly? Olivier? McKellen? Cumberbatch? Tennant? Add your own. Instead, De Ferrari gives us a smartly subverted Hamlet which relies heavily on Brechtian alienation. The line between character and actor erased, as is the framing fourth wall, to allow direct social and political commentary. Frequent use of projections, from backstage conversations to a graphic birth scene, honing in on truth over make believe. Shakespeare’s text powerfully subverted to the same end. Speaking to the hopes, fears, joys, and terrors of living with Down Syndrome. Scenes like “get thee to a nunnery” or “we are such stuff as dreams are made of” or “to be or not to be” smacking you with insight into people whose ability to marry, reproduce, raise a family, live a life of contribution and dignity is constantly being regulated and questioned. People as funny, vain, wild or affectionate as anyone you know. Performers Octavio Bernaza, Jaime Cruz, Lucas Demarchi, Manuel García, Diana Gutierrez, Cristina León Barandiarán, Ximena Rodríguez and Álvaro Toledohave intensely talented, present and invested, speaking for themselves and about themselves with joy and with humour. For whom theatre influences life and is never just a refuge or escape from it. Hamlet. Image Teatro de Plaza It’s often the case that our visual habits reinforce our limited sense of signification, leaving unquestioned the role of subjectivity and failing to challenge fixed meanings or so called objectively given truths. Here, a shift from the unquestioned story to the story as an ongoing, shared act of creation, culturally loaded by audience and cast, opens fresh possibilities, both interpretive and performative. Even so, while Hamlet’s feel good vibes and irresistible cast are sure appeal to everyone, Brechtian theatre isn't everyone's cup of tea. Plus, the show overplays its hand and becomes unbalanced, even allowing for Hamlet not being a faithful adaptation. The end rushing to wrap up the play’s narrative like it’s making a mad dash for the exit. Yet by any standard, especially those it sets for itself, Hamlet is a roaring success. Re-presenting the text, and the wider world, to reveal riches we might not have otherwise gleaned. And a ‘let’s get this party started’ finale that brings it all home with considerable style. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, launching the DTF 2025 party with some of the best party people in town. With a production that serves as a lasting testament to the importance and impact of theatre, both as a medium of expression and a force for change. Hamlet , based on the play by William Shakespeare, adapted by Chela De Ferrari, presented by Teatro la Plaza, runs at The O’Reilly Theatre as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 until September 27. For more information visit Dublin Theatre Festival 2025

Reverb, by Luail. Image Patricio Cassinoni **** Reverb is something of an odd statement for recently formed Irish National Dance Company, Luail. While it exemplifies the company’s collaborative ethos, working with composer Lisa Canny , and might likely see dance appeal to a wider audience given Canny's involvement, as the production progresses the whole takes on a curious vibe. Choreographically, dancers begin an expressive dance recital on the joy of connection and belonging. But the longer it goes, the more they’re reduced to back up dancers ending up as a musical floorshow. In what, thematically, starts like a fairy rave in The Random but ends like a Celtic nights concert on a cruise ship. With Canny on vocals, harp and banjo live on stage, accompanied by musicians Josh Sampson on drums and Laura Doherty on violin and guitar, initial appearances suggest something of The Random. That mystical, magical place trad musicians disappear to on the way home from a late night session in the west of Ireland, returning days later having learnt new music from the fairies. Musicians surrounded by dancers Robyn Byrne, Jou-Hsin Chu, Clara Kerr, Sean Lammer, Tom O’Gorman, Hamza Pirimo and Rosie Stebbing who lounge like positive pixies with faux smiley, blissful joyousness. LaurA Farjardo Castro's pastel coloured ponchos looking festival rainproof and winglike. Ciarán Bagnall's lights reinforcing the warm otherworldliness. Katie Davenport centrepiece circular stage, on which Canny is perched, dominating the space. In which memory and legacy suggest a 21st century Disney Riverdance injected with a Florence Welch energy. A maestro on the harp, Canny plays some lively tunes. To which bodywork is initiated in response to the music rather than movement. Seven supple dancers fluidly flail, fall, pitch, pivot, spin and shoulder shake as they undulate in and out of lines, tableau, solos, duets and group pieces. Short, rhythmic phrases, like shared, signature moves, determined by the length of the song. Sarah Golding's flowing, energetic choreography full of vibrancy, even in slow motion, borrowing from breakdance, hip-hop and tai chi at times. A step to turn routine, in which patterns appear to organically evolve from solo to partnered, to group, appears to heavily reference I Contain Multitudes by choreographers Guy Nader and Maria Campos, seen in Luail’s inaugural work Chora . Smile bright, energetic, flowing, it’s all terrific good fun. But at any given moment you're half expecting Dua Lipa to appear and join her troupe. Or Canny. Following what is essentially an audience involvement encore, a musical big finish brings it all home with individual showcases to ensure a riot of feel good applause. Indeed, those looking for a concert with first rate dancing will be very pleased indeed. Those expecting more than a support act to a musician, no matter how good the musician, might feel they'd been given a tasty quarter pounder, in which dance served as the dressing, rather than the dance fillet they were hoping for. Reverb , by Luail, is currently on tour. For more information visit Luail This review is of the performance at Riverbank Arts Centre on Sept 24, in Newbridge, Co. Kildare.

Change, by  Croí Glan. Image, Emma Jervis *** Integrated dance company, Croí Glan , wear their heart on their sleeve. The cynical, those with overt political agendas, or the downright stupid might dismiss them as overly woke. Promoting ideas which have been around since the 1960s, or longer; inclusivity, multiculturalism, anti-capitalism. Old news given new life in the 21st century. Which is not to say such notions are without issues, or that their representation frequently falls short or sounds rote. Which is sometimes the case with Croí Glan’s Change . A multi disciplinary work loaded with self conscious rhetoric on climate change. Beginning with a voice over you can barely hear, later informed by direct quotes from Rebecca Solnit, Christiana Figueres, Arundhati Roy and Marie Annaise Heglar you don’t want to hear for interrupting the flow of performance. Yet listen closer. For Change has things to say and speaks best when it lets its bodies do the talking. Even so, choreographically, individual sequences can leave much to be desired, many looking like exercises from a movement workshop. Rehearsal prompts that never properly flourished beyond their initial points of reference. An opening sequence of three seated dancers, hands interlaced as they try weave into another position, being a common basic exercise. The push and pull of the leader, slow shifting in and out of tableau, tapped out rhythms or martial arts katas all similarly entry level. Yet though individual elements are initially weak, collectively they chart a journey from stress and strain to effortless effort. Arms and bodies, stiff and slow like roots, evolving to find solace in connection. Able bodied and disabled dancers Yves Lorrhan (Brazil), Rocio Dominguez (Argentina), Rachel Paul (France), Andrea Williams (Cape Verde), Bobbi Byrne (Ireland) striking up a chemistry of care and rich conversation. Jazz steps, some loosely synchronised floor rolling opening up richer, more engaging possibilities. Collaborations that might look like accommodations for the disabled being a false perception. Dancer Rachel Paul, on crutches, spends everything onstage in a performance marked by bravery, resilience and vulnerability. Introducing physical juxtapositions opening alternate ways of looking that push at the limits of representation. Even as the heart, impulse, energy and cost for each dancer remains the same. Technically, Change is mostly a success. Despite a sound design with poor voice overs, Benji Bowers compensates with some deeply evocative compositions. Against which Gearoid oh Allmhurain’s lights are beautiful tempered and Deirdre Dwyer’s mobile of plastic bottles smartly and economically highlights climate change. Yet Change is really about changing ourselves, and our policies. To that end all cultures, sexes, bodies and abilities must work as one, reflected in a diverse cast and resolved in the frailty of its final image. Bodies silently shaping tent poles to craft tableaux that become reeds, or bamboos, bending without breaking. Change’s diverse ensemble speaking to how we best approach our future; united. Choreographically, Change is not Tara Brandel’s (with dancers) strongest work, but it exudes a quiet power in places. Croí Glan’s inclusive practice working towards a better tomorrow. Echoing Martha Graham's; To practice means to perform, in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Change by Croí Glan runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at Project Arts Centre until September 20. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

Mallory Adams in The Chalice. Image by Jilly McGrath *** What do we mean by culture? Heritage? Legacy? Inheritance? What do we mean by Irish? In Bridget Leahy’s thought provoking The Chalice those who left, stayed, and those who came to Ireland collide in a deceptively serious comedy about who we think we are. One that, for fifty minutes, serves up a delightfully smart tale of a speaking chalice worth a fortune and those trying to lay claim to it. Who, in the process, try lay claim to what being Irish means. If only Leahy hadn't over egged the comic and tragic omelette. Leahy held to account by a subtle yet brilliant final image. Set in real time, aside from a trip to mediaeval Ireland, two distant Gallagher relatives, Nancy and Joseph, negotiate when an ancient chalice is uncovered on Joseph's property as a result of an ancestral letter discovered by Nancy. A pink topped, pill popping Californian with mounting hospital bills, Nancy makes Amanda Seyfried’s character in Mean Girls sound like a genius. Joseph, having a chip on the chip on his shoulder, resents having stayed behind to look after the farm as his brother and all his other mates bailed for the highlife in Australia. The distant cousins chemistry as they spar for the upper hand, in an old cottage at the twilight of evening, evoking the playful charm of an Ealing comedy. Until the unexpected arrival of Grace, an officer for the OPW with Filipino heritage. A ramrod of wronged righteousness, Grace is less a character so much as a moral mouthpiece reciting her outrage like a Government pamphlet. Energy further sapped by The Chalice stumbling down a rabbit hole into an unnecessary comedy sketch about monks. Before imposing a polemic on sexual and racist abuse unconvincingly wedged in. Leading to a weak ending, despite deft comic touches with the magical chalice, that staggers across the finish line. The whole redeemed by Leahy’s powerful final moment. Mallory Adams, Rhea Rose Rodillias and Stephen O'Leary in The Chalice. Image by Jilly McGrath Under Jeda de Bri’s direction The Chalice delivers an enjoyable comedy exploring ideas about who and what we are. Yet The Chalice ultimately falls short of its own potential. Aside from Ben Moore’s superb set peppered with salient details, illuminated exquisitely by Hannah Bevan’s lighting. The chemistry between Nancy and Joseph also crackling. Stephen O'Leary's suspicious farmer a perfect foil for Mallory Adams in a detailed comic turn as Irish American Nancy who’s way smarter, and dumber, than she first appears. Adams giving a crowning comic performance that compensates for things getting narratively slack and thematically overcooked. Rhea Rose Rodillas steps up to the thankless task of playing an ethic rather than a character, being all blame, no game. Revealing in the monk scene, and the final poignant moment, they’ve much more to offer Had The Chalice remained true to its lighthearted comic stylings its power might have affected its audience in deeper ways. Instead, power is diluted for opting for the forced and contrived when it didn't need it, and pays the price. Even so, there’s much to enjoy here. Not least Adams, who delivers a sensational comic performance. And a poetic final image of understated power, it shows what Leahy is really capable of. The Chalice by Brigid Leahy, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at The New Theatre until September 20. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

Alison Kinlan and David Rawle in Amsterdam. Image by Rose Sidiropoulou *** They say love is blind. In David Rawle's frequently funny Amsterdam it's also deaf, dumb and stupid. Misunderstandings, misread signals and missed opportunities piling high as the friend zone becomes the love zone. A tale of two friends meeting in Amsterdam you don't buy for a second. Claims they suddenly 'catch feelings’ sounding hollow when they were clearly packed with the sun cream before they left. Over crucial visits to The Van Gogh museum, non coffee coffee shops, karaoke with a lusty American and the charms of the red light district all the usual Amsterdam tropes make an appearance. Ensuring a highly entertaining, 80s style romcom. Even if it contains a central relationship you struggle to buy into. A nameless Herself who's a vibrant, young woman, and a little boy lost Himself, running around in short trousers searching for a Mammy to love him. Feeling like a revamp of Friends for Gen Z, Amsterdam delivers less a play so much as a straight to Netflix pilot. It even has the boppy, bubbly soundtrack. Along with an insecure him who makes Ross Geller look like an alpha male. Performed by Rawle and Alison Kinlan, rarely have a couple looked more mismatched. A former singer navigating the real world she’s smart, funny, talented, a little beaten down and with questionable taste in men. He’s a charmless, gormless, frequently vindictive emotional coward showing the mental maturity of a petulant seven year-old. A self absorbed cheapskate two rejections away from being an Incel who endlessly disparages her. Why they’re friends and remained so, and why she’s attracted to him is hard to know. The lack of a developed backstory leaving too many blanks and making too many asks. Instead, what should look like a relationship of equals charged with sexual tension looks like a horny straight woman hitting on her gay best friend, or a cougar pursuing a virginal high schooler. Indeed, in their “will they, won't they get it on” tango you really hope they won't. Partially because she deserves far better, but mostly because you'd be obliged to ring child services to report her just to be on the safe side. Punching above his emotional and sexual weight, he shouldn't even be in the ring. The only reason you accept him is because you want to believe her. Till you decide she definitely needs therapy. Or at least a self-help book on positive self esteem. Racing through love’s not so great adventure director Eftychia Spyridaki trades pace for speed, making Amsterdam look like it wants to be over. Compounded by Spyridaki never getting to grips with Amsterdam being written for camera and not for the stage. Its flash past scenes built around a simple acting exercise in which one moment we hear text and the next we hear its subtextual contradiction. Used here as a comic device leaned into far too heavily. As missed moments and misunderstandings mount relief arrives via charming scenes like the karaoke session or the tender finale. Rawle delivering enough polaroid moments to show serious promise as a writer. Then there’s Kinlan, whose gutsy yet sensitive portrayal reveals genuine talent, musical as well as theatrical. So good she almost convinces you there must be something to Him worth the effort. But it doesn’t stop you praying she’ll dodge the bullet and get as far away as possible then loose his number. Bittersweet, maybe, but that would be her best chance at happily ever after. Amsterdam , by David Rawle, presented by Made Up Productions, co-presented by Glass Mask Theatre and Dublin Fringe Festival, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at Glass Mask Theatre until September 18. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

Conor Murray and Hannah Power in Don't Tell Dad About Diana. Image, Erica Verling **** 1997. Teenagers Hannah and Conor are BFFs even though the term hasn’t been invented yet. Now that they're Leaving Cert results are in they're going to follow their dream and head to London. Hannah to be a fashion designer living in an exclusive pad in Chelsea, Conor the undisputed Queen of drag. Beginning with Conor taking the crown of Alternative Miss Ireland from reigning champion Shirley Temple Bar. A mere formality. Guided by their cult-like devotion to the people’s princess, Princess Diana, they’ve devised a routine built around Hannah’s reconstruction of her two most significant dresses. But there’s a couple of hiccups. First, there’s the material they need to shoplift from Guineys. Second, the fact that Conor's Dad doesn't know he’s gay and likes to wear women's clothes. Then there's the secret Conor’s been hiding from Hannah which might shatter their friendship. And a moment in history that will forever change their world. In Don't Tell Dad About Diana a childhood friendship built from magazine covers, wishful dreams, glittering tinsel and having each other’s back faces the grown-up world of real life choices. Poignant, hilarious, deeply heartfelt, Don't Tell Dad About Diana delivers captivating comedy, being a complete and utter joy. Cleverly directed by Emma Finnegan, Don't Tell Dad About Diana visibly captures the DIY desperation of its two glorious characters. Their world, hopes and costumes tacked together from bits and pieces of untidy glitz. Hannah and Conor’s roughshod DIY efforts reflected in Gabe Gilmour’s wardrobe centred set, Ferdy Emmet clever lighting and Theo Foley’s Bocelli level sounds. Writers and performers Hannah Power and Conor Murray bristling with chemistry in which sparkling dialogue, often smartly constructed, is vividly brought to life. Historical details, recreating the spirit and place of the time, are married to hilarious scenes whose over the top shenanigans evoke the bad luck mayhem of Brassic . All glorious good fun, even when the truth comes out. It’s two irresistible performances of two infinitely lovable characters sure to steal your heart. Having enjoyed success in Edinburgh, Don't Tell Dad About Diana delivers on the hype. It might be a little rough around its theatrical and narrative edges, the convenient Dad denouement being a case in point, but it's still one of the most entertaining shows of the festival. Seriously enjoyable and seriously good fun, it’s time to say hello to Conor and Hannah. Two young artists with an embarrassment of talent whose show on the cheap delivers ten times its value. Two exciting new artists you’re sure to be hearing more of. Don’t Tell Dad About Diana by Hannah Power & Conor Murray runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at Bewley’s Café Theatre until September 13. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025.

Octopus Children by FELISPEAKS. Image by Pato Cassinoni ***** Margins blur. Hard edges between disciplines, histories, traditions and identities dissolve. A full face projection speaks a mantra like monologue supported by evocative percussion. Soon giving way to a live, playful dance routine couching a realist monologue. In which a young, Nigerian Irish black girl at her first rural disco tries to hide her discomfort yet wants to fit in. Discomfort with herself, her skin, her sex and sexuality. In Octopus Children by FELISPEAKS , one woman’s journey through family, history, tradition and identity proves culturally specific and universally resonant. A feminist manifesto in which the modern, mythic and magical breathe into every moment. Steeped in Nigerian magic realism reminiscent of Wole Soyinka, and the visceral poetry of Brendan Behan, the end result is one of the most brilliant and vital productions of recent years. It's not that Octopus Children breaks new ground. Rather it refashions and represents the familiar in fresh and invigorating ways. Narratively, the tale of a Nigerian Irish family in Longford caught between the tug of tradition and the pull of the modern, between the strain of the matriarchal and demands of the patriarchal, between curious youth and cautious age is a familiar one. Similarly, its teenage rites of passage of a young woman struggling to find herself, finding in writing something that allows her reveal her softer colours is as old as the 1980s. Culminating in the need to leave a confining community for the wild discovery of the city. It's all been said and done before. But rarely with such beauty, power and artistry. The border between language and sound dissolving in hypnotic percussions by Tommy Grooves ranging from jazz to tribal. Words, and the space between words, vibrant with energy and meaning. If some words struggle for clarity, their power is still undeniable. Octopus Children by FELISPEAKS. Image by Pato Cassinoni A hybrid of realism and magic realism, theatrically FELISPEAKS' blend of spoken word poetry, dance, musical styles from gospel to hip hop, and percussive brilliance is only half the story. Technical brilliance in Jack Phelan’s set and AV, Sarah Jane Shiels lights, Therese McKeone’s costuming and Anna Mullarkey’s irresistible compositions help fashion worlds that interweave and penetrate in a visual and audial tapestry. FELISPEAKS, Tishé Fatunbi, Tierra Porter, Favour Odusola, Tobi Omoteso, Tommy Salami and Soffiyah Adewoyin each turning in vivid and energised performances. Directors Oonagh Murphy & Esosa Ighodaro giving a masterclass in pace and precision, right down to the most insignificant details. A gourd of water, mimicked gestures of father and son, the meal defiantly uneaten at the family table all brim with vibrancy and energy. Interlinked scenes playing out like vignettes or stanzas. Images reclaiming feminine archetypes. A Medusa like crone, a Christian mother and a rebellious virginal daughter fusing myth, tradition and modernity. Magic, memory and new possibilities found in the myth, metaphor and symbolism of the octopus. By the time you’ve journeyed through poetry recitals, parental showdowns, vibrant dance and the cold pavement of violence you’ve arrived somewhere different to the place from which you started. Octopus Children by FELISPEAKS. Image by Pato Cassinoni A treasure throve of riches, Octopus Children spills over with theatrical jewels and thematic gems. There is a proud pantheon of black women poets whose works not only interrogate their times but often reshape them and those who follow. Maya Angelou, Zora Neale Hurston, Toni Morrison, Nikki Giovani, Morgan Parker to name but a few. Women who took the pains of their past to fashion a present opening out into new, possible futures. As black poet June Jordan remarked; I understand the comfortable temptation of the dead: I turn my back against the grave and kiss again the risk of what I have instead. To that elite honours role scribe the name FELISPEAKS. Octopus Children reminding us we are all wholly water. That we are all holy water. Whatever your gaze, Octopus Children is Holy Theatre whose incantations speak to an unlikely us of race, colours, sexes and creeds striving for unity and continuity. Vital, vibrant, visceral, Octopus Children is urgent and powerful theatre that’s infinitely enjoyable. Not to be missed. Octopus Children by FELIXSPEAKS, presented by THISISPOPBABY, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at Project Arts Centre until September 14. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

Brambles. Image by Paul Donegan **** Let's call it as it is. Brambles , by Cara Christie , is Hallmark Channel Theatre. A guilty, feel good pleasure as one sister’s keeper, her gormless boyfriend, and an autistic young woman learn to love, live and embrace all things Bram Stoker. Showing all the hallmarks, pun intended, of curling up cozy with a perfect cup of tea before a glowing fire, Christie’s twee tale is lightweight, funny, comforting and predictable. And I defy you not to adore it. Its premise is straightforward. Claire, whose autism makes it difficult for her to navigate the world, gets a job in Dublin and decides to move in with her sister Holly and her boyfriend Glen. It would've been nice had Holly known Claire was coming with her mountain of boxes because Holly has a busy existence. But Glen is happy with their unexpected visitor. The gormless Dad in waiting having two real interests; mothers and children. Wanting Holly to become a mother to his child, he sees in Claire a child that needs minding with Holly filling the maternal void left after their mother's death. Which also created an emotional void with their father. And so it goes as Claire moves in, tries to navigate the workplace while Glen and Holly try to conceive. Their respective needs rubbing against each other and causing friction. The gentle kind. The kind that smooths away rough edges. Velvet gloved punches cushioned by irresistible charm. Cara Christie, Oliver Flitcroft and Aoife Cassidy in Brambles. Image, Carol Cummins If Christie's script leans structurally towards television, its light dialogue and small stakes generate a slow, percolating pace. Director Olivia Sanger compensating with as much theatricality as she can. Aided by Florentina’s set, suggesting the physical embodiment of Claire's compartmentalised and cluttered mind. Boxes upon boxes upon boxes endlessly rearranged throughout until achieving something resembling order. Conor McGowan's lights and Paul Donegan's sound unobtrusively adding to a sense of being overwhelmed. Yet it is three strong performances under Singer’s directorial touch that sets everything aglow. Beginning with Christie as the uber responsible Holly. Christie turning in a sensitive portrayal of a responsible sister struggling to hold it all together, urged to find completion by being whatever her family and boyfriend needs her to be. It is Hallmark Channel Theatre after all. Oliver Flitcroft's Glen, obsessed with his need for a child, injects what could have been a shallow device with compelling presence. Both playing supporting roles to a sensational Aoife Cassidy as the obstreperous Claire. Like with Extraordinary Attorney Woo , Cassidy’s portrayal of an autistic woman navigating a world that may not have a place for her is sensationally and sensitively fashioned. Skimming for comfort, overwhelmed by sounds, avoiding gazes or staring too long, monster mashing at all the wrong times and in all the wrong places yet deserately needing to belong; Cassidy's Claire is crafted with stupendous care and detail. If Claire’s strained relationship with Holly evokes the ghost of Rainman , ultimately Brambles is Claire's story. If its happily ever after feels contrived more than convincing, it suggests possibilities on how the struggle for autistic people engaging with the world might be better addressed. Granted, you have to know the nature of that struggle, and one of the delights of Brambles is its thoughtful exploration of how exhausting it is when the world doesn't know, and why you might not want it to know. If Brambles views the future more with hope than expectation, it’s a hope you want to buy into. For Christie’s Claire is utterly memorable and is beautifully rendered by Cassidy. Even her Dad level Dracula jokes brim with effortless charm. So bring a loved one. Bring your bride to be, and congratulations. Bring that ex you broke up with in Cork. So joyously heartwarming is Brambles , you might wonder why you ever broke up in the first place. Addressing autism with sensitivity and charm, Brambles is a genuine delight. Brambles by Cara Christie, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at The New Theatre until September 13. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

Lessons On Revolution. Image, Jack Sain *** 1968. Three thousand students occupy the London School of Economics in the most significant act of protest in a generation. In the same period student protests are taking place in France. Many inspired by college campuses in America protesting the Vietnam war. Begging the question, what did activism and protest achieve? In the case of LSE, very little it would appear as efforts to oust the principal, Walter Adams, because of links with big oil and the oppressive regimes in apartheid era Rhodesia fell flat on their face. Indeed, not only was he kept, he was knighted shortly afterwards. Meanwhile one of the key protesters committed suicide and many were expelled. The point being? It's never quite clear. In Lessons On Revolution a charismatic gay couple, Samuel Rees and Gabriele Uboldi make several points yet never quite make their case. Drawing countless dots, they fail to satisfactorily join them. The welcome is warm, the ginger nut biscuits tasty, the Miwadi watered to within an inch of its life. The space could be LSE in 1968, the flat of the two performers, the space we’re currently in, or a student room in a university. Using acetates and an overhead projector the audience are treated to a lengthy history TED talk on student protest in the late 1960s. Things unravelling as familial homophobia, Sicilian grandparents with Communist leanings, Bauhaus archives and reaching for the future impinge on the historical narrative. Generating less a sense of protesting horrors so much as whistling in the dark hoping the monsters will go away. Clutching the unfounded belief that we have to believe things could get better, even as the evidence presented is completely to the contrary. Sure, you can protest, but history isn't really on your side. Rather, Lessons On Revolution suggests you’re most likely doomed to failure. What carries Lessons On Revolution is the sincerity and warmth of its two charismatic lecturers. They admit they're not performers and they certainly like the sound of their own voice. Which, in a production lacking sufficient theatrical inventiveness, tends to drone towards the end. What their aim is, like much in Lessons On Revolution , is pretty unclear. Hinted, nudged at, nodded towards, when you look closer it's hard to see what of substance there is apart from crumbs of personal interest. A post-show tag on about the genocide in Gaza highlights how we really needed a show that spoke meaningfully to now. About how protests in the US, Hungary, and throughout the world might be our only defence against encroaching fascism, racism, homophobia and bigotry. Lessons On Revolution , even though it's feel good heart is in the right place, has its head all over the place. We need articulate, robust political theatre. It’s not enough anymore, such shapeless, wishful thinking over Miwadi and biscuits. Not in such troubling times. Lessons On Revolution , presented by Undone Theatre and Carmen Collective, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at The Digital Hub until September 14. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

The Revenger's Tragedy. Image, David Copeland. ** It's never a good sign when an academic takes to the stage during a production to lecture the audience on what they've just seen. At worst it suggests the audience aren’t intelligent enough or that the lecturer has little faith the production has made itself clear. In the case of The Revenger's Tragedy , adapted and directed by Kevin Keogh , much of the audience might struggle to get it, but that's because the production is lazily contrived. That despite a libretto of sorts contained in the programme. Outlining a reimagining of Thomas Middleton’s 1606 Jacobean play The Revenger’s Tragedy set against a modern soundtrack and framed inside a hip-hop subculture called drill. Not that the lengthy lecture on the pedagogy of hip hop and the codification of language makes anything clearer. Rather, it screams of weak efforts to justify poor theatre by referencing ideological authorities to bolster its political agenda. Indeed, the longer the lecture goes on, there’s a vivid sense this lady doth protest way too much about hip hop as protest. With an eleven strong orchestra and conductor live onstage, a musical intro establishes a mood of promise. Flashing lights reinforcing vibrant, musical energy, with an array of daggers suspended from the ceiling whetting the curiosity. But it’s a false promise. Not till the final, drill styled last moments is a modicum delivered on. Instead, we get alternating monologues by Alexander Potgieter and Andrew Ajentunombi delivered less as a drill performance and more as a recital. And a poor recital at that. Declamation, diction, skills necessary for effective delivery in Jacobean theatre nowhere in evidence. Like removing DJing from hip hop, their absence sees delivery dying on its feet. Not helped by monologues competing with the soundtrack and permanently losing out. Resulting in dull, verbal monotony in which every other word is half heard. After a short period straining to piece blurred sentences together you’ll likely wonder if you've understood what's being said? The answer likely to be no. Thankfully there's stirring music by Colin Fitzpatrick, Samuel Mark and Ire Adebari, which isn't the best thing about this production, it's the only good thing. A brief interlude in which a strained soprano, a cartoon Ellen Rose Kelly, strangles an aria in the style of Carry On Opera proves a poor effort to address drill’s misogyny. But dreary monologues and decrepit acting soon return, droning on endlessly until a painful interruption by way of eager anthropologist, Dr Dawn-Elissa Fischer, serves up lashings of unsteady artspeak. Christ, you might cringe. I came to see a show. I didn’t sign up to listen to a lecture. Especially one whose efforts to sanctify hip hop as political resistance backfires for trying to shoehorn The Revenger’s Tragedy alongside hip hop’s richer history. And the wider riches of black artists. When it comes to black expression and political resistance, exceptional black artists have produced exceptional art in many genres. In contrast, The Revenger’s Tragedy , despite inflated academic claims, resembles little more than self-indulgence, doing hip-hop, drill and theatre no favours. Paling in comparison with the real deals. Words as weapons? In The Revenger’s Tragedy they barely function as words. As we drag towards the finish line via some infantile choreography, a momentary flash of contemporary drill reveals what should've been. But by then the boat has sailed. The only redeeming feature a powerfully engaging soundtrack far richer than the shambles of theatre in front of it. Giving many patrons pause for thought. Yet again a niche production that speaks to the converted, and invested academics, likely to exclude a wider audience. The sort of production more likely to drive non acolytes away from theatre rather than connect with it. Let alone the National Theatre. Even drill fans are likely to struggle. The Revenger’s Tragedy might dress up well for funding and politics, but it's poor art. Which ultimately makes for poor politics resulting in retrenchments. Indeed, The Revenger's Tragedy could set hip hop back fifty years. Never mind the bigger question; what does it tell us about the current state of Irish theatre? The Revenger’s Tragedy , presented by 353 and Kevin Keogh, co-presented with The Abbey Theatre and Dublin Fringe Festival, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at The Peacock Stage of The Abbey Theatre until September 13. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

Good With Faces. Image, Lost Lens Caps Technically, this is not a review. For a theatre review you need a play, at least one complete performance and a production presented to the best of their ability. While Oisín Kearney' s two hander, Good With Faces , is unquestionably a play, and a very good one, the production last night was not the one intended for an audience. Due, regrettably, to performer Vicky Allen being forced to withdraw due to illness. Requiring a stopgap measure be put in place or else cancelling. Clodagh Mooney Duggan bravely stepping in and reading with script in hand rescuing the night at a moments notice. So why bother writing about it? Well, firstly, Kearney is a seriously good writer who deserves to be better known. Secondly, he's one of the nicest guys in theatre. Thirdly, Good With Faces is a deceptively smart play that deserves to be seen. Finally, conditions might not have been ideal, but there was no sense of being sold short (people could ask for refunds or an alternate night), but rather of a different experience being had. And if it wasn’t quite as compelling as what was intended, it still bristled with its own unquestionable power. To accommodate Mooney Duggan, director Kearney made a few smart adjustments. Rather than have Mooney Duggan alone with her script in hand, stage partner Patrick McBrearty also sat with a script, lending the whole a sense of a staged reading. Kearney himself sitting stage left in front of a laptop reading stage directions. If the play begins with a rictus in search of a smile, apart from a poignant, final stage image there’s no physical interaction. Stage directions carrying the physical weight, and up to the task, as social worker, Hegarty, interrogates a mother, Anne Garrick, for possible child abuse of a disabled child. Kearney’s stage directions filling in for physical blanks. Yet Good With Faces is not a whodunnit, having other fish to fry. Indeed, Garrick’s five year old son, like Hegarty’s daughter, serve more as metaphors. A centre around which to pull and push at notions of care, parenting, class, power, powerlessness, despair, and to deeper, often unfulfilled needs to care and be cared for that we never grow out of. All told with Chekhovian economy laced with Absurdist touches. In which, like the superb Offspring currently running as part of DFF, the needs of a parent and child can conflict more often than they harmonise. Begging the question how do you regulate what can feel like sacrifice? Especially when institutional care may mean jumping from the frying pan into the fire? It’s a testament to Mooney Duggan that not only do you want to see the fully realised version with Allen and McBrearty, you would also love to see an alternate version with an off book Mooney Duggan. McBrearty, even restrained, turns in a mesmerisingly compelling performance as a wounded soul seeking to save itself by saving others. Against which Mooney Duggan conveyed the insecurity and defiance of the interrogated mother with nothing to hide perhaps but her weakness. Mooney Duggan’s exquisite timing, controlled delivery and soul searing stare ensuring you frequently forget she’s reading from a script. Two laws of theatre. One, Murphy’s Law. If anything can't go wrong it will go wrong. Then there’s the law that states the show must go on. While Allen’s absence was regrettable, for her mostly I’m sure, if ever you're in a tight spot Clodagh Mooney Duggan is who you’ll want in your corner, making it a privilege to watch resilience triumph over adversity. It might not get the Spirit of the Fringe Award, but that spirit was very much in evidence. Whatever version of Good With Faces you can get to see, go see it. Good With Faces , written and directed by Oisín Kearney, presented in association with Pavilion Theatre, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at Project Arts Centre until September 13. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

Testo by Wet Mess. Image by Lesley Martin **** From the program blurb you might think Testo was about being trans. You'd be right, and you'd be wrong. Or that it's about gender fluidity. Again, right and wrong. That it's about the body as a site of performance. You know what I'm going to say to that one. Indeed, Testo is about all these things. But it’s also about celebrating difference, resilience and discovery. Mostly, it’s about Wet Mess . A singularly gifted artist who rejoices in pushing at the boundaries of performance and drag. Not that you’d think so early on. Standing, holding a subtitle board, Wet Mess treats us to a dull recounting of what resembles a chem-sex wet dream, or nightmare if you’re lactose intolerant, which labours under cliches. Immediately followed by a Chippendale half strip, revealing a chiselled, rubber male torso married to a maniacal smile. A chess board face, part Thom McGinty’s Diceman , part Peter Greenaway movie, part Hellraiser is, like their body, a mask. Testo beginning to feel like dance floor cabaret with touches of TikTok Theatre, exaggerated balloon animals, lip syncing to confessional voiceovers, drag brunch shenanigans and phallic fascination. The Testo of the title referring to testosterone, initially reduced to its cliché double bind of violence and sexual intensity. You could be forgiven for getting bored. But Wet Mess is setting you up for a fall from the catwalk. And what magnificent fall it is. Testo by Wet Mess. Image by Lesley Martin Peeling away the rubber torso like a shedded skin, Wet Mess reveals another, fleshed feminine form concealed underneath. Yet even revealtion is a performance. Indeed, Testo is all performance. Sex as performance. Gender as performance. Trans as performance. Identity as performance. Performance as performance. The subjective experience framed as objective reality. When all that either really amounts to is the limited information gathered by our five senses and our interpretation of same. Performance proving as pliable as the skin we wear. As restrictive as much as it is expressive. Limited in choice by societal norms. As Wet Mess toys coquettishly with a handbag, we’re back in expected gender roles. But Wet Mess suddenly strips bear, shattering all roles, along with all sexualised gendered gazes, with an unvarnished display of exhibitionism that's electric to behold. Dropping into the splits everything stops momentarily, allowing something powerful emerge in the silence. Donning a coat Wet Mess sits quietly in the audience. Some laugh uneasily. Presently they rearrange their phallic balloon animals into a recliner, removes their socks and lie outstretched with a drink. A feminine form in a rather masculine pose. As they rises and walk away naked do we, for the first time, glimpse the performer behind the performance? Surtitles tell us this is not a dream. That we are afraid. But we are awake. Alas, dreaming someone else's dream is still a dream. We're still afraid, but perhaps of different things. The body might be stripped of costuming, but the mask remains and has never slipped. So no, we're not awake. But Testo has certainly disturbed our sleep. Shattering boundaries in a vibrantly energetic production in which private worlds are made public. Yet who, or what remains when the audience is gone? When the performance is over? Thought provoking and electrifying, Testo hits you as a visceral experience. For over 18s and non-puritans only. Though it’s probably the latter who need to see Testo the most. Testo , by Wet Mess, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at Project Arts Centre until September 10. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

Emily Terndrup in Offspring. Image, Patricio Cassinoni ***** It’s a fate facing many aging dancers. Being abandoned to the creative wilderness in favour of younger bucks. An experience with a commonplace twist for women. Whose bodies when creating new bodies require at least a year away from their creative practice. Bodies whose biological clock ticks faster as the years rush by. Yet what remains when a dancer is deprived of her dance? When torn between the conflicting demands of artistic and parental responsibility? Ensuring even those who are pure of heart and say their prayers by night might join the legion of the damned? Damned if they do and damned if they don’t? In Emily Terndrup ’s searingly brilliant Offspring , one dancer’s internal conflict with the competing needs of, and for, her mind, body and soul finds her plumbing darkness to find creative light. Trapped betwixt love of self and love for offspring, Offspring serves up a dance theatre experience that's supernaturally brilliant. Questioning one of the fundamental, painfully relevant conflicts at the heart of our humanity. Subtitled A Modern Frankenstein , Mary Shelley's Frankenstein serves as a jumping off point. Yet Offspring is less a play about how monsters are made as about mothering. Mothering shows. Children. Dreams. Nightmares. Mothering monsters and monsters as mothers. Yet do monsters really exist? And if they do, how do we live with them? Terndrup’s meta-theatrical frames serving up a delightful conceit. Part Torch Song Trilogy confessional address, part ready-made one person monologue, Offspring is less a play so much as a pitch for a play. A beautifully insane, hilariously brilliant pitch addressed to the audience as notes to self for a staged retelling of Frankenstein . Terndrup having everything she needs. Almost. Just a few odds and ends required. Like a boat, bolts of lightning, and a finished script. Her nine year-old inner child, inspired by Jennifer Beals' Flashdance , ensuring playfulness runs rampant despite heavy themes. Terndrup never labouring her points for they being brilliantly made. Echoing Milton’s Paradise Lost : “conscience wakes despair….wondering where and what I was.” In Offspring , everything is touched by genius. The stage, with its evocative props, resembling a rehearsal room, i.e. a laboratory where creative possibilities are infused with life. A mound of soil from which life emerges, a mixing desk and lamp, lights that craft shadows; all simply and brilliantly conveyed. Matt Burke's powerfully understated light design, along with Michael John McCarthy's superb compositions and sound design complementing a deeply engaging performance by Terndrup. Coupled with muscular dance sequences choreographed by Terndrup in collaboration with Luke Murphy and Ryan O’Neill. From short, snapping sequences to a rag doll, loose limbed duet with Murphy, from vigorous articulations to a Flashdance celebration, movements are superbly executed. Yet despite a host of collaborative talents, it’s all Terndrup. Even her duets are solos. Dealing with flesh of her flesh, or her words made flesh that dwell amongst us, Terndrup bravely explores shadows at the heart of our conflicted humanity. Vocation and parenting. Can you truly serve two masters? In Offsprin g, Terndrup serves legions. Or rather, they serve her. Offspring’s harmony of disciplinary opposites shaping a possible reprieve for the female dancer. In dance theatre, it's not enough to dance, you have to write, direct, act, MC, add your own. Terndrup, dazzling in her range, reveals subtle and overt comic touches, embodies detailed presence, displays passages of exquisite writing delivered with pitch perfect timing. Luring you to where monsters howl, attack, wound, cry out, or make you laugh out loud. Causing you to recoil at the recognition, for all monsters are mirrors of ourselves. Until words find their end, and end in the way they should. Ceding to music that illuminates. To shadows that sing. To Terndrup, body writhing in silent vulnerability, bearing her soul to reveal ours to ourselves. Heartfelt, haunting, hilarious Offspring allows the audience complete the journey. A journey as much theirs as it is Terndrup’s. A rare and genuine treat. There will be many great artists and shows in Dublin Fringe Festival 2025. There will be few as theatrically innovative, humanly vulnerable, simply complex and hilariously affecting as Offspring . If Offspring is not in the running for every conceivable award, there is no justice under heaven. Not to be missed. Offspring , written and directed by Emily Terndrup, runs as part of Dublin Fringe Festival 2025 at Smock Alley Theatre until September 13. For more information visit Dublin Fringe Festival 2025

Laura Whitmore and Ed Harrison in The Girl On The Train. Image uncredited. **** A remix takes a song then delivers an entirely different version. The same might be said when it comes to different directors and different casts. If you had the pleasure of seeing 2019’s The Girl On The Train you might think there's no need to see it again. You’d be mistaken, especially if you like plays focused on issues. Yes, it's still a story about a damaged woman whose relentless alcoholism leaves blackouts in her memory and who may, or may not, know something about a missing woman later found murdered. But under Loveday Ingram’s direction, emphasising psychological depth over narrative thrust, focus shifts from a noir styled whodunnit to a deeper character study of abused, gaslit and abandoned women. In which Laura Whitmore as anti-hero/victim Rachel, cements her reputation as an actress with serious talent. In a pacy production where the gender dice are loaded. Laura Whitmore in The Girl On The Train. Image uncredited. Not that The Girl On The Train is without suspense or tension. Under Ingram’s guiding hand it leans heavily into Hitchcock psychological thriller territory. Marnie (1964), and Spellbound (1945) immediately spring to mind. Tense thrillers where the blurred line between fantasy and reality, memory and fact dominate over actual events. If, in Spellbound , Hitchcock had the inimitable Salvador Dali design the dream sequences, Ingram is reliant on Adam Wiltshire's three screen set with intermittent projections to convey Rachel’s deeper psychological states rather than a realist frame. Most effective during scene transitions, often choreographed to suggest a moving train. Wiltshire’s set, aided by Jack Knowles darkened lights, Elizabeth Purnell’s evocative sound and Paul Englishby’s tense score giving the great Dadaist a run for his visual money, with raindrops on windows evoking Matrix like data. Or moments which might be memories, fantasies or projections from the darker recesses of Rachel’s mind. A woman drunk and in pain, harassing her ex-husband and his new wife, Anna, whilst struggling to discover what happened to the missing Megan, a woman she saw from a train in who she detects echoes of herself. Laura Whitmore in The Girl On The Train. Image uncredited. Whilst impressive, Ingram’s emphasis on the psychological comes at a price. Most notably narrative, whose adaptation from the novel has more holes than a sieve. Based on the best selling novel by Paula Hawkins and the DreamWorks film of the same name, adapted by Rachel Wagstaff and Duncan Abel, weak contrivances soon overplay their hand. Along with characters telling rather than showing. Steeped in the conventions of storytelling theatre, characters often over monologue exposition. In which gender imbalance evokes male gaslighting as a foundational strut and the cause of everybodies ills. While you certainly buy it in the stone smashing scene, not enough work is done throughout for it to convince as the explanatory device for the entire play. Laura Whitmore and Freya Parks in The Girl On The Train. Image uncredited. Meaning that when it comes to performances the women have it. The men not so much as the script coerces sympathy for its problematic, central character. Against which Zena Carswell as long suffer wife and mother, Anna, proves superb. As does Freya Parks as the Bohemian artist Megan; Parks and Carswell vividly alive as detailed characters. In contrast, Daniel Burke’s conflicted psychiatrist Kamal, Samuel Collings’s one tone Scott, and Ed Harrison's charmless Tom serve as stereotypes rather than people. Even Paul McEwan as DI Gaskill, overplaying a Northern English accent, offers little of substance to play against as the play’s only gay character. Strikingly contrasted with a superb Laura Whitmore who dazzles as the troubled Rachel. But actors need reactions to feed off and Whitmore is often deprived of something of substance when playing against the men onstage. Left relying on stagey devices and cleverly executed transitions initiated by the swirl of a coat. Indeed, never has a character swigged at a bottle way past the point of it looking convincingly natural. Even so, Whitmore’s sensitive performance and charismatic presence carries the day, with Carswell and Parks bringing up the rear and ensuring an irresistibly entertaining production. Whitmore unquestionably its star. Matched by some slick staging and stunning visuals. The Girl On The Train , based on the best selling novel by Paula Hawkins and the DreamWorks film, adapted by Rachel Wagstaff and Duncan Abel, in a Melting Pot Productions and Josh Andrews presentation of a Wiltshire Creative Production, runs at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre until August 30. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre

Benjamin Reilly and Isolde Fenton in Mortal Sin. Image, Daniel Byrne **** Straitjacketed by a choking Irish Catholicism, life loving friends, Colm and Peggy, live lives of quiet desperation. Like the restrictiveness of Peggy’s buttoned up cardigan, they can barely breathe in holy Catholic Ireland. Colm’s a ‘fairy’ and Peggy defiant in a place where fear thrives when good people do nothing, and family do worse. Usually in the name of goodness. In Benjamin Reilly’s darling Mortal Sins times are a changin’ even as the song resists to remain the same. Revolving around a student protest for a day off school in 1963 following the death of John F. Kennedy, two teenage outsiders in a rural Catholic community give humorous voice to assertive women and their men friends who like men. Peggy’s protest a thin thread on which to hang reflections on where we are, where we were, and the journey that took us here. Mortal Sin speaking to the civil and cultural unrest of Ireland’s liberating Sixties that looked backward when it came to moving forward. Even though many went on to achieve the impossible dream, often it came at a price. Benjamin Reilly and Isolde Fenton in Mortal Sin. Image, Daniel Byrne Structurally, Reilly’s storytelling hybrid of monologues and dialogue sets up a contrast between show and tell that leans heavily into novel territory. Yet if showing proves stronger than telling, often it's not by much. Aside from a contextually heavy first half whose expositional monologues sets the scene with nothing much happening. Mortal Sin much more satisfying when characters show themselves in sparkling dialogue. The hilariously touching shifting scene, or the revealing sin dunes scene both superbly thoughtful and tender. Reilly's cross pollination of the final, bittersweet monologues showing superb technical innovation as the future finally arrives. Even so, Mortal Sin is far more successful as character studies, and a study of the Irish character of the time, than a story. Showing touches of Edna O’Brien and Maeve Binchy, rarely has a play compressed so much history into so little time and done it so brilliantly. Monologue versus dialogue, the holy past versus the secularised future creating tensions director Lee Coffey navigates beautifully. Crafting two nuanced performances that shift seamlessly between the script’s competing demands. Reilly and Isolde Fenton, as the gentle, mental Colm and the girl power Peggy, seducing irrevocably with endearingly engaging performances. Benjamin Reilly and Isolde Fenton in Mortal Sin. Image, Daniel Byrne Visually, it takes a moment to appreciate Jenny Whyte’s supremely clever design. Bewley’s black box walls painted in summer azure with dark, tumbling clouds dominates a floor strewn with charity shop memorabilia. As if Whyte had delivered the props, painted the wall but lazily opted not to build the set. But Whyte proves immeasurably smarter than that. The expansive, blue skied vista with turbulent foreboding indicates the troubled future. Meanwhile, in the basement of history, littered with the bric a brac of the collapsing past, the cloying mustiness of the not so good old days clings, coated in dusty nostalgia. All the while Eoin Byrne’s hard working lights deliver superb atmospheric ambience whilst unevenly navigating the demands of lighting individual characters and their joint scenes, the latter proving far more successful. Benjamin Reilly and Isolde Fenton in Mortal Sin. Image, Daniel Byrne Like the playful love child of Eugene O’Brien’s Eden and Karl Geary’s Juno Loves Legs, Mortal Sin proves telling and irresistible. True, it’s not theatrical fine dining. Rather, it’s afternoon tea. A simple treat made from simple, fresh ingredients whose presentation is as deceptively delicious as its delicate pastries. Never battering you with superfluous detail, nor insulting your intelligence by spelling out the obvious, such as why Colm’s future became what it was, Mortal Sin is smart and engaging and assumes its audience is too. Confirming Coffey as a director growing from strength to strength and Reilly as a serious talent to watch out for, Mortal Sin is a heartfelt delight. Deserving to run and run, Mortal Sin proves deeply satisfying and deeply enjoyable. As mortal sins often are.  Mortal Sin by Benjamin Reilly, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until September 6. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre .

Brendan Gleeson in Conor McPherson’s The Weir. Image, Rich Gilligan ***** You wonder sometimes. Especially when so many theatre lovers say they no longer see the point. Even if Covid hadn't decimated audiences, ticket prices, the cost of parking, of a coffee, never mind eating out, of the nightmare of public transport and the worst nightmare of driving to a show; it compels you to ask is going to the theatre worth your time and money? Especially as theatre often force feeds its audience proselytising lectures on how people should behave, blunting their points with dialogue incompatible with how people speak or think. Passed off as plays in which ideas about people are substituted for people themselves, delivered like judges passing sentence. Or else there’s the numberless, ready-made plays. Homogenised, one person monologues with madcap characters and maybe a musical moment or two on the journey towards personal growth. So prevalent it seems many playwrights are all writing the same play. No wonder it makes you stop and wonder. Till you see the award winning The Weir by Conor McPherson , first produced in 1997. An hour and forty minutes in which five people talk nonsense and tell ghost stories in a twilit pub. A play that reminds you why you love theatre. For nights such as this. Kate Phillips, Brendan Gleeson and Owen McDonnell in Conor McPherson’s The Weir. Image, Rich Gilligan No beautiful, self-aware people here looking to be their best, artspeak selves, no high seriousness, no overt propaganda. Just a ragtag mess of common humanity gravitating to an unnamed pub in an unnamed rural location in the not too distant past. Owen McDonnell’s barman Brendan, watching the world from behind the fortress of his bar, chats and drinks with elderly bachelor boys wiling away their days before the German tourists arrive. Seán McGinley’s doddery Jim grabbing some me-time from caring for his mother. Brendan Gleeson's rueful Jack, the group’s natural leader, the fulcrum around which all else revolves. Their reveries interrupted as Tom Vaughan-Lawlor’s hilarious Finbar enters like a rural Del Boy. Introducing into this sacred male space, immortalised in plays like Jimmy Murphy’s Kings of the Kilburn High Road and Tom Murphy’s Conversations on a Homecoming , the first step towards a progressive future: a woman. Kate Phillips’ Valerie stepping into the all male cauldron with wonderful, understated assurance. Delivering the fifth of five masterclass performances. Brendan Gleeson, Owen McDonnell and Kate Phillips, in Conor McPherson’s The Weir. Image, Rich Gilligan Relocating from Dublin, Valerie isn't just a woman, she's a different class, a different place, a different way of being in the world. McPherson’s tensions between the needs of the future and the lost treasures of the past echoed in tensions between the scientific and the supernatural, between self-determination and the ravages of life. Jim’s gambling method versus Jack’s hunches. The concrete world of bar stools and the other world of ghosts. Life as it is and life as it might have been. As each tells a ghost story, each reveals a personal vulnerability, with Valerie’s the most poignant. Revealing, in the telling, that there’s no real difference between us after all. Age, sex, class all dissolving as the night moves through personal vanities towards the tender glory of human connectedness.  Kate Phillips, in Conor McPherson’s The Weir. Image, Rich Gilligan Throughout, the pub is the real star of the show. A liminal space characters inhabit like living ghosts. Getting drunk a perk. The pub serving as the cradle of care for a community. A place to talk, brag, joke, argue, reflect, confess, escape to, all the while achieving acceptance and a kind of healing in its communal embrace. Compassion found in buying rounds and in the tender refusal of a bought round, in the embrace of friendship and the offer of a lift home, in the ‘have one yourself’ and communal cigarettes. Rae Smith’s angled set a depository of exquisite detail which, like Mark Henderson’s superlative lights, warms with the texture of belonging. Capturing not the idea of a pub but its very soul. Where blood pumps through the veins of people you never knew yet in whose joys, hurts and irresistible humour you recognise as friends. McPherson’s direction weaving it all into something magical. Tom Vaughn-Lalwor, Seán McGinley and Brendan Gleeson in Conor McPherson’s The Weir. Image, Rich Gilligan Some plays date. Others, like The Weir, enriched with age like a fine whiskey, become classics. A whiff of nostalgia for a fading time might grace the palette occasionally, but it’s a burnish on the play’s gentle afterglow. Like the sage picking up what gets lost along the way, The Weir fuses times past with times present. Reopening fresh wounds in the process. The lock in, the generous pour, the decent priced pint and the occasional ‘one on the house’ might still be found in some rural communities, but in places like Dublin it's mostly the stuff of bittersweet memories. As are many of the communities that gravitated around such places of care, with many such pubs now gone. Where five people talking in a bar reveal the heart and soul of the universe. Utterly and effortlessly brilliant, The Weir is not to be missed. The Weir by Conor McPherson, presented by Landmark Productions and Kate Horton Productions in association with 3Olympia Theatre, runs at 3Olympia Theatre until September 6. Transferring to The Harold Pinter Theatre, London from  September 12 to December 6. For more information visit TheWeirPlay.

Fionn Foley, Emma Dargan-Reid and Caoimhe O'Malley in The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4. Image, Rich Davenport. *** They say the greatest trick the devil ever played was making you believe he doesn’t exist. The greatest con corporate culture ever pulled was tricking its staff into believing they mattered. Values like inclusivity, wellness and social responsibility demanding a personal buy in for the greatest good. Values, like staff, made redundant once the good times are deemed to be over. Perhaps all you can do is laugh. Caitríona Daly’s office farce The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4 certainly tries to. Maniacal employees trying to figure out how to spend a surplus Social Responsibility Budget during their lunch hour making some big comedic promises. Yet, like its corporate inspiration, Daly’s slice of office life doesn’t deliver when it really matters. The whole redeemed by some fine direction and a superlative cast.  Emma Dargan-Reid and Helen Norton in The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4. Image, Rich Davenport. The problem lies with Daly’s weak and contrived script. Like the elderly uncle who reminisces about all the dull things he got up to that would make for a bestseller, scenarios prove far less entertaining than they might think they are. Situationally, there’s precious little meat on Daly’s comic bones as an elongated argument behind a locked conference room door leaves a HR exec trying to break in. A one trick pony never properly exploited, varied or resolved. Comedically there’s little set up and even less sense of timing, with staged arguments looking like punchlines in search of a joke. Dialogue flatlining between comedic outbursts that appear like unsuspected eruptions from a generally inactive geezer, its mostly underground rumblings subsiding into silence. Having reached a turning point and asking what’s really going on, the script reveals it has no idea and bails without a parachute. Free falling into a lengthy, clichéd monologue about pregnancy in the workplace and hoping you won’t notice. Before crash landing into a musical song and dance routine to finish with a meta-theatrical cop out. Which, ironically, proves to be the best thing about The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4. Caoimhe O'Malley in The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4. Image, Rich Davenport. Yet laughter arrives on account of director Raymond Keane. Keane squeezing every ounce of engagement from Daly’s forced and often juvenile script by mashing it into pulp to squeeze out more; injecting physical finesse into its middle management fiasco without tipping over into pantomime extravaganza. Loading the physical comedy dice given there’s too little of textual wit worth betting on. Useful when seriousness gets injected like an annoying volunteer lecturing you on saving the volunteers. The separation of seriousness and comedy frequently reinforced by Dara Hoban’s self conscious light changes. Ronán Duffy’s smarter than it seems set, and Saileóg O’Halloran’s stereotypical costumes doing what’s needed. Fionn Foley and Caoimhe O'Malley in The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4. Image, Rich Davenport. Casting wisely, Keane further conceals a multitude of sins. Like a modern day Donald O'Connor, Fionn Foley effortlessly sings, acts and dances his way into your affections whilst cornering the market in tetchy beta males with inflated egos. Foley’s uber Dad Daniel, a GAA outcast with a penchant for Offaly, sees Foley flamboyantly on fire. Igniting a chemical blaze with a superb Caoimhe O’Malley as the corporate bitch queen Clodagh, who sold her soul for an executive assistant position and a tongue sharper than her cheekbones. The underused Emma Dargan-Reid as Phd receptionist, Jess, essentially straight person to Foley and O’Malley, shines terrifically when given the chance. As does Helen Norton as Lady Susan, a HR exec resembling a yellow pack, Dame Edna Everage. Each best when playing the skit rather than the play, given the skit usually has more of substance. But not by much. Caoimhe O'Malley, Emma Dargan-Reid and Fionn Foley in The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4. Image, Rich Davenport. From The Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin to both versions of The Office , corporate office culture has provided much comic fodder. The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4 falls considerably short by comparison. Had it been brave enough to follow its The Naked Gun meta inclinations, revealed momentarily at the end, it might have succeeded better. As it stands, it risks being another day at the office when you’d rather be working from home. Offering intermittent relief in moments of hilarity. The Lunch Punch Power Hour in Conference Room 4 by Caitríona Daly runs at The Peacock Stage of the Abbey Theatre until September 6. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Jacqueline Brunton in Little Shop of Horrors. Image uncredited. **** Despite global popularity, the musical is an underdeveloped genre in Ireland. Understandable as there's huge financial risk involved. Especially when works of scale have to compete with West End touring companies and there’s no way to guarantee a sure fire hit. Which is why Bord Gáis Energy Theatre are to be applauded for producing their first in-house production. The 1982 cult classic Little Shop of Horrors with book and lyrics by Howard Ashman and music by Alan Menken. A production full of wild, relentless energy, lots of homegrown talent, and one or two teething pains. David O'Reilly in Little Shop of Horrors. Image uncredited. Inspired by a 1960’s B-movie staring Jack Nicholson, and immortalised by the 1986 musical film staring Rick Moranis, Little Shop of Horrors sees Day of the Triffids meet the retro charms of Grease . A sci-fi horror about a cannibal, bloodsucking Venus fly trap set against a 50’s styled soundtrack. The musical theatre equivalent of Psychobilly, we follow lovelorn geek Seymour as he pines for ditzy blonde Audrey, both working in Mr Mushnik's failing florist shop on Skid Row. Until Seymour discovers a curious plant that attracts public attention. Only to discover it can talk and needs blood to live. Discovering also Audrey’s motorcycle dentist and abusive boyfriend, Orin, a sudden propulsion into the limelight, and an unexpected desire for world domination. Johnny Ward and James Deegan in Little Shop of Horrors. Image uncredited. A veteran director of Christmas pantomimes, director Claire Tighe leans into her comfort zone with a chaotically furious, pantomime energy. Yet pace is often sacrificed to haste, which, along with microphone issues makes several lines heard to hear. A situation compounded by singers often struggling to compete with overpowering music, the score used here from the movie musical. Precious Abimbola, Aoife Dunne and Ghaliah Conroy as a three urchins girl group sing harmonies strongest when not competing with the orchestra. Similarly David O'Reilly's delightful Seymour. If O'Reilly's timbre and tone prove exquisite in softer ballads, he lacks power higher up the scale. That skill belonging to Jacqueline Brunton whose "Nu Yak" Audrey is the unquestioned vocal star of the show, impeccably riding the scales during her duet of Suddenly Seymour with the sensitive O’Reilly. Garry Mountaine as Mr Mushnik also having a moment of power. Johnny Ward as dentist Orin channels his inner Elvis whilst impersonating the Fonz to comic effect, even as he lacks the prerequisite menace. But Kenneth O'Regan's bass toned Audrey II resolves the situation in no time. John Gallagher’s lighting, Maree Kearn’s street life set, Kevin Hynes costumes and Chris Corroon’s puppetry rounding out a thoroughly impressive visual spectacle. Jacqueline Brunton in Little Shop of Horrors. Image uncredited. Opening night audiences are notoriously filled with family, friends, invited guests and well wishers cheerleading the show to be a screaming success. You can usually tell; they're the ones laughing and cheering when no one else is. They also tend to be quite forgiving. While there are certainly teething pains, Little Shop of Horrors has few enough sins that need forgiving. When it gets it right it gets it brilliantly right. The only way homegrown talent grows is in learning by doing. With Little Shop of Horrors Bord Gáis Energy Theatre has given homegrown talents a rare opportunity, which they've grasped with both hands. Now that is something well worth cheering about. Little Shop of Horrors with book and lyrics by Howard Ashman and music by Alan Menken, presented by Bord Gáis Energy Theatre and Theatreworx Productions, runs at  Bord Gáis Energy Theatre until August 9. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre

Gene Rooney and Conor Hanratty in In Extremis. Image, Aoife Cronin ** It’s easy to scoff from our enlightened distance at the Victorian predilection for all things supernatural. Séances, spiritualism, spurious divinations attracting an army of adoring acolytes. But a cursory glance at contemporary astrology, angel advocates, fairy fanciers and a host of others claiming there is more than what our philosophy understands show the proclivity is very much alive today. Much of it misguided, or a wilful hoax. Like Mrs Robinson in Neil Bartlett's uncharacteristically dull In Extremis from 2000, receiving its Irish premiere. An imaginative ‘what if’ which purports to tell of an alleged visit Oscar Wilde made to palm reader, Mrs Robinson, on March 24, 1895, in the days leading up to his infamous trial, and the dubious advice she gave him. A short story for radio masking as a stage play, Bartlett’s trudging tale is fraught with tedium. Not least of which is Mrs Robinson. A Hammer Horror, Mystic Meg, which Paul Keoghan costumes in requisite attire, is a social climbing, namedropping charlatan enamoured by the sound of her own deceits, who dupes the upper classes into believing what they already know and passes it off as prediction. Wilde, wanting to know should he remain in London or escape to the continent is aware of such charlatans, and clearly aware of their many failings. He asks for specific details to which Mrs Robinson crows abstractions and generalities, unable to provide him with the accuracy he craves. The whole making for an impossible ask as the predictable advice arrives; Wilde’s response going against everything we’ve been led to believe about him. Even so, the final line adds spice, confirming what we knew to be true all along: that whatever you can be convinced of is true is what you’ll ultimately believe. Leaving you to ask what do you believe is true? Punctured with endlessly unnecessary ‘I said, he said, she said’, Bartlett’s stiff, turgid storytelling dialogue is best when honouring Wilde’s cutting repartee, a figure for whom Bartlett has huge respect. Conor Hanratty as the great wit by far the best thing about this production, delivering a sensitive, smart portrayal of the manly effeminate Wilde. In contrast, Gene Rooney goes through the motions of a palmist that is less a character so much as a set-up device. Denis Clohessy's sound design adding mood and atmosphere, as do Colm Maher’s lights, wrestling against Keoghan’s insipid set with spattered playing cards confusing the intent. All attempting to compensate for what isn’t found in Bartlett’s troubled script. Joan Sheehy not directing so much as giving it a passable shape. Aficionados of Wilde might find In Extremis a curio, yet those expecting a play about Oscar Wilde might well be disappointed. Its focus being the duplicitous Mrs Robinson. For those uninterested in Wilde In Extremis might make for an extremely longwinded forty eight minutes. What makes it worthwhile is Hanratty’s lusciously realised Wilde. Ensuring you come away still unconvinced about the night of March 24, 1895, but convinced you might have seen the ghost of Wilde in the flesh. In Extremis , by Neil Bartlett, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until August 16. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre .

Emer Dineen and Matthew Malone in A Misanthrope. Image, Patricio Cassinoni *** Molière’s The Misanthrope gets the Carry On treatment in the somewhat muddled A Misanthrope . Written by American playwright Matt Minnicino after Molière, the 17th century classic French comedy, reset in a 21st century Dublin tech company, views office politics through a 1970s sitcom lens. Where the sexually voracious Celimene is lusted after by misanthrope Alceste who demands her exclusive devotion. As does his rival, the poetic Oronte. Lust and business making for busy bedfellows as HR complaints, AI product launches, resurfacing tweets and sexual and professional rivals line up to take a swipe at Celimene. A woman who works hard, plays harder, and wants to live as large as she loves. If only the imploring and insecure men in her life, and one irresistibly nasty woman, would let her. Indeed, so dominant is the irrepressible Celimene, A Misanthrope’s Lover would have been a far more accurate title. Whether Celimene enjoys multiple partners for fun, or flirting for fun, or is marketing herself to climb a corporate ladder cluttered with little boys is rather unclear. Probably a little of everything. Celimene making no secret that she enjoys sex and finds men demanding exclusive rights to her both immature and annoying. The conventional finale offering less a resolution so much as hoovering up a mess that got out of control. Beginning with Minnicino’s brilliant word play. Using rhyming couplets, Minnicino delivers a masterclass in observational hilarity. Understanding couplets are reliant on rhythm as much as rhyme, with both used to terrific effect. Not understanding that you can have too much of a good thing. A Misanthrope screaming for judicious pruning as verbal filler injects its two hour fifteen minutes with durational lag. Narratively, Celimene’s blindsiding coup de theatre confuses more than clarifies as she lectures on corporate culture. Then there’s the dreaded prudery looking dated next to girl boss Celimene. Indeed, a brilliant come to Jesus moment when Celimene tells Alceste he can like or lump her appetites only confuses when Celimene unconvincingly back pedals in her affections later on. The gesture, like their relationship, impossible to buy. Compounded by protagonist and antagonist having zero sexual chemistry. Emer Dineen in A Misanthrope. Image, Ros Kavanagh At its core, the fundamental relationship between Alceste and Celimene doesn’t deliver outside the friend zone. Due, primarily, to a hard working Matthew Malone in the titular role. In the era of acerbic misanthropes like House MD , or cutting drag wits like Panti Bliss, Malone's Alceste proves petulant child more than master of scathing insults. Like a modern day Kenneth Williams, camp insensitivity makes for a delightful addition to an ensemble, but it's not robust enough to carry the lead next to Emer Dineen’s fiercely consuming Celimene. He might bitch, but Alceste is more spoiled brat than bitchy queen. Less stud material so much as a dray foal convincing himself he’s a stallion. Alceste impetuously delivering his world weary pettiness without the requisite range or authority. His beta male lusting after the office bad girl never convincingly landing. Seen in a brilliantly directed office sex romp where Alceste is overwhelmed by man-eater Celimene, looking too slight to push against Dineen’s vivaciously brilliant performance. Or Fiona Bell’s superlatively comic Arsino. In fairness, when it comes to timing, presence, chemistry and finesse; Dineen and Bell have it all and then some. Their cut, thrust and parries as they cross verbal swords in the gym a thing of vicious beauty. Dineen, like Celimene, exuding superstar quality as she slinks across stage with a wicked glint and alluring huskiness owning every scene. Dineen simply impossible to ignore or resist. Bell, like Streep, an actress who leaves you gobsmacked by the sheer breadth of her talent. Her enviable dramatic CV enriched with some of the greatest comic performances of recent years. Seen again as Arsino tries conceal her lustful venom under noble intentions, offering feedback as a friend you don't need. Naoise Dunbar, Adrian Muykanovich, Heather O’Sullivan and Michael Tient rounding out an invested cast. Emer Dineen in A Misanthrope. Image, Ros Kavanagh Receiving its Irish premiere, A Misanthrope's smart reimagining feels less epic poem so much as a litany of lightweight limericks. If poetry is the precise word in the precise place, of which there are many in A Misanthrope , there are far too many imprecise words that don’t have any place at all. Long and long winded, A Misanthrope is funny, insightful and sexy, but never as funny, insightful or sexy as it might have been. Where it is, Bell and Dineen are often the cause and right in the thick of it. Two magnificent talents enlivening whatever production they’re attached to. A Misanthrope , by Matt Minnicino after Molière, presented by Sugarglass and Smock Alley Theatre in association with Once Off Productions, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until August 2nd. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre

T5/Sea Wall by Simon Stephens. Image uncredited **** It's not enough that Simon Stephens is a brilliant playwright, he also works magic with the short form monologue. Twenty or so minutes of intimate character studies, crammed with detail, in which people live through experiences they hoped they’d never have to live through. Life’s bystanders dragged centre stage into tragedies not of their making. Decadent Theatre Company serving up a double bill of Stephens’s one handers beginning with T5 *, featuring a scintillating Sarah Morris as a wife and mother coming to terms with her husband’s infidelity. Trying to talk past the organised mess that is her demanding, domesticated existence. Randomly singing snatches of songs as if tuning a radio so as to tune out her thoughts. Every song taking her back to where she wanted to escape from. A woman taking the road less travelled to get off a road to nowhere. Looking to soar free of the weights that ground her if only she can pay the price. If Stephen’s script paints a compelling portrait, Morris gives it vivid life; her impeccable London accent, her vocal texturing, her inimitable presence revealing a damaged woman at once solid yet as flimsy as wrapping paper. All achieved despite director Andrew Flynn doing Morris few favours. Arms constrained by her side like an old school Irish dancer, the pose often looks forced and unnatural. The straight jacket symbolism emphasising restraint losing out on more than it delivers, risking Morris appearing as little more than a talking head. Yet Morris frequently slips free of such limits, and if never soaring as high as she is expressively capable, she still elevates everything. A generous actor in ensembles to which her contributions are immeasurable, Morris’s compelling performance reminds you she’s really a natural lead who can take the fine print on a sweet wrapper and make it resonate as poetry. Morris being a genuine star. As is Ian Anderson-Lloyd, compelling as Alex in the critically acclaimed Sea Wall . A magazine photographer waxing lyrical about his idyllic family life. About his idealised wife Helen, and his father-in-law Arthur, a former military man now doting grandfather to his granddaughter Lucy. The imaginative eight year old having all three wrapped around their finger. Family summers spent in the south of France replete with swimming, scuba diving and playing in the sun. Yet foreshadows of doom are present from the outset. Alex’s quavering voice, the incessant tugging at his wedding ring finger, the sea wall and its terrifying darkness. Culminating in flashes of anger at a cruel God for not existing, for residing in the space between two numbers, or in a perfect shaft of light. Or wherever it is the dead go when they depart this body of air and skin. One thing’s for sure, if there is a God, He gives only to take away. Less theological arguments so much a thoughtful prompts, Sea Wall serves up a stirring interrogation of grief, and of vulnerability reforming masculinity. To men softening their hearts to embrace harder truths. Of the courage that requires. Of the possible cost. Anderson stunningly brilliant and better served by Flynn; each utilising silence, space and time with exquisite sensitivity. Anderson’s deeply moving performance ensuring you don’t just feel the hole at the centre of Alex, you pass right through it. Morris and Anderson delivering two poignant performances painted with poetry. Not to be missed. T5 and Sea Wall by Simon Stephens, presented by Decadent Theatre Company, runs as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2025 until July 27. For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival or Decadent Theatre Company *T5 replaces the previously advertised Blue Water and Cold and Fresh

The Baby's Room by Enda Walsh. Image by Emilija Jefremova **** Enda Walsh clearly has a soft spot for Galway, and Galway clearly has a soft spot for him. It’s not just the shows he’s premiered in the city of the tribes, there’s his enduring relationship with Galway International Arts Festival which this year features his twelfth 'Rooms' immersive theatre installation. Designed by Paul Fahy and featuring the voice of Kate Gilmore, The Baby’s Room reframes a familiar space encouraging you to notice what you may not have noticed before. Offering fresh perspectives on yourself as much as on the room in question as Walsh's audio tale unfolds. Fahy’s hallway with child proofed stairs, hung coats and reproduction paintings speaks to middle class aspirations. The main space a living room adapted to accommodate a newborn. The sanitised changing area, the soft furnishings and toys, the tinkling mobile over an empty cot all speak to a defining presence felt despite its absence. Victorian ideals of children represented by several Beatrix Potter styled images and three paintings of young girls similiar to those adorning Dickensian Christmas calendars. Juxtapositions between the idealised and the real emerging after a poltergeist flashing of lights introduces Kate Gilmore's disembodied monologue about a thirty-two year old woman recounting her life forward and backward. Delivered with the relentless urgency of a coked up Miss Lonely Hearts on a three day bender bemoaning the self-inflicted misery that is her half lived life. Dull job, cheap hopes and cheaper sex; the line between self-discovery and self-pity blurs beyond recognition. Narrative flipping as lights click between paintings whilst Gilmore outlines her lack of chances in life. Softer insights leading to the piercing cry of a newborn child. But is it Gilmore herself or her child we hear? Either way, the sentimental legacy continues as the illusions underscoring the Victorian fantasy remain: children are a second chance at life. A chance to redeem yourself. To get it right this time. Hmm. Ever wonder if your children weren't about you at all? It’s a stretch to call The Baby's Room immersive. You may walk around the space and touch things for the whole of two minutes, but for its fifteen minute duration you’re essentially a spectator. But Walsh as director is superb at marshalling the ingredients at his disposal and maximising their effectiveness. Ensuring the juxtapositions of the idealised and the real, of life lived and life imagined, of Walsh’s own superb writing and Gilmore's deeply impassioned delivery cohere into something quietly powerful. The final moments closer to Rosemary’s Baby than a happy ever after. The Baby’s Room by Enda Walsh, runs as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2025 until July 27. For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival

Sabotage by No FitState. Image by Mary Wycherley **** I have to confess to never seeing the allure in running away to join a circus. The romance, yes; but think about the reality. Also, classic circus is hard to find these days. The type that once toured like nomads with travelling zoos before animal rights activists rightly put paid to animal mistreatment. After which circus aspired to Vegas residencies for aerial acts. But you can only twirl on a rope so many times and still look interesting. Classic circus, that’s a different experience altogether. Classic circus, like NoFitState , is wild, sexy, dangerous and fun, even without the animals. NoFitState's current production, Sabotage , running as part of Galway International Arts Festival, reminding you of the enduring appeal of what's best in circus. Directed by Firenza Guidi, Sabotage ticks all the classic circus boxes. Firstly, it must always take place in a big top on possible wasteland on the outskirts of town. Check. On entrance it must sell cardboard popcorn sweetened to within an inch of its death. Check. There must be a roguish camaraderie of clowns, acrobats, jugglers and high wire acts. Check. A strong man, trapeze artist, tightrope walker, along with bearded and tattooed ladies. Or at least ladies sporting tattoos and bearded people who look like ladies with beards. Check. These must also serve as roadies and carnies, resembling extras from American Horror Story suggesting they could easily kill you and hide your body where no one would ever find it. Check. They must also double up as musicians, dancers, man the munchies stand and do anything else required. Check. See what I mean about the reality? Sabotage by NoFitState. Image by Mark J. Robson A visual palate part Jean-Pierre Jeune and Marc Caro, Sabotage's whirling dervish of visual joy captivates instantly. There’s no theme as such, no narrative to speak of, though some visual ideas recur. Riot shields and military uniforms speak to an authoritarianism occasionally subverted; Rhi Matthews’s costumes a vital component in Sabotage's success as a stunning visual spectacle. Its successive acts of increasing physical complexity delightfully informed by David Murray's compositions played live. An aerial artist spinning by her hair, a tightrope walker doing impossible flips, a hula hoop routine of split second precison, a juggler hidden under the floorboards, manipulated rope work that defies gravity, along with endless climbing of steel beams at breakneck speed and much, much more. Acts transitioned between with plenty of humorous clowning. Acts that, were this a cinema, you’d swear were made using CGI. What distinguishes good circus from great circus is not the physical acts themselves but their artistry. NoFitState prove masters of both. Yet most impressive is the tangible camaraderie between its impossible community of magnificent misfits. It’s not enough to have an act, to also sing, dance and play an instrument, all crucial requirements in Sabotage . Nor is it about being rigorous and exacting in pushing at what’s physically possible, again also crucial. Rather it's about having the humility to be centre stage one minute and a stage hand the next. To be exactly where you’re needed, when you’re needed, doing exactly what’s needed whilst relying on others to do the same for you. It’s about pulling your weight, their weight, and any other weight that needs to be pulled, lifted, carried or moved. It’s about family forged nightly in a frenetic cauldron of life threatening routines to bring joy and surprise so as to entertain others. As Sabotage comes to a hurried close, with less of a big finish than you might have hoped for, you quickly forget the guy with the big head half blocking your view, or the guy behind commenting on everything. The night best captured in the bright eyes of the young girl with a white hair ribbon sat next to you. Applauding rapturously, her heart racing with excitement. Perhaps dreaming of when she, too, might run away and join a circus. Do impossible things with remarkable people. On the exhilarating evidence that is Sabotage, who can blame her? Personally, I'll stay where I am with my popcorn. Sabotage by NoFitState, directed by Firenza Guidi, runs as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2025 until July 27. For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival or NoFitState

Marie Mullen and Marty Rea in Druid's Macbeth. Image by Ros Kavanagh **** Some facts land with sobering clarity. Including there are as many years between 1925 and 1975 as there are between 1975 and today. A sobering thought. The year not chosen randomly. 1975 saw a modest theatre company arrive onto the Irish theatre landscape with J.M. Synge’s Playboy of the Western World . Their name, Druid , capturing a sense of mystery, power and tradition. From inauspicious beginnings in the west of Ireland they grew to become one of the defining forces of Irish theatre. The multi-award winning Druid celebrating fifty years at the vanguard of what’s best, bold and brilliant in theatre making, be it classic revivals or new works. Consistency to exacting standards married to core personnel, such the inimitable Garry Hynes and the irreplaceable Marie Mullen, have seen Druid evolve from motley crew to theatrical family, to growing Galway based community. Throughout their five decades Druid have maintained a strong relationship with Galway International Arts Festival, which will celebrate its own 50th anniversary in 2027. Their relationship continuing as Druid kick off their 50th Anniversary Season with a unique double bill: J.M. Synge’s Riders to the Sea , and Shakespeare's Macbeth. A double bill steeped in darkness, death, blood and brooding that’s not for the faint of heart. Marie Mullen, Rachel O'Byrne, Marty Rea and Pattie Maguire in Druid's Riders to the Sea. Image by Ros Kavanagh If Shakespeare had his Globe, Francis O’Connor’s superlative design ensures Druid have their Cube. The Mick Lally Theatre seated on three sides of a soil covered, wood-fringed floor becoming a thrust like barn, or semi round. Hidden doors allowing entrances and exits that transform the space from island cottage to Birnam Woods battlefield where shadowy fighters scurry and crawl across the stage. Colin Grenfell’s stunning lights thickening the shadows whilst texturing Gregory Clarke’s explosive thunder with flashes of lightning; Clarke’s sound design often chilling the silence with haunting whispers of wind. Conor Linehan’s point perfect score adding supporting breaths to a vibrant body of text and performances. These the primary colours informing director Garry Hynes’s directorial palette with which she composes powerful, indelible images over and over and over. Director and tech crafting a liminal space between this world, the otherworld and the underworld whose power is felt rather than seen. Fusing the soil, the air and the inhabited darkness with unseen potency, charging the very atoms and the space between the atoms. Marie Mullen in Druid's Riders to the Sea. Image by Ros Kavanagh Beginning with Synge’s twenty five minute masterpiece, Riders to the Sea , which takes place in a cottage on an island off the west of Ireland. The Islanders easy hybrid of Christian spirituality and pagan superstition very much in evidence. Daily bread, like the host raised in ritual, sees Rachel O’Byrne’s compelling Cathleen kneading the bread with her breath of life before spinning the threads of fate; Byrne’s bread revisited in Macbeth establishing a visual link between both productions. The sudden arrival of Pattie Maguire’s jittery Nora brings news of Michael, presumed lost at sea. Neither woman anxious to tell his mother Maurya, an indomitable Marie Mullen, given she has already lost all the men in her life to the sea. Bar one, her remaining son Bartley. Notions of manliness seeing Marty Rea’s Bartley seek his mother’s blessing as he sets sail to Galway; the maternal motif echoed fiercely in Hynes’s reimagined Macbeth . Hynes’s impeccable direction allowing Mullen’s silence to speak to the power of Bartley's need, its condemnation and its denial. Crone, witch, prophetess, Maurya’s soul is older than the soil, deeper than the sea, honed into impenetrable stuff that only a mother who's known bitter suffering and survived can fathom. Mullen’s Maurya nothing less than a force of nature. Leading to the curse that follows, the visitor from another world, the stark prophecy of doom and its supernatural forces guiding Synge’s pocket tragedy towards its inevitable conclusion, offering a foreshadowing of the Macbeth still to come. Ensuring that had you to go home before Macbeth , you would still leave infinitely enriched. Druid's Macbeth. Image by Ros Kavanagh A defining characteristic of Druid is they’re forever taking risks. Evident in a brave if somewhat troubled Macbeth . Tensions between the natural and the supernatural tempered by the psychological. Notions of sleepwalkers and diseased, deranged and demented minds offsetting the play’s supernatural pull. Reflected in Hynes reframing the central relationship to that of a young man cursed by the thrall of the manipulative maternal. The casting of Marie Mullen as Lady Macbeth proving a brave if imbalanced choice. Mullen’s older woman dynamics with Marty Rea’s extraordinary Macbeth too often resembling the Oedipal Gertrude and Hamlet. Mullen and Rea suggesting a mother and son successfully repositioning some of the play’s trickier issues; Macbeth grovelling like a dog for his mother rather than his wife’s approval being hugely convincing. As is the clarifying and contextualising of Lady Macbeth’s descent into madness which Hynes directs with exciting fervour. Mullen’s matriarch never more visceral than when she rages about ripping babies from her suckling breasts and bashing their skulls in an effort to will her “son” to power, to do her will, to be a man. As with Riders to the Sea, Mullen makes for a compelling matriarch. The chemistry between Rea and Mullen explosively exciting. Marty Rea and Marie Mullen in Druid's Macbeth. Image by Ros Kavanagh Except Shakespeare didn't write Lady Macbeth as Macbeth’s mother. Meaning several lines fall ineffectually by the wayside with several scenes feeling uneven for lack of a lover’s touch. Such love looking incestuous, with terms like husband and wife sounding oddly out of place. The oscillation between parent and partner never convincingly resolved. Leaving Mullen’s uneven performance enlivening the role of matriarch, but feeling forced or implausible when playing Macbeth’s wife. The maternal premise having another unfortunate side effect. That of tipping Rea’s superb Macbeth into a blistering Norman Bates. Rea’s Macbeth running the gamut from convincing hero to corrupt villain to curiously overcooked serial killer hiding in a barn with his lifeless, female victims. The final, blood soaked scene suggesting a gory Silence of the Lambs wherein the FBI agent stealthy sets out to exact final justice. A pity, as there is genuine power in Rea’s undeniably brilliant Macbeth, confirming Rea as possibly the greatest stage actor of his generation. Marty Rea,Marie Mullen and company in Druid's Macbeth. Image by Ros Kavanagh Throughout, Francis O’Connor and Clíodhna Hallissey’s costumes enrich what are often stunning performances, even if doubling or tripling up on roles exacts a price a times. Notably a brilliant Seán Kearns who goes to the well once too often in quick succession with contrasting roles. As is often the case with Druid, a mixture of living legends (Marie Mullen), contemporary masters (Rea, a brilliant Rory Nolan, along with a terrific Garrett Lombard) rising stars (Rachel O’Byrne, Liam Heslin, and Caitríona Ennis) as well promising newcomers (Emmet Farrell, Cathal Ryan and the exciting Pattie Maguire going from strength to strength) see Druid’s mentoring approach being rewarded as well as rewarding. Evident in Caitríona Ennis, extraordinary as the baseline linchpin grounding all about her with rigorous detail, quiet focus and calm authority. Ennis commanding her scenes with a cold gaze, firm expression or delicate gesture, or else cackling conversations from beneath a consuming cowl as one of three faceless witches. Or else Druid debutante Emmet Farrell, whose youthfulness amidst this stage of stars crowns a lively performance as Malcolm, the boy who should be King admitting he is not fit to play being a man. Mentored by Liam Heslin’s compelling McDuff, contrasting Farrell’s youthful boyishness with something a king should aspire to: a ruler who can fight like a man, feel like a man, and cry like a man. Still, there’s that whole ripped from the mother’s womb idea which complicates notions of McDuff’s noble masculinity. And Cathal Ryan’s subtle performance promising great things to come. Opening several avenues for fruitful discussion as you leave the Mick Lally Theatre breathless and blown away, wondering how quickly the time went by. Marty Rea in Druid's Macbeth. Image by Ros Kavanagh   For 50 years Druid have been fashioning complex works of this calibre. 50 years. Some companies can’t survive 50 minutes into their funding application. Some days you simply have to step back. Realise how good we have it. Even a cursory glance at Druid’s countless productions confirm we have been truly blessed. So raise your glass in gratitude and tribute to one of the greatest, bravest, most exciting theatre companies anywhere in the world. Happy 50th Druid. And remember, fifty is the new thirty. There’s still considerable mileage to be had from this inexhaustibly rich, endlessly exciting, relatively young-ish theatre company. Check out this fabulous double bill if you don't believe me, and be prepared to be seriously blown away. Riders to the Sea by J.M. Synge, and Macbeth by William Shakespeare, presented by Druid Theatre as part of their Fiftieth Anniversary Season, runs as part of Galway International Arts Festival 2025 till July 26. Macbeth will feature as part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2025 from September 25 till October 5. For more information visit Galway International Arts Festival or Druid Theatre

Juilan Moore-Cook, Fra Fee and Aidan McArdle in The Pillowman. Image, Ros Kavanagh **** Story. Commonly conflated with narrative. Yet the two are distinct. Narrative being one component, albeit an important one, of what constitutes a story. The phrase ‘those who control the narrative control the people’ reminding us that story, and the freedom to tell it, determine who holds power. Martin McDonagh ’s frightening once upon a times informing his dark and complex The Pillowman . Which interrogates stories about stories, stories within stories, and the danger of stories inspiring action, particularly in a totalitarian state. While there’s contemporary resonance in a time when stories condemning protests of genocide are used to distract from the actual genocide, McDonagh’s dark thoughts for little children also reflects the concerns of its time. First read in 1995, first production 2003, The Pillowman evokes 10 year old Jamie Bolger, murdered in 1993. Supplying the meat on The Pillowman’s narrative bones in the shape of how we maim and murder children, coupled with how we’d willingly die to preserve our stories with which we justify our actions. Fra Fee in The Pillowman. Image, Ros Kavanagh Jumping into the action, a blindfolded Katurian, an aspiring writer of four hundred stories, and his “retarded” brother Michal, are being interrogated by good cop, Detective Tupolski, and bad cop, Officer Ariel, all on account of Katurian’s stories. Fairytales in which children swallow razor blades, have toes dismembered, or are buried alive having physically endured the stations of the cross inflicted by their parents. Then there’s The Pillowman, a tale of a benevolent Bogeymen who advises young children to end their lives before they grow into an existence filled with horror. Yet the long arm of totalitarianism is seeking something beyond mere censorship. Trying to solve the recent murders of two children, along with a missing third, whose deaths mirror incidents in Katurian’s stories. The core theme of McDonagh’s tabooed tale revealed; the suffering of little children who come onto us. Abuse perpetrated on the most vulnerable, by the most vulnerable, and frequently on the most vulnerable of the most vulnerable; the deaf, the mute, the disabled child. The foundational story of Christianity reminding us that even God is not averse to abusing His children. That the alleged exceptions are actually the normalised rule. A living legacy in which even the police are victims of childhood violence, ensuring that history is doomed to repeat itself. Its actions justified in our stories. Whose power, politics and subtexts lead to dead or dying children. Aidan McArdle in The Pillowman. Image, Ros Kavanagh Narratively, little happens even though there’s a lot going on. Including a whodunnit, a race against time, another murder, some leisurely torture and a pressing execution. All interspersed with fairytales that try the patience in places. Stories whose dark aspects evoke the Brother’s Grimm. McDonagh’s dark humour providing uneven comic relief. If it sounds like a tough gig, that's because it is. Director Lyndsey Turner flip flopping between the texts competing demands. An initial Kafkaesque absurdism flipping into Freudian sins of the father before some second rate rumination on how suffering shapes the artist. McDonagh’s uneven hybrid of genres, under Turner’s pacy direction, never consistently coalescing into its own unique thing. Performances often shifting to accommodate tone rather than character. Alex Eales’s unimaginative black box set reinforcing the play’s darkness, like it needed the help. Katie Davenport’s costumes and Sinéad McKenna’s lighting functional at best. Kevin Gleeson’s sound and compositions over egging the omelette with brooding tones and some questionable choral contributions. Juilan Moore-Cook in The Pillowman. Image, Ros Kavanagh Whilst you wouldn’t recommend it for a first date, The Pillowman offers a wealth of dark musings, even if some feel clunkily forced. Fra Fee’s Katurian, oscillating from somebody prepared to burn their stories to someone prepared to give his life to preserve them, trots along nicely, but can seem more mouthpiece than character. Aidan McArdle as lead investigator Tupolski feeling far more cohered, perhaps for having less to do. A commanding Julian Moore-Cook, looking like a tough cop from a Sam Spade story, most successful as he shoulders his pain across stage ready to hurt at a moments notice. Ryan Dylan’s low key Michal, the embodiment of abuse and its effects, evoking Kevin McAleer’s downbeat, dead pan delivery. A supporting ensemble of Donncha O’Dea, Jade O’Connor, Ciara O’Sullivan, Ruby Gill, Freddie Cornally and Alexander Bellintani all strong as human marionettes enacting shifting tableaux for a number of stories, helping break up the monotony of having to sit and listen through yet another one. Ryan Dylan in The Pillowman. Image, Ros Kavanagh Unsettling, brave, and in many ways brilliant, The Pillowman makes for thought provoking theatre. Begging us to look at the monsters we want to avoid because we know we’ll be looking into a mirror. The Gate’s current production telling its own story. That’s the thing about stories, their intertextual, intersectional and contextual relationships often speaking to truths beyond the tale. Suggesting something really interesting might be happening at The Gate. But that’s a story for another day. The Pillowman , by Martin McDonagh, runs at The Gate Theatre till September 7. For more information visit The Gate Theatre

Dan Gordon in Static. Image, Rich Davenport ** In the dark ages known as the 1970s several fads came into fashion that died as soon as they found their feet. Clackers, Sea Monkeys and citizen band radio, popularly known as CB radio, to name but a few. Immortalised by the regrettable movie Convoy , the real time communication preference for long-distance truck drivers, CB radio, briefly enjoyed mainstream attention in the late 70s, beloved by criminals and creeps alike. With the advent of the burner phone the criminals moved on. With the advent of the encrypted laptop the creeps soon followed. Unless you happen to be Moonman, a contemporary, middle-aged, detestable slob story from Co. Donegal. Through weakly contrived circumstances, inspired by a real life incident from 1991, Moonman picks up an emergency signal on his CB radio from astronaut Captain Slane. A handsome veteran who, in a fit of rage, smashed his comms and needs emergency assistance before his craft drifts out into space. Slane managing to find the one person with a home based CB radio tuned to his channel in the era of chat rooms. Who is also the last person you would ever turn to in an emergency. Who, conveniently, is a space enthusiast. Over several tensionless orbits they discuss their lives, the universe and everything in between. Jimmy McAleavey’s hugely ambitious Static proving a weak comedy masquerading as a weaker drama, overflowing with low level, existentialist angst. For millennia, space and its constellations were entwined with myth and mystery. Until science came along, jettisoned myth for facts yet retained the language of mystery. Black holes, event horizons, the infinity of the infinite, is there a point, meaning, purpose to it all if we're just atoms and stardust haphazardly assembled that dies in the end? Static’s pop science, buzz words delivering a trivialised intro for anyone with even a remote interest in time, space and philosophy. Exploring loneliness, communications, particularly between men, of being too afraid to live yet too afraid to die, and touching on protected categories like mental health, its existential angst opens not into an abyss so much as a pothole. As for technology, its ideas would have looked dated in the 1970s. Meanwhile, the detestable Moonman sets representations of agoraphobia back fifty years, suggesting that all that’s really needed is willpower. Weak, made to fit arguments avoiding meaningful engagement with where was the willpower when you really needed it? But agoraphobia was never Moonman’s problem, as a clanging in a desk drawer makes clear. Rather, it’s the lies we tell ourselves, and the second rate philosophical and psychological reasons with which we justify ourselves to ourselves. Lying about our lies to justify self-created dramas whilst convincing ourselves we’re pursing the truth. Which, arguably, could serve as an apt description of Static . Or of art perhaps. Seán Mahon in Static.  Image, Rich Davenport As if realising there isn’t enough meat on the script, Alyson Cummins packs the stage with radio tech so it not only feels claustrophobic but looks like it’s trying to overcompensate by pushing everything forward to conceal dead space. Meanwhile Suzie Cummins’ lights inject the mystery and mood the script lacks. John King’s direction sees weak comedy undercutting the possibility of dramatic tension. Performances also uneven. Dan Gordon’s Moonman a superb Billy No Mates with a CB radio that no one wants to speak with. Not because of his agoraphobia, but because he’s selfishly reprehensible. Gordon brilliantly articulating a truly self-centered character having little to like and even less to pity, which McAleavey is to be commended for not shirking away from. If only Seán Mahon’s Spaceman, a heavy breathing, honours graduate from the William Shatner School of slow-motion overacting, didn’t evoke a Star Trek cut out; Spaceman proving a likeable if uneasy foil. The whole making for some contrived asks you don’t quite buy into. The end result a theatrically cramped, dramatically dull production that’s philosophically and psychologically suspect. If Static refers to the white noise Slane uses to block out silence, McAleavey’s verbal white noise often blocks out those deeper, human resonances Static claims to seek. Unless King’s point was to recreate an experience of being trapped inside your head with random thoughts running wild and no possibility of escape, in which case Static succeeds brilliantly. Ensuring that if the only other option is to drift out into space, you might consider it. Except it never is the only other option. Indeed, Static had real existential fish to fry speaking to the human condition. Yet ultimately it trades addressing the lives we live, both good and bad, against all those lives we never get to live for a Hallmark moment to boldly go where you’ve never gone before and live your very best life. Even as it never seems to know quite what that is. Static by Jimmy McAleavey, runs at The Peacock Stage of The Abbey Theatre until July 18. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

An Evening With Wee Daniel, written and performed by Aoife Sweeney O’Connor. Photograph: Dylan Gomery ** ‘Up in Donegal,’ the award winning An Evening With Wee Daniel tells us, ‘things are different’. Different not necessarily being as interesting as you might have hoped. Aoife Sweeney O'Connor' s one person love poem to all things Dunloe preaching to the faithful. In which Donegal looks like it got stuck in a Workman’s Club cabaret in the 1970s. Even though Dunloe seems remarkably contemporary in its acceptance of gay and non-binary people like Sweeney O’Connor. Leaving this troubled tale of self-acceptance low on drama and high on kitsch. The cheap kind, like the sparkly gold tinsel serving as a backdrop for the simple conceit of a Daniel O’Donnell show on which Sweeney O’Connor tells their story. An uneasy telling of a weak tale interspersed with impressions, gags, and so so songs, aside from one rather stunning ballad. Sweeney O’Connor’s song and comedy act leaving you apt to check if you read the name right? Was it An Evening With Wee Daniel , or An Evening With Twee Daniel ? Like ET, An Evening With Wee Daniel is shamelessly sentimental. Emotional manipulation concealing a multitude of sins. Which is not to devalue Sweeney O’Connor’s autobiographical revelations. But rather to say that to truly engage the story has to be truly engaging, not just the character. Both leave something to be desired. Much and all as you feel for the loss of a mother, her loss being shoehorned in near the end following a brief flash of foreshadowing very early on feels like you’re being played. Otherwise there's no drama, no stakes, and its Daniel O’Donnell themed cabaret is not up to the standard it needed to be, riddled as it is with predictable cliches. Then there’s character. While Sweeney O'Connor oozes charm and charisma, the Daniel O'Donnell suit and mannerisms are so integrated it’s hard to know who is Sweeney O'Connor at times. The result less self-acceptance so much as a more polished mask to hide behind. A drag act concealing rather than revealing the artist in a confessional work that confesses to nothing. Purporting to speak about growing up gay and non-binary in Donegal, it doesn’t really. Indeed, when Sweeney O'Connor begins to look around to find like-minded souls, it doesn't seem they suffered social dislocation so much as they hadn't noticed them before. They were there all the time, happy in a community happy to have them. Which doesn’t give credence to the primary theme of marrying a sense of being non-binary with a sense of belonging to Donegal. Falling short, like much of the humour and songs, unless you’re in on the Donegal in jokes, which evoke a Jury's Hotel Irish Evening with Hal Roach. Still, like Born Again Christians, or The Moonies, or Daniel O’Donnell fans, a devoted cult following is sure to enjoy the local colour of An Evening With Wee Daniel which satisfies their leanings. For everyone else it suggests Sweeney O’Connor has something going on. But we’re only afforded a glimpse of it. An Evening With Wee Daniel by Aoife Sweeney O’Connor, runs at The New Theatre until June 21. For more information visit The New Theatre

Ruth McCabe, Sorcha Cusack, Deirdre Monaghan and Anna Healy in Escaped Alone, by Caryl Churchill. Image, Ros Kavanagh **** In Caryl Churchill's dystopian satire Escaped Alone , the world is gone to hell, but as long as there’s friendship there's hope. Particularly the friendship shared by women. The civilised chitchat sitting on chairs under a tree, the grass under your feet as the sun journeys across the sky. Tom Piper’s colouring book set, illuminated perfectly by SJ Shiels, an island of green in a cartoon universe offering an oasis of connection. Perhaps a park, a garden, or a retirement home. Or a spacecraft carrying the last survivors of humanity as the sun sets through its large, oval window. Or just an ordinary day in some ordinary place with ordinary women talking of ordinary things. Only this is Caryl Churchill where language renders the ordinary extraordinary as stories within the story take shape. Director Annabelle Comyn making strong, compelling choices, not least in her casting of some of the prize jewels of Irish Theatre. Like Eliot's The Wasteland , or Piper’s superb set, Escaped Alone resists easy interpretation. Efforts to nail it definitely to the ground likely to miss something vital. The only response being to yield to its riches in which the truth transcends the limits of facts or words. Even as language is the thing that gives everything substance. Conversations ranging from TV plots to capitalism find three women, Vi, Sally and Ruth, joined by a fourth, Mrs Jarrett, who frequently breaks from their shared conversation to deliver rapid fire monologues. Anna Healy’s energised Mrs Jarrett wielding poetry to craft metaphors and images of a world destroying itself. Returning to join the women where deeper truths are revealed in shared conversation and in each woman’s brief monologue. Discussing the world, their plight, or singing and clapping like vibrant young girls. Ruth McCabe Vi’s recounting time served for manslaughter, Sorcha Cusack’s Sally loathing rats, cats and pigeons, Deirdre Monaghan‘s Lena deepening her separation of public and private. Each delighting in a superb, understated production whose simplicity belies its underlying power. Anna Healy in Escaped Alone, by Caryl Churchill. Image, Ros Kavanagh Escaped Alone might be set in a park, but it’s not always a walk in the park. Rich in cultural and societal references, many twisted into thought provoking metaphors, Churchill’s script makes for challenging going at times. But Comyn teases it into something hugely accessible, honouring the text by leaning into the relationship between the women. Marshalling a strong cast, Comyn realises a solid vision. It might not be everyone’s idea of presenting Churchill, but it’s one that stands its ground, honours its source, and one you’re unlikely to forget. Escaped Alone , by Caryl Churchill, presented by Hatch Theatre Company and The Everyman in association with Once Off Productions, ran at The Everyman as part of Cork Midsummer Festival 2025. It transfers to Project Arts Centre Dublin, June 19 - 28. For more information visit Cork Midsummer Festival 2025 or Project Arts Centre

Áine Ní Laoghaire in It's Not You by Cónal Creedon, Theatre for One:Made In Cork. Image J ed Niezgoda **** An often neglected festival joy is the familiar things. Like Landmark Productions and Octopus Theatricals Theatre for One, this year titled Made In Cork . Serving up six theatrical nuggets for the third consecutive year at Cork Midsummer Festival. Cork natives Cónal Creedon, Katie Holly, John McCarthy, Michael John McCarthy, Gina Moxley and Louise O’Neill each crafting short, one handers to surprise and delight. Performers Áine Ní Laoghaire, Tommy Harris, Simone Collins, Marion O'Dwyer, Gina Moxley, and George Hanover giving them life under the direction of Eoghan Carrick and Julie Kelleher. Those unfamiliar with the format are in for a treat. Set up in Emmet Place outside Cork Opera House, an enclosed booth admits one audience member for a five to ten minutes direct, theatrical encounter. The definition of theatre as one person performing to one other person in a space summing up the experience perfectly, but saying nothing about the intimacy, the visceral reality, the sense of immediacy. The format is normally a monologue delivered directly to the audience member. Making them confidants, connected, even when they might wish they weren’t. Like Cónal Creedon 's superb It's Not You , directed by Julie Kelleher. In which an excellent Áine Ní Laoghaire, clutching a coffee cup like she might strangle it, points her green nailed fingers and asks who do you think you are breaking up with her? Looping back on repeated phrases, the same words shaped and reshaped, intensity deepens each time. In less than a minute you've a pretty good idea why you broke up with her, and are very relieved you did. Until an unexpected flip and everything's changed. The power shifting away from you and back to Ní Laoghaire. Who dispenses some parting shots before the screen slides shut. Tommy Harris in Ambition by Katie Holly, Theatre for One:Made In Cork. Image J ed Niezgoda Or perhaps you’ll meet the worst magician ever, giving the worst job interview ever. Comedy proving a trickier affair in Katie Holly’s delightful Ambition , again directed by Kelleher, as you don’t want to laugh at the person talking to you. A charming Tommy Harris negotiating the tricky terrain as the charmless Dermot, stage name Abracadermot. Another character dealing with a breakup, and once again it's very clear why. He's hoping you'll give him a gig at the Christmas party, or better still make him a manager. He only became a magician to impress his girlfriend. Then there’s his rabbit and ferret. As you listen to his efforts to impress you, you realise getting the gig is the least of Dermot's problems. As the door slides shut on the gormless card sharp, you're already wondering what the next candidate will be like. Or perhaps you might engage with one of the other four intriguing productions. Queueing, you never know which of the six pieces you’ll encounter. But whichever one, Theatre for One: Made in Cork is well worth the wait. Stepping inside the red booth a sheer delight for first timers, and a sort of homecoming for Midsummer veterans. And admission is still free. You’d be mad to miss it. Theatre for One: Made in Cork , presented by Landmark Productions & Octopus Theatricals, in association with Cork Midsummer Festival and Cork Opera House, runs at Emmet Place, (front of Cork Opera House) as part of Cork Midsummer Festival 2025,  June 14,15, 17 - 22. For more information visit Cork Midsummer Festival 2025 .

Irene Kelleher in Stitch. Image, Marcin Lewandowski **** What is it about physically demanding theatre at Cork Midsummer Festival this year? Whilst Eileen Walsh deservedly takes the durational plaudits, and every other plaudit imaginable, Irene Kelleher is no slouch when it comes to pushing physical boundaries. Writing and performing two productions concurrently; the comedy Footnote , and the hauntingly dark Stitch . The latter concerning a young woman, Alice, disfigured as a child, who is about to be evicted from the only home she's ever known. The basement of a clothing alteration shop run by her aunt which is about to be turned into an Extravision. Stitch , like Kelleher’s classic Mary and Me , exploring familial shame and generational trauma for unplanned pregnancies in 1980s Ireland, and the often horrific consequences for young women and their unplanned child. Horror being the key word. Kelleher’s breathtaking performance, Cormac O'Connors astonishing lights and sounds, Jenny White's insanely detailed set and props and Valencia Gambardella’s magnificent costumes and masks tipping spectacle into the realms of fantasy. So brilliantly executed you might think you're on the set of a horror movie. But this is a site specific, time specific, woman specific story concerned with real life times and themes. The horror being it could've happened, and that similar horrors, and worse, often did. Director Regina Crowley swirling up a witches brew of extraordinary potency, whose power is punctured somewhat by the poetically rhyming structure of Kelleher’s abstruse script. Midnight. Halloween. 1989. Samhain Festival. The disfigured Alice, a cross between Frankenstein's daughter and Laura Ingalls had she fallen down a ravine, emerges from the basement into the dim light dragging the shadows with her. Samhain connected with many things in Stitch , most notably the night when the worlds of the living and the dead draw near. Allowing spirits of Halloween’s past to pass over in the form of memories as Alice recounts her haunting story before her final denouement and defining last act. Skulking through the deserted shop, seeking out her cat Stitch, Alice talks, howls, shrieks, growls, drools and prowls as she drags on masks, drags out old clothes, and drags memories kicking and screaming into the frugal light. Alice not so much talking with spirits as channeling them, her body a writhing conduit of contaminated powers compelling her as she traverses dark places seeking out light from the doomed underworld of her soul. One thing you could never accuse Kelleher of is not taking risks. Mostly she gets it right. Like the site specified shop on 21 Shandon Street which proves deeply haunting, and Might Oak Productions' superlative team giving Alice’s story life. But risks don't always land as you hoped they might, as well as giving far more than you ever imagined. The former being the case with Kelleher’s rhyming script, the latter for her performance and production. Rhyming couplets might evoke incantations, but the words have to have real poetic power which they don’t always have in Stitch . Trying, as they are, to also tell a story, the competing demands leave narrative and characters often unclear as to who, what, when, where and how? If much is clarified in the final minutes, it’s too late to establish the connection needed. The one arising out of empathy for someone you care for whose story you know, like Mia Goth’s Pearl , rather than sympathy for a stranger whose ranting and raving is hard to make sense of. Language made restrictive and restrained to meet rhyming needs less effective when trying to lead. Strongest when led by Kelleher’s guttural performance which is a tour de force. Alice’s howling winds of rage, tenderness and pain leaving words scattered like petals after a storm. Stitch might not be Kelleher’s strongest script, but Alice is Kelleher's wildest, bravest, most compelling performance to date. Stitch , written and performed by Irene Kelleher, presented by Might Oak Productions, runs at J. Nolan Stationary,  21 Shandon Street as part of Cork Midsummer Festival 2025 June 13-15 and June 18 - 22. For more information visit Cork Midsummer Festival 2025

Eileen Walsh in The Second Woman. Image, Jed Niezgoda *****... It's that time of year when the calendar says summer but the weather’s going to do whatever it’s going to do. The only thing you can count on for consistency is Cork Midsummer Festival. This year, the women have it. Irene Kelleher ( Stitch and Footnote ), Camille O’Sullivan ( Cork Girl! ), Amanda Coogan ( Caught In The Furze ), Deirdre Kinahan ( Songs and Souls with Steve Wickham), Caryl Churchill ( Escaped Alone ) with an all female cast. Five women also performing in the annual delight that is Landmark Production’s amuse bouche, Theatre for One , now in its third year at Cork Midsummer Festival. But all that’s to come. Walking the city’s streets, suffused with mouth watering aromas, excited talk is for one show only. One woman only. Eileen Walsh and The Second Woman . If last year’s Cork Midsummer Festival gave us one of the year’s best productions in Kamchàtka’s Alter , with The Second Woman they serve up the theatrical event of 2025. Inspired by John Cassavetes’ film, Opening Night, creators Nat Randall & Anna Breckon blend live performance with filmed close ups projected onto a screen. In which Eileen Walsh undertakes to perform the same scene 100 times with 100 different partners, some professionals, most not, over twenty-four hours. The demands unimaginable. The experience unique. Walsh awe inspiring. No applause between scenes; a notice begs our compliance. Little chance of that. Eileen Walsh in The Second Woman. Image, Jed Niezgoda If Cassavetes’ 70’s masterpiece inspired the scene, David Lynch’s 50’s Americana, by way of  Mulholland Drive and Blue Velvet , frames the action. Walsh’s Virginia a sultry, blonde bombshell in a snug red dress. Pushing a trolley of Jim Beam she sits, silently, with a haunted, far away look. FUTURE METHOD STUDIO’s fish bowl design evoking a seedy, red walled, graphic noir hotel, with the play’s curious name etched in neon on the back wall. In which Walsh, part desperate dame, part femme fatale, waits. Embodying the image fetishised by male artists from Eisner to Hammett, from Chandler to Lynch. As a piano score stops, Walsh stands to one side, facing out. Her partner enters, whispers their name and she turns and assesses them with soul searching eyes. A brief exchange establishes the relationship and context of the scene. They eat noodles, drink bourbon, talk, dance till Virginia sends them packing. But not before one final choice. Then Walsh cleans up, sits, and does it all again. And again. And again. Men, women, other. Race, sex, age no restriction. Walsh mother, sister, daughter. In charge. In pain. In love. Breckon & Randall’s direction stacking the deck in Virginia’s favour through clever play with status ensuring you can only go where Virginia leads. The wise follow. The foolish compete. The lovers genuinely there for her. The vain always there for themselves, no matter how strong or sweet their affections. How we communicate and fail to communicate forever made evident. Eileen Walsh in The Second Woman. Image, Jed Niezgoda Technically, it’s something of a Meisner improv. A partner exercise where each performer is restricted to key phrases as the scene is adjusted each time. Drama pared back to its basic ingredients: conflict, motivation, objective, outcome. Walsh endlessly finding new ways to say the same thing and achieve the same goal yet have it mean something different every time. Repetition, like snowflakes, or fingerprints, defined by what makes each one unique. As the hours slip by Walsh pushes past the boundaries of her craft, taking it closer to pure instinct, then pushes further. Mirroring soon exhausting its usefulness and forcing Walsh to dig deeper. Yet always the craft remains, evident in the calculated heel slip, the held gaze, the exquisitely timed delivery. As The Second Woman rolls along with the addictive fascination of doomscrolling, it can come to feel like a theatrical Deathmatch Tournament as another contestant steps into the ring for a ten minute bout in which Walsh wipes the floor with them. The outcome usually decided in the initial tense silence as Walsh establishes dominance. But some she can’t boss around so easily. Usually colleagues like Luke Murphy, Frank Blake, Jack Gleason, or local actor Peter Rawlinson. Some call Virginia’s bluff, others offer support, or deeper challenges, some ready to go where she seems to want to go. Others, like good sport Willie White, inject something from beyond the frame. I’d swear on a stack of bibles that Walsh intentionally set out make the former Artistic Director of Dublin Theatre Festival squirm. And not just him. Though never restricted to sex, age or race, mostly it’s men. Masculinity undergoing a thorough investigation, revealing men stuck as boys, boys playing at being men, the endless power dynamics with the reviled and revered feminine confirming masculinity as never simply one, singular thing. Nor is Walsh. Whatever you need, want, dread or desire, whatever your sex, age, race or creed. Eileen Walsh in The Second Woman. Image, Jed Niezgoda As the hours move on, Walsh remains forever in control. Truths revealed in the lies we tell, and the lies we tell ourselves. Secrets revealed in the ordinary gestures: the size of a whiskey measure, the unspoken etiquette, the way a hand circles a waist, or a gaze is held with assured confidence or avoided with embarrassed unease. Some try to get away, try too hard, try to get their way, try to stay. Playing the moment to avoid playing the scene. Reminding us we only think we see truth. Revealing ourselves trapped in our memories and conditioning reflected back to us, consciously or unconsciously. The laughs coming hard and fast. Suggesting life’s a comedy after all and not the tragedy it seems. Unless you can’t laugh at yourself. Then it’s not a tragedy so much as a bad joke. Either way it's always a power struggle in which the weak get eaten, the tough ones survive. Though tenderness is often the greatest strength. With a constitution fortified against all you can eat noodles, and a bladder clearly made of steel, Walsh presses on, taking a short break every two hours. Most step out, many returning later. And so it goes long past midnight. By the Witching Hour the audience has thinned somewhat, but The Crazies have crawled in from the night. Populating the 3.00 am auditorium like homeless ghosts scattered randomly. Lunatics, insomniacs and tired eyed lovers. Night owls and nighthawks addicted to just one more scene. To ensuring Walsh has an audience to play to. That matters to them. They’re here to give something back. Be part of the exchange. The theatre student from Canada who left his hostel to stay till his flight at noon the next day. The visual artist from Dublin who arrived by train, marched directly to the Opera House and has been here since 4.00pm. Planning on staying as long as her body and brain hold out. Meanwhile, festival director Lorraine Maye floats about with the unbridled enthusiasm of a gleeful child. She’s been here since four and intends on staying till the end. Envy wishing it could siphon her boundless energy. Right now it's easier to begrudge her spitefully from a distance, topping up the diminishing fuel tank with water, chocolate and coffee. The Opera House floor staff working the graveyard shift, dispensing mercy like angels. Eileen Walsh in The Second Woman. Image, Jed Niezgoda Approaching the half way mark you wonder how the hell can Walsh keep going? Onstage, something shifts. The more tired Walsh gets the more youthful, brave and vulnerable she becomes. No trick of tired eyes that a fleeting glance at her close up leaves you wondering did Sydney Sweeney step in? Walsh somehow more real, raunchy, and emotionally risk taking. The Crazies’ all night vigil richly rewarded. Earlier there were rumours Cillian Murphy might appear at some point during the run. The Crazies knew Murphy was never going to show this late given how much he likes his sleep. Anyway, Cillian wouldn’t have a patch on Eileen tonight as she faces infidelity and impotence, egos and misogynists, lovers and the lovelorn. “I love you” a plea, a prayer, a punishment. As scene follows scene Walsh makes clear we are not our performances but that which performs. If only we knew why, and how, we might perform better. You might think you know how each story will go, you never do. You only know the script. It might seem to be the same recurring actions, but always it’s a new action in search of a fresh reaction. Nothing is repeated even though it all happened before. On it goes. By midday Walsh has pushed through the wall. How, defies belief. I’d like to say I went the distance. Like so many before, and after, I had to tap out. Meanwhile Walsh prepares for her next two hours. A voice inside says you’re going to be sorry you didn’t stay. You think I don’t know that? I’ve been at hour long shows that felt infinitely longer than this. This, I never want to end. Though if I never hear Aura’s Taste of Love again it’ll be too soon. Mind you, I’ll probably end up listening to it just to recapture this indescribable, unforgettable, insanely brilliant experience, both communal and individual. A gruelling, punishing, powerful privilege. Eileen Walsh. The words fall short of adequate praise. Just bow, or kneel, and be silent. Attributing stars is a contentious practice. Many feel the popular shorthand should be avoided, unless, of course, they’re being awarded four or five stars themselves. Understandable as most productions rarely fall neatly into three, four or five star categories. But half stars look goofy. Generous soul that I am, I tend to mark up, but read the review and you'll always know which way I lean. So what stars should we attribute to Eileen Walsh for The Second Woman ? Simple. Get a boat. Sail out to the middle of the ocean on a moonless, cloudless night. Stand on deck and look up at the constellations. Start counting. The Second Woman by Nat Randall & Anna Breckon , performed by Eileen Walsh, presented by Cork Midsummer Festival and Cork Opera House ran June 14th and 15th at Cork Opera House as part of Cork Midsummer Festival 2025. For more information visit Cork Midsummer Festival 2025

Tommy Tiernan and Aaron Monaghan in The Cave. Image Ros Kavanagh **** Barry does Samuel Beckett. Kevin Barry that is. The Abbey Theatre’s current production, The Cave , finding the renowned novelist slumming it as an absurdist playwright. Barry's dark comedy about the McRae Brothers, tramps living in a cave on Zion Hill in County Sligo, sees nothing much happening for long periods. Comic fisticuffs and their strained relationship with local Garda Helen rambling the long route to get to where you expect it to go. In which the troubled Archie obsesses over the past so he doesn't have to embrace the present or future. His brother Bopper, equally checked out from reality, indulges fantasies of Netflix sensation, Elvira Martinez, if only Irish celeb Con Costello wasn’t on the scene. The long suffering Helen has her issues too, but she’s essentially a straight woman to The Cave's Didi and Gogo. Helen constantly insisting they move on yet telling them to stay. Forever concerned about their ailing health yet never arresting them to ensure they get the care they need. Even when not doing so means one or both might die. Inconsistent to the point where you wish they’d jump off a cliff. Though they’d probably need to be pushed for that to happen rather than do it themselves. Why? It's hard to know and harder to want to know. Barry’s strained comedy taking a very long time to tell a very short story. Decorated with themes about the internet, family, mental health, and caring for those society casts aside.  Judth Roddy, Tommy Tiernan and Aaron Monaghan in The Cave. Image Ros Kavanagh Throughout, Barry as novelist struggles to adapt to the stage, serving up thirteen titled chapters in search of three cohesive acts. Most suffering from the novelist’s rambling rather than the playwright’s economy. Tricks like the explanatory recap frequently resorted to. With talk of ghosts, caves and legacy you could be forgiven for expecting John Moriarty’s wild mythic forces to set your spirit on fire. Yet less Moriarty’s wild man of the West so much as Way Out West , The Cave’s spirit is tamed and dulled. Leaning into absurdity it can’t support the weight, resting on one tone jokes coming soft and fast, rolled like dice and landing on winning combinations quite a lot of the time. Indeed Barry seems incapable of writing a line without a joke or a set up. Ensuring that when pathos arrives at the end (even that has a joke) it feels a little pathetic. Still, Barry can create a sensationally funny line, idea, or image, especially regards our online fascinations, even as he struggles to sustain comedy into a scene or a story. Many jokes recurring, like our celebrity infatuation, along with hilarious moments about using technology in the wild. Aaron Monaghan and Tommy Tiernan in The Cave. Image Ros Kavanagh Like its two unlikely protagonists, The Cave proves remarkably resilent despite, and sometimes because, of the surrounding clutter. If jokes are tediously steady, it allows Tommy Tiernan to shine, drawing on his stand-up skills to compliment a delicate and sensitive performance; Archie frequently resembling one of Tiernan's onstage personas. His chemistry with Arron Monaghan deeply affecting, particularly in later scenes. Monaghan’s gruff Bopper a genuine comic revelation whose singing alone is worth the price of admission. If Judith Roddy has little enough to do, she does it terrifically well, commanding the stage as a Sligo Garda ready for bigger and better things. Yet Helen is surplus to requirements, never more in evidence than the bathrobe scene as Monaghan and Tiernan play verbal tennis and Roddy dutifully rotates her head. Helen there to set them up, wrap it up, and add a little contrast. If Joanna Parker's set and costumes capture a sense of a Sligo bleak midwinter, the action takes place in summer. Stephen Dodd’s lighting and Sinéad Diskin's sound reinforcing the bleakness. Meanwhile director Caitríona McLaughlin crafts some glorious stage images as well as eliciting three strong performances. Tommy Tiernan and Aaron Monaghan in The Cave. Image Ros Kavanagh Fun, entertaining, and eminently enjoyable, The Cave is indicative of a broader concern. A question put to many people recently was what was the last play you recall seeing in The Peacock? The overwhelming answer; “I can't remember”. We have a dearth of venues, yet a perfectly brilliant one, once renowned for championing new work and new writers, sits mostly dark. If because of budgetary issues, that needs to be reassessed. There’s nothing wrong with shows like The Cave riding on the coat tails of a great novel or novelist and featuring popular TV celebrities. They're a welcome addition. But popularised productions aren't the way to secure a meaningful future. Nor are venues sitting dark. The Cave, by Kevin Barry, runs at The Abbey Theatre until July 18. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Rex Ryan in The Monk. Image John Anderson Jnr ***** God loves fools and children. So it’s safe to assume She probably loves Rex Ryan. Even if you hate Ryan you have to love his childlike foolishness. It’s as if the expression “you probably shouldn’t do that” inspires Ryan to do exactly that which you probably shouldn’t do. Start a theatre company without funding. Open a completely implausible venue. Do both during Covid. Risk producing new works while avoiding safer options like adapted popular novels. Write, perform and direct a one man play about alleged criminal mastermind, Gerry Hutch, popularly known as The Monk. Probably shouldn’t do that. Might be seen to normalise, glamourise or fetishise criminality. Anyway, Hutch is notoriously private, some might say secretive. What kind of story would he agree to tell and who’d control the narrative? Ryan’s response; let’s find out. We should probably do that. And, again, experience proves him right. Ryan’s sensitive yet excoriating one hander, The Monk , serving up a searingly brilliant piece of theatre. Less a memoir so much as a character study, The Monk economically skates through a biographical highlight reel, stopping five minutes before a not guilty verdict in 2017 over Hutch's possible involvement with The Regency Hotel Murder in 2016. Growing up in Summerhill with an angel on his shoulder and a father who worked hard and drank harder, Hutch watches him die a slave to an empty, work hard dream. Mountjoy prison at fifteen a turning point as Hutch graduates criminal college. Leading to his street gang, The Bugsy Malones, followed by his incarceration and admittance to more crimes, though only ever those he was found guilty of. The two largest robberies in Irish history, Veronica Guerin’s murder, The Regency Hotel shooting all skated past with rote denials looking, at times, like the lady protesting too much. As likely to evoke, “just because they can’t prove it doesn't mean you didn’t do it,” as sympathy for a media maligned, property developer voicing a profound sense of injury. Throughout, with talk of a code, Hutch tries perpetuate the ordinary decent criminal myth. Anger at an alleged murderer’s execution by An Garda following a post office heist a case in point. While it raises genuine Ombudsman concerns, the Postmaster’s murder is spoken of like a fact of life that comes with the job. It wasn’t. It was a choice to rob and shoot him. Similarly the old trope that growing up in Summerhill the only real choice you had was crime. Shit happens, you respond accordingly but it’s never your fault. You’re never accountable. If that were all The Monk had to offer you’d rightly ask for a refund. But Ryan’s script refuses easy refuge behind prepared or rehearsed responses. Rather it digs deep through loops and repetitions to show where responses might be manufactured, and deeper still to reveal an embedded conditioning so normalised as to be believed unquestioningly. Revealing a complex man trying to wrestle his past, his stories, himself, the media, the State, life’s consequences into the story he wants them to fit into. Even as they refuse to allow him make easy sense of it all. Leaving you warming to his rugged charm, his no nonsense Dublin humour, his resilience, his love for his wife and family and his anger and pain at their being caught in the crossfire of his choices. Ryan’s brilliant performance juxtaposing granite strength with frail humanity whilst ensuring you never lose sight of the fact that you would not want to meet this man and his venomous rage in a darkened alley. Or a bright one for that matter. Rex Ryan in The Monk. Image, Beth Strahan When it comes to what informs Ryan’s script, alongside conversations with Hutch Ryan enjoyed an indirect connection given they were neighbours when Ryan grew up in Clontarf. If Ryan’s father was a famous celebrity forever in the spotlight, Hutch appears as the infamous celebrity forever trying to avoid it. Both of them the guy next door far from being the conventional guy next door. Seemingly ordinary people doing extraordinary things, scrutinised unfairly as fair game by being designated public figures for the media’s sensationalist glare. Ryan’s script tapping into this rich paradox with powerful results, interrogating whilst respecting its protagonist by way of a truly remarkable performance. Indeed, there’s a thin line between a performance and an impression of a living figure. The former interprets, the latter mimics faithfully unless exaggerated for satirical effect. Under his own direction Ryan’s immersive performance is utterly riveting. Initially, visuals support the ‘probably shouldn’t do that’ parallel. True to the time, yet looking like a forlorn Worzel Gummidge dressed for Aunt Sally’s funeral, Ryan, all dense beard and wild, straw hair, evokes The Count of Monte Cristo , or the prisoner depicted chained to a dungeon in old cartoons. Yet even when the eyes are all you see, they sear like burning coals. Get too close and they might incinerate you, pull back and you glimpse the hurt behind the anger. Additional depth and expressiveness revealed as the beard is removed and Ryan sits, stands or prowls the stage as he sets about answering an unseen interviewer’s questions, with a wonderfully awkward slow dance thrown in for good measure. John Anderson Jnr’s superb AV and Francisco Collette’s evocative SFX adding narrative links and emotional texture. Bill Woodland’s lights a masterclass in mood, both dark and light. Ciara Murnane’s caged set with auditorium screens transporting the venue, and experience, to a whole other level. With transitions executed with split second precision throughout. Productions as invigoratingly challenging as The Monk come along rarely. Ryan’s fearless script, invested performance and sensitive direction matched only by a tech team at the top of their game. And one unsung hero. When it comes to Glassmask the axiom behind every man there’s a greater woman is very much in evidence. Rex’s better half, Migle Ryan, producer, costumer designer and hostess buzzes with professional alertness, lending Glassmask’s front of house its inimitable charm as well as bolstering its behind the scenes solidity. Endlessly stylish and seemingly immune to fatigue, Migle fuses consummate professionalism with an all consuming work ethic. Rex may bask in the limelight, but Migle’s oft unseen contribution has ensured Glassmask’s much deserved success. Resulting in plays like The Monk , the kind of production that reignites your excitement for theatre. You may not re-evaluate your opinion of Hutch, but you might come away understanding some things better. The Monk shining a light on wider human themes embedded in its protagonist’s fascinating story and his manner of telling it, with the final image inviting a myriad of interpretations. Phenomenally powerful, Ryan’s play, performance and production serve up a contemporarily relevant masterpiece not to be missed. The Monk, written, performed and directed by Rex Ryan, runs at Glass Mask Theatre until June 21. Extra dates added June 26, 27 and 28. For more information visit Glass Mask Theatre

The Importance of Being Earnest. Image, Ciaran Bagnall ***** Double lives and mixed messages. An apt description for Oscar Wilde ’s classic comedy The Importance of Being Earnest , as well as director Jimmy Fay’s fandango production at the Lyric Theatre. In which pre-show images of Victorian styled advertisements scroll across the curtain. Iconic posters for strange and peculiar products. Visually, it’s all of a period, leaving you with an unexplained hankering for ice-cream. Except the jazz score supporting the visuals is from a much later period. The first mixed message, immediately followed by cinematic opening credits in the style of Monty Python , a device later returned to for transitions. Granted, Neil O’Driscoll’s projections are a stroke of brilliance, but aren’t we in a theatre to watch a play? Might as well throw in some vigorous piano playing reminiscent of a recital of The Warsaw Concerto with 1940s Rank Organisation written all over it. Bewilderment mounting and still no one has spoken, aside from Neil Keery’s nasal butler’s house keeping announcements. Adam Gillian and Meghan Tyler in The Importance of Being Earnest. Image, Ciaran Bagnall Once dialogue arrives, the real crazy starts. Traces of camp seventies sit-coms, music hall shenanigans, hints of Jeeves and Wooster, The Good Old Days singalong, add your own spotted reference, all of it peppered with drag brunch bitchiness. Leaving you to wonder has Fay finally lost his mind? While that possibility should never be dismissed, The Importance of Being Earne st is never a case of too many cooks but, rather, of one smartly intrepid chef. Mixing the oddest ingredients to release strange new flavours that, if initially making for bizarre combinations, soon simmer and marinate into a sumptuous, mouth watering casserole. Dishing up lashings of laughter along with one of the finest comedy performances of recent years. Allison Harding and Adam Gillian in The Importance of Being Earnest. Image, Ciaran Bagnall From its rousing start to rousing finish, The Importance of Being Earnest initially journeys through peaks and troughs as ingredients are given time to percolate. Wilde’s comedy of Victorian manners seeing Conor O’Donnell’s camptastic Algernon foregrounding Wilde’s subtextual subversions. A comfort eating cousin beset by petty jealousies, Algy has a bone to pick with Adam Gillian’s foppish, leading man Earnest, a straight-ish foil for the ensuing comedy with secrets to hide who shines in the third act. Neither bachelor averse to some gay coded disappearances with make believe relatives. Each dependent on the staunch Lady Bracknell to ensure marriage to the love of their lives, the ditzy Cecily and vivacious Gwendolyn. Or should that be beards of their lives? No matter. Lost babies, found handbags, old secrets and a passion for the name Earnest, another double meaning, ensure we’re left eternally gratefully that the course of true-ish love never runs smooth but makes for endless wit and merriment. Conor O'Donnell and Calla Hughes Nic Aoidh in The Importance of Being Earnest. Image, Ciaran Bagnall If its men are hilarious, with Martin Maguire’s Reverend Chasuble adding additional comic texture, The Importance of Being Earnest’s women are simply magnificent. Jo Donnelly’s Mrs Prism, a woman of later years looking for the love she missed out on, proves an excellent comic foil. Along with Allison Harding’s priggish Lady Bracknell, whose pomp commands the stage with unquestioned authority. Both offset by two brilliantly exaggerated, larger than life performances. Beginning with Calla Hughes Nic Aoidh as the delightedly daft Cecily. A day dreaming Disney princess in a Minnie Mouse outfit, Hughes Nic Aoidh flits about like a wannabe ballerina in a performance that goes all the way over the top. Finding there Meghan Tyler’s superlative Gwendolyn. A femme fatale lusting with privilege, Gwendolyn proves to be the secret ingredient that brings this meal together. Tyler serving up a comedy masterclass in timing, expression and gesture. Some act funny, some are funny, then there’s whatever it is Tyler is doing. A born natural, the magisterial Tyler’s detailed performance is effervescent and irresistible whilst looking utterly effortless. Tyler mining pure comedy gold every time. The best thing about last year’s Aurora , with The Importance of Being Earnest Tyler shows she can produce comedy performances to a world class level, creating an iconic, unforgettable Gwendolyn in the process. Meghan Tyler in The Importance of Being Earnest. Image, Ciaran Bagnall A kitsch, visual feast, Stuart Marshall’s period set, Mary Tumelty’s superb lights, Catherine Kodicek’s crayon costumes and Garth McConaghie’s excellent sound and compositions see The Importance of Being Earnest land somewhere between the familiar and the fresh, invigorating what can sometimes be predictable and flabby. Everyone imagines a definitive version. Yet most discover that, like the elusive Earnest, it’s impossible to pin down. All it does is colour expectations. Yet set them aside, meet Fay’s fabulous fun head on and you might discover another hidden Earnest. Technically and performatively delightful, Fay restores to Wilde that wild, subversive, fun filled energy that often gets lost beneath Gender Study assignments. On top of which there’s Tyler. At the rate Tyler is going, she should probably start working on her acceptance speeches. For what? Her sky appears to have no limits. The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde, directed by Jimmy Fay, runs at The Lyric Theatre, Belfast, until July 6. For more information visit The Lyric Theatre, Belfast

Kwaku Fortune in The Black Wolfe Tone: Image, Carol Rosegg *** By all accounts an extremely likeable individual, Kwaku Fortune has been a fixture on the scene for some time now. Popping up regularly on stage and screen, often in supporting roles. Fortune at risk of slip sliding into becoming the eternally supporting character actor. Begging the question can Fortune carry a lead, seeing as how his recent performance in The Haircut left the jury hung? Does he have greater things to offer? Fishamble: The New Play Company reckon he has, being prepared to put their reputation where their mouth is. His debut play, The Black Wolfe Tone , written and performed by Fortune, answering the preceding questions with a resounding yes. Fortune can write. He can carry a lead, exuding huge charisma and a commanding presence. Even if, in this instance, he’s poorly served by director Nicola Murphy Dubey. Like One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest , if told by the cuckoo, woe is Kevin, the only sane man in the asylum. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. Indeed, that’s all he does. For Kevin is never not talking about himself, even as he touches on a range of topics and themes. A bipolar black Irish man with psychotic tendencies, Kevin has been sectioned but won’t tell you why. Instead, he recites a litany of reasons to explain and complain as to why he is the way he is so he won’t have to face what he is. God. Nature. Nurture. Parents. Acid. Racism. Masculinity. History. Add your own protected category. Kevin certainly has things to cry about, but the constant self-justification soon becomes monotonous. All denial, projection and avoidance, which everyone can see apart from Kevin. Trying hard to convince himself, in advance of a deciding meeting, that he’s ready to be discharged, Kevin recounts the debris of his life like a hard sell infomercial cranked up on excitement. The play's title echoing his sense of identity as an inside outsider. Yet five minutes spent in his excitable presence and you know Kevin isn’t fit to be released. Creating flaccid narrative tension compounded by Kevin evoking less sympathy so much as the urge to lock him up and throw away the key, if only to shut him up for five minutes. Kwaku Fortune in The Black Wolfe Tone: Image, Carol Rosegg Like being bawled out by a bombastic drill instructor, Fortune’s script suffers trauma and traumatises on account of Fortune’s blistering, go big delivery. Subtlety, nuance, rhythm and pacing all sacrificed by director Nicola Murphy Dubey for a semaphoring, declamatory style that even Shakespeare would have asked be taken down a notch. Starting high, Fortune has nowhere to go, and nowhere to take you. Emotional pyrotechnics resulting in emotional white noise. By the time quietness hits, allowing Kevin see himself as others might see him, you’re apt to be too numb to notice. Though compositionally strong, utilising superbly synchronised lights by Adam Honoré and an institutionalised set by Maree Kearns, Murphy Dubey fails to get to grips with the script’s richness to evoke a deeper understanding of Kevin’s bipolar disorder and his refusal to accept the consequences, relying on shouted mania coming at you like a relentless tornado. Leaving you battening down the hatches as the next outburst arrives. Knowing Fortune could have done so much more had he done so much less. For people suffering bipolar disorder, and those living with them, the unmanaged condition is often terrifying and frightening. Medication involving constant adjustment and tweaks with often horrendous side effects. Here, the dangers are focused on shouting and violence. The end risking bipolar disorder looking like a curable illness once we admit to it. Yet in Fortune’s script, if not his performance, there’s a sense that what we see is not the whole story. Should Fortune go to those softer places he writes of, revealing rather than hiding Kevin’s vulnerability behind a wall of shouted justifications, a whisper might be enough to devastate. The words are there. So is the actor. As it stands, Kevin is a howling demon that doesn’t want to be exorcised. Fishamble backing The Black Wolfe Tone might not take home the Gold Cup, but it crosses the finish line and positions nicely. Fortune's visceral immediacy and smart writing, peppered with spoken word ingredients, confirming Fishamble have backed a long term winner. Originally debuting in New York’s Irish Repertory Theatre, The Black Wolfe Tone embarks on an Irish tour. Catch it to see a potential star in the making. The Black Wolfe Tone , written and performed by Kwaku Fortune, presented by Fishamble: The New Play Company is currently on tour. Project Arts Centre - June 4 - 14 Mermaid Arts Centre - June 17 and 18 Cork Midsummer Festival - June 20 and 21 For more information, visit Fishamble: The New Play Company

Blackwater Valley Opera Festival's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Image Frances Marshall *** It is in the nature of experiments to miss their mark before finally formulating a breakthrough. The same might be said of Benjamin Britten 's experimental opera A Midsummer Night's Dream. An abridged reimagining of Shakespeare's magical comedy, Britten's 1960 avant garde treatment, with libretto co-written with Peter Pears, subverts operatic conventions to explore what opera might do. In doing so, it discovers new possibilities as well as reaffirming what opera should never do. Such as be tedious, dull, and overly self-indulgent. Tendencies offset by moments that prove striking, delightful and memorable. The scales tipping into the success column for Blackwater Valley Opera Festival ’s production courtesy of some outstanding performances, despite notable issues elsewhere. Blackwater Valley Opera Festival's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Image Frances Marshall Currently, love potions are all the rage. Both Irish National Opera’s superlative L’elisir d’amore and Blackwater Valley Opera Festival’s A Midsummer Night's Dream relying on a little love juice for plot devices. Here, fairy king and queen Oberon and Tytania, along with humans Lysander and Hermia, Demetrius and Helena, and the hapless Bottom, find true love’s course rarely runs smooth in the mystical grooves of Athens. A little coaxing to help respective partners fall wildly in love works only if you affect the correct partner, which master of misrule, the non singing Puck (an agile Barry McGovern), seems incapable of achieving. Yet all’s well that ends well, even if A Midsummer Night's Dream doesn’t end well so much as grind to a slow, gradual halt. Blackwater Valley Opera Festival's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Image Frances Marshall Part of the problem is a three act structure with an intermission coming almost two hours in. Britten’s overwrought libretto, though abridged, begging to be abridged more. One suspects Britten and Pears sensed as much given so many references to tedium and brevity, leaving you wishing they’d taken their own advice. Not helped by forced, contrived language draining much of the humour and more of the charm from Shakespeare’s text, particularly in the first two acts. Only for the third act to arrive like a tacked on epilogue, hurriedly wrapping up the main story to introduce the play within a play that no one wanted. Shoehorning some weak slapstick for an additional forty minutes, reminding you of what was missing from the previous two hours. Blackwater Valley Opera Festival's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Image Frances Marshall Throughout, music dominates singing like a tonal poem with too few tones. Especially when contrasted with Britten’s introductions and intermezzos, whose cinematic sweep evoke the otherworldliness of Dimitri Tiomkin’s score for Frank Capra’s 1937 classic, Lost Horizon , or Jerry Goldsmith, lush elations for Ridley Scott’s neglected fantasy Legend . Conventional musical structures luring you down a rabbit hole into a curious musical wonderland. The arrival of voices seeing music cease to describe the supernatural so much as inform personal psychology whilst accenting, or dissenting from the action. Leaving music often in direct conflict with the text's charm and comedy as it force feeds subtext. Singing tailored as a result, suggesting a sung play with musical accompaniment, built from off tuned, sung recitatives rather than songs. Phrases and lines sounding more akin to a violin's expressiveness rather than a voice. Endlessly fascinating, even if it doesn’t always please the ear. Blackwater Valley Opera Festival's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Image Frances Marshall Little of which director Patrick Mason resolves; staging often suggesting a concert performance with costumes. Paul Keogan’s lights might be hugely captivating, but his four poster bed with two doorframes suggests a compromise of convenience. Costumes far more successful, with Catherine Fay’s Elizabethan costumes from the time of Shakespeare juxtaposed with 1960’s fashion commemorating the period Britten’s opera premiered. The Irish Chamber Orchestra under conductor David Brophy doing sterling work in giving Britten’s score life. Yet it is some truly impressive vocal performances that carry the day. Countertenor Iestyn Morris as a commanding Oberon and soprano Ami Hewitt as Tytania one of many strong duos. Tenor Peter O’Reilly’s Lysander and baritone Gregory Feldman’s Demetrius both engaging as duelling rivals sporting a cricket bat. As are baritone Christopher Cull’s Theseus and Gemma Ní Bhriain’s Hippolyta, along with a superb comic chorus in tenors Conor Prenderville (Flute) and Seán Tester (Snout), baritone Massimo Modini (Starveling), and bass-baritones Jakob Mahase (Quince), Rory Dunne (Snug) and Dominic Veilleux (Bottom). A young chorus, giving it their all, round out a committed cast. Yet the night belongs to mezzo-soprano Sarah Richmond and soprano Amy Ní Fhearraigh, whose round, full, confident singing, coupled with top drawer performances, prove irresistible. Blackwater Valley Opera Festival's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Image Frances Marshall A Midsummer Night's Dream is a risk taking opera looking to enrich the opera going experience. The same might be said for Blackwater Valley Opera Festival. Now in its fifteenth year, it has become a regular operatic fixture. Its success due to excellent productions and to the people and places that make up Blackwater Valley. From the gorgeous Lismore Castle and cathedral, to venues in small, local communities like Villierstown, opera is enriched by a passionate community who, like festival volunteers, are warm and welcoming. Different venues revealing a host of local treasures. Including, should you find yourself venturing to Villierstown for the Shakespeare in Music recital featuring Kelli-Ann Masterson, and why wouldn’t you, a sinfully delicious coffee cake in Tory’s Cake Shop. Or a terrific pint with exceptional company in An Cruiscin Lan. Where opera was discussed with passionate locals and seasoned connoisseurs like it truly mattered. Because, at Blackwater Valley Opera Festival, it does. A Midsummer Night's Dream by Benjamin Britten, libretto by Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears, runs at Blackwater Valley Opera Festival until June 1. For more information visit Blackwater Valley Opera Festival

Claudia Boyle in Irish National Opera's L’elisir d’amore. Photo, Ros Kavanagh ***** Seriously, though you probably won’t believe me, this is the plot to L’elisir d’amore , Donizetti ’s vibrant comic opera as imagined by director Cal McCrystal for Irish National Opera’s final production of the season. In an old Western town at the turn of the nineteenth century, Woody from Toy Story (Nemorino) falls hopelessly in love with Scarlett O’Hara (Adina). All the towns folk think he’s silly, including Laurel and Hardy, Calamity Jane, a camp Keystone Calvary and that couple from the American Gothic painting. Even Abe Lincoln sees the writing on the wall. To make matters worse, Woody has a rival for Scarlett's affections. A man mountain of Magic Mike musculature, the suave Sergeant Belcore is the guy all the bad girls want. But Belcore wants Scarlett who, wishing to make Woody jealous, agrees to marry him. Enter the duplicitous Doctor Dulcamara and his long suffering assistant, Truffaldino, like the Wizard of Oz in a hot air balloon, selling the deluded Woody wine passed off as an elixir of love guaranteed to make every woman fall for him. And, indeed, every woman turns out to be wild for Woody, especially Scarlett. Yet it has nothing to do with the elixir. Those old reliables, money and jealousy, bringing it all home in a rousing finale. Yes, I know. Daft, busy, and steeped in visual cliche. Yet L’elisir d’amore is arguably the most fun you’re likely to have at an opera, with superlative singing to boot. Irish National Opera's L’elisir d’amore. Photo, Ros Kavanagh As spectacle goes, L’elisir d’amore is a lot busy and a little mixed. Sarah Bacon evoking the barebones of a cartoon Western with a cactus dry landscape dominated by a Bates Motel, with both pressed against shifting, vermilion skies and the occasional buffalo stampede. Exquisitely lit by Sarah Jane Shiels, despite a few marks being missed on the cramped stage. In contrast to the set’s simplicity, Bacon’s costumes prove richly detailed, right down to the writing on Woody's shoe, with Scarlett’s southern belle gowns each more sumptuous than the last. Detail to dress echoed in an exhilarating chorus whose movement, singing, acting and dancing are orchestrated almost as perfectly as Donizetti’s resounding score. Given vibrant, flowing life by conductor Erina Yashima and The Irish National Opera Orchestra. Duke Kim and Claudia Boyle in Irish National Opera's L’elisir d’amore. Photo, Ros Kavanagh At its core, a happy marriage of acting with singing make this a truly entertaining production. Like trying to choose your favourite child, selecting between soprano Claudia Boyle’s vivacious Adina, soprano Deirdre Higgins’s sumptuous Gianetta, tenor Duke Kim’s lovelorn Nemorino, bass Gianluca Margheri’s musclebound Belcore, bass-baritone John Molloy’s devious Dulcamara, and Ian O'Reilly's mostly non-singing Truffaldino seems almost cruel. Each in their own way utterly magnificent, conveying their character’s inner truth in scrupulous singing wedded to assiduous acting. Molloy and O’Reilly’s comic double act capturing smart, vaudevillian repartee in pre-show introductions for both acts. Kim, embracing Nemorino’s naivety, is exceptional as the comic dope whose rendition of Una furtiva Iagrima is heart-achingly sublime. Deirdre Higgins might have less to do, but she's never less than captivating. As is Gianluca Margheri’s outstanding Belcore. Believing women love a man in uniform, him especially, Margheri has no problem ripping his top off just in case. Reminding an appreciative audience that he could easily be making far more money as an in demand male stripper. The power and sweet tones of his impeccable bass leaving us eternally grateful he chose opera. Gianluca Margheri in Irish National Opera's L’elisir d’amore. Photo, Ros Kavanagh Central to it all is a divine Claudia Boyle. Without question one of our most gifted sopranos, Boyle is arguably our most gifted operatic actor. Every movement, expression and gesture is infused with character-rich expression perfectly harmonised to the most exquisite singing in which trills thrill. More than that, Boyle sets the tone and establishes impeccable standards onstage, giving others permission to play whilst setting the bar, vocally and performatively, impossibly high. Which this cast attain to magnificently. Indeed, Woody and Belcore might well have another rival. For if you’re not already wildly in love with Boyle, you will be after L’elisir d’amore . Her rendition of Prendi; per me sei libero seeing Boyle flip from comedic to serious with sublime results. Clearly, there’s nothing Boyle can’t sing. Irish National Opera's L’elisir d’amore. Photo, Ros Kavanagh Comic opera often suffers snobbish prejudice given its lack of gravitas. There's no jokes in the Bible, they say, and L’elisir d’amore is awash in naughty postcard humour. Yet even God was on her feet laughing and applauding. For some, L’elisir d’amore will appear visually busy, not helped by the cramped confines of the stage. But surrender to the whirlwind. Let it whisk you along with its madcap inventiveness, carry you on its waves of exuberant joy, and smother you with its musical and visual richness. Director Cal McCrystal, the unsung hero of this terrific production, whose choreographic and compositional brilliance is superbly peppered with hilarious meta-operatic touches (a stage manager harassing Laurel and Hardy, a chorus singer overstepping her role), knows that if you're going to go over the top go all the way over the top. May 28th sees Irish National Opera announce their next season. If L’elisir d’amore gives cause for excitement, it also presents the forthcoming season with issues. Namely, how to deliver an operatic experience to rival this? Joyous, delightful, exhilarating, hilarious, L’elisir d’amore offers an exquisitely entertaining night at the opera. Comic opera doesn't get better than this. L’elisir d’amore , by Gaetano Donizetti, libretto by Felice Romani, presented by Irish National Opera, runs The Gaiety Theatre till may 31 before embarking on a national tour. June 4, National Opera House, Wexford. June 7, Cork Opera House. For more information, visit The Gaiety Theatre or Irish National Opera or touring venues.

Scorched Earth, Image, Patricio Cassinoni **** Projected slides establish Scorched Earth ’s focus on land based crimes, its particular concern a ten year old, cold case murder. Black and white images bleeding into dancers Luke Murphy, Ryan O’Neill, Sarah Dowling, Tyler Carney-Faleatua and Will Thompson physicalising the projector’s click frame process. Swirling deftly in and out of fleeting tableaux, dancers foreshadow key scenes whilst highlighting the giant behind Luke Murphy's Attic Projects latest production. The giant in question being John B.Keane’s The Field , whose premise of returning generations buying up fields homegrown locals have worked for decades provides Scorched Earth with a weak narrative. Even though peppered with references to The Field , Scorched Earth is never properly seasoned, lacking Keane’s memorable characters, along with the play’s tension and suspense. Murphy’s exhilarating choreography almost forgiving everything, but not quite. For though dance is divine, and its claustrophobic theatrics intriguing, drama falls completely flat. Scorched Earth not so much standing on the shoulders of its narrative giant as being completely eclipsed by their shadow. Even as themes of property developers battling invested locals has huge current resonance. Scorched Earth, Image, Patricio Cassinoni If Scorched Earth finally gets to where it’s going, it makes for a circuitous journey, gets stuck in traffic and deliberately avoids the scenic route. Scenery, by way of Alyson Cummins’s troubled set, resembling a handball alley designed by the Stasi based on German coastal bunkers from World War Two. Lifeless, soul sucking grey sapping energy whilst being tediously dull on the gaze, which feels like it’s being encased in concrete. Against which Stephen Dodd’s lights lose much of their lustre. Cleverly orchestrated transitions between an interrogation room, bar, radio station or phone box are smartly synchronised, with the desk design a stroke of genius. Against which choreographic flourishes frequently delight, despite the colourless vacuum. Ryan O’Neill’s torchlit solo, Will Thompson’s excellent rag doll routines, and a terrific line dancing sequence reviving flagging energy. Meanwhile, story crawls away to curl up and die in a traffic jam. Its crime drama narrative amounting to a wasteful interrogation of an under developed character. Wasteful because you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to determine whether they did it. The real crime a pointless interrogation device offering less and less till finally going exactly where you knew it would go. Heart, soul and depth found in stirring choreographic moments strung on a flimsy narrative thread, which a more vibrant, economic narrative with complex characters might have better served. Scorched Earth, Image, Patricio Cassinoni Throughout, Rob Moloney’s compositions and sound design try inject tension and energy, often succeeding, but just as often overcompensating and, on occasion, being overly intrusive; sounds similar to machine gun fire or helicopter blades competing with key dialogue at one point. Valentina Gambardella grass suit might facilitate a superb duet/solo between the accused and God‘s green earth, but you have to see past it as a Sesame Street muppet first. Or, later, as a sniper team in Ghillie suits. Then there’s a donkey, whose disappearance offers a far more intriguing, if equally unresolved story. Problem visuals resolved as the set is struck whilst Murphy flails like a raver on high grade drugs. Cummins’s stunning second set unfolding, revealing what could have been all along. Moonlit green, its back inclined, awash in the smell of earth; we come full circle as one becomes five in an exhilarating whirling dervish. Passion and violence made visceral through interweaving, almost organic choreography as dancers run, climb, fall, slide and begin again, pushed to exhausting limits. The answer to “shut up and kiss me” a goodnight kiss that sets you swooning. Leaving you wishing Scorched Earth had talked a lot less and kissed a lot more. Scorched Earth, Image, Patricio Cassinoni As dance theatre goes, Scorched Earth’s concomitant parts don’t always fit. Narratively, it makes for a dull affair. Visually, its prison grey tone doesn’t do it any favours beyond offering an expensive contrast with the land. Choreographically, as is always the case with Murphy’s movement sequences, be they solos, duets or group, Scorched Earth is visceral and sensational, taking your breath away during peaks and never less than intriguing during throughs. Ensuring there’s plenty of meat on Scorched Earth’s choreographic bones to warrant anyone's attendance. Along with that goodnight kiss. Scorched Earth by Luke Murphy's Attic Projects runs at The Abbey Theatre as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2025 until May 24. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre or Dublin Dance Festival 2025

Jackson Fisch (The Swan), Stephen Murray (Prince) and Company, Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake. Photo Johan Persson ***** Despite what marketers would have us believe, there are very few seminal, groundbreaking productions. Even less that remain fresh, vital and continue to break ground thirty years on. Matthew Bourne’s incomparable Swan Lake is one such production. The hype sells it short. Tchaikovsky’s eternal ballet refashioned in ways that honour tradition whilst subverting it. Respecting the form whilst poking fun at its conventions. Poetic, sumptuous, spectacular, movement married to music, narrative, and emotional expression is refined into supple, choreographic fluidities that undulate across the stage. Rigorously exacting technique manifested in the dancer’s body creating a visual spectacle par excellence. Immeasurably enhanced by Paule Constable’s expressive lights, and Lez Brotherston’s opulent costumes and set, with both evoking old world, Hollywood glamour. Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake gracing Bord Gáis Energy Theatre as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2025. Proving, in the process, that it remains a breathtaking tour de force. Stephen Murray (Prince) Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake. Photo Johan Persson   Narratively, Bourne’s remix proves remarkably current, as it was when it premiered in 1995. Its tale of a Prince and a commoner, rigid royalty not amused, celebrity obsession and a parasitic paparazzi evoking themes that fashionably resonate. At the centre of which is Dubliner Stephen Murray's weak willed Prince. A blend of movie star good looks with gormless childishness who is forever out of his depth, be it ruling a kingdom or ruling his heart; Murray's powerful movements infused with captivating grace throughout. Pursued by a scene stealing Girlfriend; Bryony Wood's ditzy blonde, one part flirt, two parts attention seeker, irresistibly hilarious and divine. Katrina Lyndon’s hot to trot Queen, regal with a wild streak, equally ravishing as she rules the stage, her lovers, and her juvenile son’s impetuousness with commanding ease; Lyndon’s straight backed, effortless composure evoking the presence and charisma of Cyd Charisse. Accompanied by her faithftful Private Secretary, a superb James Lovell. Eve Ngbokota (Romanian Princess) and Jackson Fisch (The Stranger ) Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake. Photo Johan Persson   As boy meets girl and introduces her to his disapproving family, it’s easy to understand why ballet’s bourgeoisie and Petipa purists were less than enthusiastic about Bourne's version. Classic choreography replaced by gestural expression emphasising story and emotion look more akin to a musical. Similar to Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly where ballet adds to the choreographic mix rather than defines it. A social night at the theatre to see a dance troupe finds the eye drawn to the royal box where Wood’s comic shenanigans upstage everyone. And so it goes; bursts of conventional choreographic colour, such as The Fosse inspired Swank Bar sequence, until the Prince and Swan meet in a park one fateful night. Introducing a magical transformation mirrored in the choreographic transformation onstage. Jackson Fisch’s Swan, and later Stranger, along with a muscular yet featherlight troupe, cementing ballet, through glorious leaps, lifts, turns and extensions, as the core choreographic component in sequences of extraordinary beauty and exactitude. Jackson Fisch (The Swan) and Company, Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake. Photo Johan Persson   Whilst talk often focuses on Brotherston’s iconic dressing of the swans, the Royal Gala, like a Met Gala only better dressed, delivers sublime costuming that highlights the body's musculature, enlivens expression yet never seems to restrict the dancer, evident in a series of exquisite pas de deux. The arrival of The Stranger, a walking aphrodisiac with the confidence to know it and own it, sees ballet become sensual, passionate, powerful. Men dancing as swans might challenge conservative attitudes and singular notions of masculinity, yet when it comes to lust the song remains the same; lads and ladies do really love them a bad boy. And Fisch is a very good bad boy. As we rollercoaster towards the tragic denouement, a second rollercoaster ride follows as we plunge into one final, feral encounter with The Swan, culminating in a breathtaking bedroom sequence having come full circle to where we started, only now everything has changed. Jackson Fisch (The Swan) and Company, Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake. Photo Johan Persson   Some will say, technically, this is not Swan Lake . Different story, different steps. But like a classic cover of a classic song, Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake remains true to the original whilst being its own unique thing. True to the ballet's poetry, power, exuberance and romance, looking fresher today than it did thirty years ago. Indeed, If you see only one ballet this year, make it Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake . There’s simply nothing else like it. Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake runs at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2025 till May 24. Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake features a rotating cast. This review responds to the performance on Tuesday, May 20th as part of Dublin Dance Festival 2025. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre or Dublin Dance Festival 2025

Specky Clark by Oona Doherty. Image, Luca Truffarelli *** If purists are apt to scratch their heads, so might many others. Is the darkly comic Specky Clark dance theatre? Oona Doherty’s tale of her great-great-grandfather arriving in Belfast serving up something of a collaborative car crash. Multidisciplinary in construction, dance proves the poor relation, appearing only in sporadic bursts, not having its big moment until the finale. Yet calling Specky Clark dance theatre doesn’t quite cut it. The whole, visually and structurally, looking more like a film of a graphic novel. Doherty having made several forays into the medium looking as if trying to replicate the effect onstage. The result a whole lot of something adding up to a whole lot of not enough that often drags its heels. Choreographed, written & directed by Doherty in collaboration with performers Diarmuid Amstrong, Maëva Berthelot, Malick Cissé, Tom Grand Mourcel, Gerard Headley, Clay Koonar, Gennaro Lauro, Michael McEvoy, Erin O’Reilly, Faith Pendergast and Zoé Lecorgne, there’s an overriding sense of too many cooks spoiling the broth. Of a brainstorming session that never found a cohesive outcome; a democracy minus a vision. Just a flimsy narrative about an orphaned boy missing his mother who’s shipped to relatives in Belfast where he’s sent to work at an abattoir. Having killed his first pig, the beast returns Halloween night to comic effect as the veil between the living and the dead is parted so the boy can boogie on down, if only for a moment. All told through a series of chronological scenes steeped in hit and miss fantastical visuals; its piecemeal narrative delivered by way of surtitles and voice overs. Specky Clark by Oona Doherty. Image, Luca Truffarelli A disharmony of opposites, Specky Clark proves too funny to be serious yet too serious to be funny. Too surreal to be realism yet too realist to be surreal. The best you can say is that it’s its own unique thing, built on a proverbial kitchen sink of ideas that often culminate in cartoonish, slow motion visuals. Wren boys, devils and towering giants all surrounding the diminutive Specky, the lost boy resembling a forlorn Where’s Wally. Throughout, several sequences and devices overstay their welcome: endless slow motion, shaking, listening to talk of Halloween and fairies till you’re blue in the face all looking like filler. Dance, finally having a sustained moment, delivers a musical theatre styled big finish. A hybrid of choreographic ideas, it quickly resembles the obligatory music video moment in endless movies. In this instance a cut price Thriller , which does enough to wrap it up, but not to resolve deeper themes of bereavement, displacement and longing. Specky Clark by Oona Doherty. Image, Luca Truffarelli If Sabine Dargent’s clever set, John Gunning’s stunning lights and Maxime Jerry Fraisse’s evocative compositions and sound design, the latter incorporating music from contemporary Irish folk band Lankum, all conspire to delight, they also flatter to decieve. Once the eyes adjust to the directorial glare there’s not enough of real interest or intrigue. Minimising dance might be intended to highlight a repressed expressiveness given release, but it proves a pyrrhic victory given that dance is the second best thing about Specky Clark . The first being the irresistible Faith Prendergast as Specky. Prendergast owns the stage, enlivening uncharacteristically innocuous choreography with her abundant expressiveness and seductive presence. Clay Kooner and Gennaro Lauro also excellent as Specky’s jittery relatives. Making Specky Clark a hit and miss affair, full of big ideas and graphic novel flourishes, but ultimately falling short of Doherty’s usual brilliant standards. Specky Clark by Oona Doherty, co-produced and presented by Dublin Dance Festival and the Abbey Theatre, runs at The Abbey Theatre until May 17. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre or Dublin Dance Festival 2025

Naoise Dunbar and Zara Devlin in Lovesong by Abi Morgan. Image, Pato Cassinoni **** They sure don’t make them like they used to. Songs, movies, chocolate eclairs. And, of course, love stories. In which a handsome, respectable boy falls for a wholesome, virginal girl next door. They kiss, marry, then settle down to a raise a brood of happily ever afters. The staple narrative of Hollywood’s escapist rom coms, especially during its Golden Era. Perhaps that’s why Abi Morgan grounds her poignant Lovesong in 60’s America. Where married, immigrant couple, Maggie and William, paragons of middle class respectability, aspire to a life more Norman Rockwell than Richard Yates. Living a Doris Day, Rock Hudson movie, minus the songs, that slathers on the schmaltz. Were that all Morgan had to offer you could easily dismiss Lovesong and leave it there. Yet beyond its obvious, dated kitsch there’s a heart beating wild and passionate. Transforming two lives less than ordinary into a universal experience of love and loss, youth and aging, living and dying, with the telling far tastier than the tale. Ingrid Craigie, Zara Devlin, Naoise Dunbar, Nick Dunning in Lovesong by Abi Morgan. Image, Pato Cassinoni If form is content and content form, Lovesong begs to differ. Its content revolving around retired dentist William and retired librarian Maggie as they remember dullish slices of married life whilst facing into Maggie’s encroaching, and vastly more interesting death. A life of passionate, troubled devotion peppered with fears of infidelity and the frustrations of infertility. Form, meanwhile, plumbs profounder depths, aspiring towards registering Lovesong as direct experience. Director David Bolger’s marvellous weaving of choreography and direction, married to Francis O’Connor’s layered set merging memory with now, Suzie Cummins’s evocative lighting, and Joan O’Clery’s shared costumes releases sub-textual forces to reveal deeper themes. Ghosts of passions past yet ever present; lustful desires even as the older body struggles; how to die in the face of living and how to live in the face of dying; the distance between nostalgia and the hollowed out reality of now; the heart’s questions of legacy. Staging, composition of movement, the interplay of Naoise Dunbar and Zara Devlin as the younger Will and Maggie, juxtaposed yet connected to their older selves, beautifully exemplified by Nick Dunning and Ingrid Craigie, made utterly compelling. Naoise Dunbar, Ingrid Craigie and Zara Devlin in Lovesong by Abi Morgan. Image, Pato Cassinoni At times delivery can feel like it’s being recited by a documentarian, or a stage conscious salesman on the Shopping Channel selling life insurance to the over 70s. Then there’s Jack Foster’s score full of New Age reveries opting for easy sentimentality, lacking the warmth and depth of jazz standards like I’ll Be Seeing You which cover the same themes. Yet, these issues aside, Lovesong’s strength lies in the how. If Bolger‘s direction artfully juxtaposes then and now, it’s a superlative cast who make the experience visceral. Naoise Dunbar’s superbly crafted William, a charming, muscle toned, hunk of manly love, hides his insecurities behind jealousy, alcohol, and facts about teeth or time to prevent him talking about his pain. Until it finally erupts decades later. Nick Dunning’s doddery husband, out of his comfort zone, emotionally eviscerating as he delivers a tirade to describe the inevitable that utterly floors you. An effervescent Zara Devlin, irresistible as the youthful good wife, is expertly offset by Ingrid Craigie’s superb older Maggie. The ghost of a young girl trapped in an ailing woman’s body, still harbouring desire whilst mothering her troubled husband. The child she had in place of the child she never had, highlighting their deeply complex, if recognisably conventional relationship. Deeper truths revealed in a series of gorgeously choreographed duets where their idealised, youthful selves dance with their present decrepitudes. Hot, heartbreakingly poignant, the limits of language transcended in moments of physical beauty that prove breathtaking. Nick Dunning,  Zara Devlin, Naoise Dunbar, Ingrid Craigie in Lovesong by Abi Morgan. Image, Pato Cassinoni Cloned from the same gene pool that gave us The Notebook and Deirdre Kinahan’s marvellous Halcyon Days , Morgan’s ageing, childless couple reflecting on life’s fleeting moments oozes charm and poignancy. The cynically unromantic might find less to love about Lovesong , but even they’ll have to admit its performances are outstanding, its staging superb and its direction bordering on magical. For those of a more amenable persuasion, Lovesong delivers all the feels for hopeless romantics everywhere, and does so with considerable style. Life is fleeting and all we have is each other. Lovesong declares we should savour every moment. Something this wonderful production ensures you do. Lovesong by Abi Morgan, directed by David Bolger, runs at The Gate Theatre until June 15. For more information visit The Gate Theatre

Chora, by Luail. Image, Patricio Cassinoni ***** No new undertaking is without its cheerleaders or critics. The policies, practices and price of newly formed Luail, Ireland’s National Dance Company, generating delight and discontent. Its inaugural production, Chora , making history at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre, sees Luail making its case. Luail’s artistic director, Liz Roche, never one to shrink from a big occasion, bringing together twelve dancers, three additional choreographers and a superlative Irish Chamber Orchestra, under leader Katherine Hunka, to craft a sublime journey from darkness into light. One whose cathartic release hits you with the force of grace, offering joy, hope, connection and reconnection. Silencing begrudging nay sayers and kicking off Dublin Dance Festival 2025 with a resounding success. As is usually the case, the programme’s artspeak sells ice to the academics. Framings you won’t remember five seconds after you’ve read them talk of Greek and Irish influences, of a space between here and some vague other world, of ancestral voices, infinite patterns and fractals. What you never forget is what you see and feel. Which, more often than not, transcends such limiting and obscure definitions. Less contrast and compare so much as a triptych of distinct works, Chora’s power is derived from its unity rather than its individual parts as they engage in shared conversation, each informing the whole. Beginning with Invocation by choreographer and Luail Artist in Residence, Mufutau Yusuf . The first of two consecutive works steeped in Goth like shadings. Designer Katie Davenport subsuming stage and costumes in pitch black evoking a liminal space between heaven and earth. Less purgatory so much as a Universal Studios idea of limbo, which ties in with Roche’s otherworldly inspiration. Sinéad McKenna’s superb lighting both complimenting and establishing mood throughout. Here, six dancers, dressed head to toe in black, cower like acolytes whilst a single dancer, her bare arms exposed, face unmasked, commands the space in which they executes a solo. Presently duets and groupings emerge in a flurry of demonic punches, lifts, flails and swirls set against a stirring composition, Dig Deep by Julia Wolfe, steeped in frenetic tension, like a classic Hitchcock score, the whole serving up a demented danse macabre. Chora, by Luail. Image, Patricio Cassinoni A light interlude facilitates a transition to Constellations as a black floor covering is rolled away to reveal a blood red floor underneath, the Goth influence once again evident. Nimbus, by Sam Perkins, providing another musical score haunted by tense, sinister overtones until the final moments. Choreographer Liz Roche setting up a choreographic conversation built on pulse and flow as gentle bumps and buffeting allow the body be propelled in patterns suggesting an inevitability that it could never have been otherwise. Dancers leaving and exiting the space pair off into various groupings creating recurring physical motifs: full body embraces, fireman lifts, arms locked at the wrists as bodies pull against each other creating tension. Creating an organic ebb and flow evolving and dissolving like swirls of smoke. A short intermission precedes a striking contrast, even if a shared choreographic lexicon suggests dynamic links, especially with the preceding work. I Contain Multitudes by choreographers Guy Nader and Maria Campo s, inspired by Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass , saving the best wine till last, though at first you might not think so. Visually, Davenport reveals she is equally gifted when it comes to simple design, as is McKenna's lighting; white floor, see-through gauze concealing live musicians, with dancers dressed in conventional clothing feeling lighter and brighter. Music, based on Canto Ostinato by Simeon ten Holt, rearranged for the Irish Chamber Orchestra by Marjin van Prooijen, reinforcing an energised, playful liveliness. Once again it begins in silence, individual dancers gradually entering the space, engaging in what appears to be an actor’s floor exercise. Walking around randomly and making eye contact, coming together in pairs then parting before endlessly reforming. Just as you start to feel you're being had a single note rings out, introducing a lively music composition as the walking continues. Gradually choreographic phrases emerge, are repeated, and the illusion of casual randomness is revealed to be exactly that as bodies move in near endless motion, uniting and dividing into various groupings with split-second precision. Time, distance, gravity, space enriched with traces of a divine designer placing bodies exactly where they need to be to catch a fall, receive a lift, grab a hand, a foot, before swiftly moving on as a complex interplay unfolds with stirring simplicity. Like watching the universe from God's perspective, or the swirling components of an atom, everything is singular, everything is relational, everything is connected, everything is one. Forever forming, dissolving, and reforming amidst endless variations; your eyes opened wide in astonishment. All breathtakingly, gorgeously executed right up to the spontaneous standing ovation. Chora, by Luail. Image, Patricio Cassinoni Individually there are minor issues, such as music, played live onstage, risking expressive domination. Yet, collectively, Chora proves an astonishing achievement. Company dancers Jou-Hsin Chu, Conor Thomas Doherty, Clara Kerr, Sean Lammer, Tom O’Gorman, Hamza Pirimo, Rosie Stebbing, Meghan Stevens, along with dancers Glòria Ros Abellana, Sarah Cerneaux, Jyoti Soni and Alexander de Vires each delivering exquisite performances. Which leads me to gripe about a growing practice in many venues of admitting latecomers and parading them across entire rows, indifferent to audience members and cast, thereby undermining the experience. If any venue can explain to me how they can justify discommoding several hundred audience members and a stage of invested performers to accommodate a couple of latecomers, despite announcements they wouldn’t be admitted once the show had started, I would dearly love to hear it. Especially when there were vacant seats they could've sat in without disturbing anyone. Till someone can give me a rational explanation for this ludicrous and disgraceful practice, should any venue admitting latecomers ask me to move, I will refuse, and I strongly encourage others to do the same. Dance, even more than theatre, deals in visceral, physical immediacy, weaving visual spells brimming with power and enchantment. All beautifully evident in Luail’s sublime Chora . Crafting a spell that should never be broken. Not for anyone. Do not miss this historic, breathtaking production that gets Dublin Dance Festival 2025 off to a flying start. And please, make sure to arrive before the curtain rises. Chora , by Luail, Ireland’s National Dance Company, with The Irish Chamber Orchestra, premiered at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre on May 13th, opening Dublin Dance Festival 2025 before undertaking a limited, national tour. May 16, National Opera House, Wexford May 18, The Lyric Theatre, Belfast May 28, Cork Opera House. For more information visit Luail or Dublin Dance Festival 2025

Tomorrowisnowtodayisyesterday by Sung Im Her. Image, Sung Im Her Post Dramatic Theatrical Performance refers to a particular approach to theatre where dramatic conventions (character, conflict, proscenium staging) are subverted or ignored. Instead, alternate artistic conventions - dance, cinema, music, multi-media - are merged, or subverted, in interdisciplinary, multi-disciplinary collaborations foregrounding presence and performance over text. Like sub-genres of metal and hip hop, this working definition distinguishes Post-Dramatic Theatrical Performances from other, similar art forms such as Performance Art. Definition proving vital given Post Dramatic Theatrical Performance is often dismissed as Performance Art's poor relation. A perception Live Collision International Festival 2025 aims to challenge. Viewing art and theatre as ongoing, ever evolving concerns, Live Collision International Festival , now in its thirteenth year, aspires, in the words of founding festival director and current curator, Lynnette Moran, to deliver “performance as transformation rather than commentary.” Challenging, in the process, the audience's position as passive spectators. Like all great festivals Live Collision International Festival 2025 brings experienced veterans and fledgling artists together. Evident in two performances whose foundations lie in dance. Beginning with young, black, Irish artist Ghaliah Conroy . A rising star whose debut, Sunken Works/Who Makes The Rules? displays impressive promise coupled with growing pains. Conroy bravely jumping into the shark infested, multi-disciplinary deep end in attempting to explore how we look via movement and image. Interrogating the oft forgotten practice of the Human Zoo, where black people were historically displayed in cages like animals for perusal by a white audience. The relationship between body, space, seeing and subjectivity interrogated as cultural and social practices. The misrepresentation of black identity challenged as Conroy repositions how and what we see. Yet it falls foul to some basic issues. Predicated on seeing, the body struggles to be visible, literally; presented as a fleshless, faceless, formless mass dancing in the dark on a black box against a black back drop, dressed in black from head to toe, including a hood and black mask, illuminated only by a scratch of overhead light. The performative forest getting lost in the theoretical trees. Beginning with a slow, ponderous sequence lying on a large black box, hands supporting hips, legs in the air weaving slow patterns like a bicycle exercise, or else leaning on one arm in repose. The body reduced to articulating hands and muscular calves glimpsed when not subsumed in shadow, with front and back made interchangeable courtesy of some clever costuming. Sunken Works/Who Makes The Rules by Ghaliah Conroy. Image uncredited. Written text provides grounding for the next sequence as a muffled recording of Maya Angelou reciting The Mask risks reducing the physical to the verbal. The body made compliant, with movement offering near mimetic representation of the text. Followed by a camera sequence offering an alternate frame. Conroy’s eye, watching us, captured through its mask by the camera, undermined by her presence; the eye looking at us from the screen always leading back to the performer looking at the camera. Conroy’s true strength revealed in a final, powerful dance sequence. Short, snapping, fluid movements, marginally clearer in the light from the screen, juxtaposed against flashing, provocative images. Images coming a distant second to the physical body as a site of information and transformation. Conroy proving a visceral conduit, despite carrying an injury which she bravely pushed through. If the injury impacted on choreography it was impossible to know given Conroy exhibited rage, pain, distress and release so powerfully it risked everything else looking forced. Switching to more experienced performers, Tomorrowisnowtodayisyesterday (TiNTiY) by South Korean artist Sung Im Her leans unashamedly into dance as two become one in a divine entanglement exploring the impact of social media. A floor routine in which two dancers, a radiant Martha Passakopoulou and a superb Sung Im Her in peroxide blonde wigs and black masks wrestle, jujitsu style, around the space opens up into comic intrigue. Costumes shed for something a little easier to move in facilitating the beginning of a durational sequence as the body is pushed to its physical limits. If movement patterns change, the patterning remains the same. A vocal ingredient, be it a grunt or recited verse, is overlaid with a rhythmic music phrase as a recurring pattern of movements is explored. Arms flailing high and wide, shuffling like a windup toy, jumps, thrusts, punches and poses facilitating organic moments of synchronicity evolving from the chaos. Yet (TiNTiY) is ever mindful of the body in performance. Counting movements, water breaks, pauses for dancers to catch their breath offering more than just playful diversion. Like the exaggerated mime in learning how to create a Tik Tok story, humour is a joyous by product of deeper, smarter interrogations. Its forty joyous minutes of energised, exhausting delight forever embedded in the body which embodies everything. This gives barely a hint of what Live Collision International Festival 2025 has to offer, it being one of the most genuinely innovative festivals. Those looking to understand more about Post Dramatic Theatrical Performance should avail of Hans-Theis Lehmann’s seminal worku Postdramatic Theatre . Or better still, just take yourself along to a show. Whether it's veterans or rising stars, Live Collision International Festival 2025 is guaranteed to leave you intrigued, curious and wanting more. Live Collision International Festival 2025 runs at The Project Arts Centre till May 10. For more information visit Live Collision International Festival or Project Arts Centre

Craig Connolly and Alan Devine in Jigsaw. Image, John Anderson Jr . **** The wonderful thing about Lee Coffey’s new play, Jigsaw , is that it’s so utterly exasperating. As likely to be accused of confirming gender and addiction bias as of challenging them. The troubled tale of Jim, a homeless, former addict who, upon meeting his estranged daughter after twenty years, begins a downward spiral when he discovers his mother is dying. Leading to a final, public showdown with his ex-wife as old habits emerge and old wounds are ripped open. Even as everything they’ve ever done was in the name of love, no matter how insane or contradictory. Begging the question what more in the name of love, given love is little more than the blind leading the blinded down a painfully lopsided blame lane. The whole deliciously and cleverly lubricated by the soundtrack to Grease . Craig Connolly in Jigsaw. Image, John Anderson Jr . Reminiscent in construction to Coffey’s excellent A Murder of Crows , Jigsaw delivers storytelling theatre made vital and visceral. Structurally leaning into Howie The Rookie, Dublin Old School territory, with cast flipping roles midway, Coffey’s tidy two hander is locked and loaded with rapid fire dialogue defined by economy and precision. Yet there’s a sense, psychologically and thematically, of Jigsaw having bitten off more than it can chew in places. Cocaine addiction surfacing like a one dimensional, cartoon devil villainously tempting by way of a proverbial inner monologue. The depth, nuance and subtlety elsewhere displayed absent when it comes to an addict’s cravings, which rarely present as such a simplistic choice. Compounded by addiction dovetailing with toxic masculine tendencies, especially as Jim deliberately tries never to be toxic or aggressive. Unable to see that violence and abuse don’t have to be physical. Still, it leaves you begging the question is he toxic or just an addict? Either way three generations of women, embodying patriarchal otherness and mothering tendencies, resort to defensive measures against man-child Jim, one in the extreme. Wife Haley’s choice likely to leave the audience divided, depending on your perspective. Ultimately not everything is clear, yet what is clear is that Jigsaw serves up endless, challenging provocations. When it comes to production and performance, the exasperating thing about Lee Coffey’s latest play, Jigsaw , is that it’s so utterly wonderful. Even if you resent its ambiguous opaqueness, you can’t help but love what you see on stage. Nurtured in Glass Mask’s fail better till you’re brilliant bosom, director Ian Toner does astonishing work in unveiling the narrative’s dark, wounded heart. Composition, pace, performance, all richly detailed and articulated, see Alan Devine and Craig Connolly set the stage alight with two riveting and compelling performances, playing multiple roles whilst alternating the key role of Jim. Andrew Clancy’s scaffold set, evocative of Dublin street life and a metaphor for Jim’s recovery, enriched at times by hit and miss lighting by Cillian O’Donnell. Craig Connolly and Alan Devine in Jigsaw. Image, John Anderson Jr . When the curtain falls love changes nothing, excuses nothing and forgives less. As a study of the dynamics of gender and masculinity Jigsaw is at its most unclear, reinforcing notions of the masculine as a childlike singularity needing to protect itself from the feminine, and vice versa, with never the twain finding common ground. Even so, Jim‘s vulnerability offers several salient insights and makes certain gendered invisibilities visible, most notably around blame. As a study of addiction there’s not enough clarity or credibility when it comes to how one person can keep drug use recreational whilst another spirals into addiction. That said, where Jigsaw succeeds is as a series of disturbing, compelling, heartfelt and heartbreaking provocations, ensuring the final line leaves you wondering is it enough, too little, too much? As thought provoking, beautifully executed theatre goes, Jigsaw’s the word. It’s got groove, it’s got meaning. With Devine and Connolly an utter joy to watch, enriched by Toner’s superb direction. Jigsaw by Lee Coffey runs at Glass Mask Theatre until May 24. For more information visit Glass Mask Theatre

Molly Murphy Hazzard and Kate Brosnan in But We're Right. Image, Joyce Mylod. **** But We’re Right, written and directed by Morghan Welt , marks a revival for Welt and Bad Things Theatre , a collective of Irish-German, freelance theatre makers. Original presented in Smock Alley in 2024, Welt’s two hander was seen in preview at DU Players Theatre, TCD, given it played for only two dates in Dublin before heading out on tour. Even allowing for being seen in preview, its script is technically clunky in places and the production shows frequent directorial errors. Or, simply put, it reveals its young practitioners lack of experience. That out of the way, it also needs to be said that But We’re Right is one of the freshest, bravest and most intelligent theatrical responses to the issue of immigration, with this fledgling company displaying an abundance of dramatic and theatrical smarts. Delivering politically engaged theatre with a committed cast, a risk taking writer and director, and a passionate script, with a ladder and football thrown in for good measure. Like many modern scripts, But We’re Right structurally leans towards the screen rather than stage, its short scenes interlinked to make a cohesive whole. In which names prove to be a thing by virtue of not being used. Welt’s town with no name as likely to be anywhere for being everywhere. It’s two Everywomen BFF’s who could be anyone for being everyone. After a laboured, no win contest between Saoirse Miller’s captivating music and recorded testimonies from The Cross Border Chorus of immigrants in Ireland, the latter frequently muffled, action finally gets underway at breakneck pace. Pace a continual problem for injecting a hurried, nervous energy that isn’t needed. Welt’s smart, sassy script frequently resorting to short snappy sentences and playing rapid verbal tennis. A device that, when overplayed, frequently inserts the author into proceedings via self-conscious technique. Molly Murphy Hazzard and Kate Brosnan in But We're Right.  Image, Joyce Mylod. Within a handful of minutes our two protagonists have intelligently skirted Irish people having foreign maids, the rights of sex workers, casual sex in the workplace and concerns over immigrants moving into small town anywhere. All done without battering you over the head with self righteous tirades or endless statistics. Kate Brosnan and Molly Murphy Hazzard both superb at finding that sweet spot between playing general types and specific characters. In this instance, two friends affected by the rhetoric and ideology of xenophobia. Its mixture of lies, rumours and lived experience interpreted so that the exception is held up to be the rule. “They’re rapists taking our jobs and our accommodation. I’m not right wing, I’m a patriot.” So say those from one of the greatest diasporas the world has ever known, relatively speaking, who are as likely to have friends or family living abroad as, oh, I don’t know, a refugee perhaps? When you feel an impact personally, that’s when you’re more likely to be swayed towards hatred or hope, towards new dawns or old yesterdays. Lost jobs and accommodation, violent crime and its consequences having a profound impact on Welt’s two protagonists. Their reversals, and opposing journeys, cleverly charted, with the immigrant always present via regular voice overs. Yet whilst giving them voice, But We’re Right’s primary concern is understanding an indigenous people's response to immigrants in a housing crisis, jobs at risk community, which it does with immense intelligence and great sensitivity. If the end lacks a degree of textual clarity, its emotional resonance is keenly felt, all the more powerful for not resorting to easy sensationalism or lazy sentimentality. Kate Brosnan and Molly Murphy Hazzard in But We're Right.  Image, Joyce Mylod. Theatrically, But We’re Right shows a triumph of imagination over budget. Eschewing the graffiti realism of its previous staging, a ladder is used to cleverly suggest status and reinvigorate the playing space, illuminated smartly by Samuel Ferrie’s evocative lights, with Erica Smith's costumes articulating individuality without overstatement. When it comes to props, not since The Changeling has a ball been employed to such perfect and haunting effect. Throughout, Welt’s compositional direction is clever and assured. Yet given Brosnan and Murphy Hazzard frequently play the line rather than the scene, more likely to happen when the writer is also the director and allowed too much leniency, the case for an independent director gains credence. Welt’s two cast members holding such restraints to account with performances that shine whenever the actor is trusted to articulate rather than reiterate. Yet these minor bumps are all part of a young company’s learning curve, where confidence grows by doing. What’s clearly evident is that what can’t be taught this cast and crew already possess. What they need, experience, they can easily acquire. Once they do, they might well prove to be a formidable outfit. You could argue But We’re Right would have benefited from another round of revision and rewrites, pushing and polishing to make it truly brilliant. That said, it is, by far, one of smartest political productions, thematically and theatrical, currently doing the circuit. If it avoids some of the more thornier issues - tensions between multi-cultural and inter-culturalism, the challange for local cultures in new cultural melting pots, the distinction between immigration and government sponsored mass immigration -  it never loses sight that at the heart of the immigration experience are real, living people on both sides of the equation. Ultimately, it was never designed to answer, or even ask, all of the questions, but rather to try find a way to begin conversations on more solid, more sympathetic, less antagonistic ground. That it manages to achieve, proving beautifully fluent in its imperfections. Not bad for a fledgling outfit. But We’re Right , written and directed by Morghan Welt, presented by Bad Things Theatre, is currently on tour. DUPlayers Theatre, Samuel Beckett Centre, 29th and 30th of April, 7PM   Galway Theatre Festival, Bank Of Ireland Theatre 3rd and 4th of May, 6PM   Fuse International Festival, London, Arthur Cotterell Theatre Studio, 3rd of July, 7PM   Edinburgh Fringe Fest, The Sanctuary, Paradise Green, 2nd till 9th of August, 4.20PM

Roseanna Purcell in Baby. Image Sean Garland **** Meet Camilla, aka Linda. A thirty-six year old, single nurse sporting a busy Tinder profile and a bun in the oven. Or, rather, a sponge cake. Which she is currently baking for Maureen’s baby shower. Maureen’s fifth no less. Meanwhile, the childless Camilla craves a proverbial bun in her own oven, metaphorically speaking. Or does she? In Lianne O’Hara’s one woman confessional, Baby, Camilla’s desire for a bundle of joy speaks less to maternal broodiness, or even biological clocks, so much as FOMO and of not belonging to the gang. Her inability to conceive speaking less to infertility so much as FOMO and of not belonging to herself. O’Hara’s cleverly observational, comic road to nowhere proving good for a giggle or three. A potential sow’s ear turned into a silk purse courtesy of supple direction by Liam Halligan and a masterful performance by Roseanna Purcell. Narratively and dramatically there’s not a lot going on. Camilla bakes a cake as she recounts her jealousies and insecurities towards mothers leading to unsafe sex and a decision to harvest her eggs for conception at a later date. With so little at stake, Camilla’s self-inflicted anxieties offer less a story so much as a self-absorbed, self-obsessed character study. The centre of her own dull universe, showing little sympathy or empathy for others, she pretends she’s pregnant even as she’s relieved that she isn’t. It’s not that Camilla's infertile, it’s that she feels she should have a baby even as it isn’t exactly clear as to why, especially at a time when more and more people are opposed to the idea of having children. But even buying social pressure as a premise, what you cannot buy is Camilla’s ignorance, along with a half a dozen other big asks. Camilla being far too smart to be this stupid, whatever the pressures. Even as a device for comic purposes. Theatrically, Baby proves a much richer affair. A clever conceit of baking a cake onstage, (incidentally, make sure to grab a slice before you go; Purcell is a top class baker) allows for clever metaphors and similes to abound. Eoin Lennon’s marvellous kitchen full of props loaded with double meanings. In which a transcendent Purcell delivers a consummate performance. Her detailed lexicon of nuance and expression ensuring Camilla becomes likeable, recognisable and relatable. Music by Denis Clohessy, used to convey the passing of time and inject a little new age moodiness, proves wonderfully playful. With everything whisked together nicely under Halligan’s astute and deliciously timed direction. In the end, despite Camilla’s maternal anxieties, one suspects Chappell Roan and Camilla are more aligned than either might care to admit. Winner of Bewley’s Little Gem Award, the real strength of Baby lies in its lightweight, observational in-jokes strung together to make a sketch of easy laughs rather than a story with oomph. Still, the real winner is the audience given Purcell is an absolute star, enlivening the saturated genre of confessional theatre with another seriously impressive performance. And don’t forget to try the cake as you leave. Scrumptious. Baby by Lianne O’Hara, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until May 3. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre

Seoirsín Bashford in  Ní Liomsa an Teach Álainn Seo (This is Not My Beautiful House). Image uncredited. *** Illusions can be powerful motivators, evident in Anna Ní Dhúill's ambitious but flawed one person debut, Ní Liomsa a Teach Álainn Seo (This is Not My Beautiful House) . Its premise supremely simple; to articulate what non-binary identity means. Alas, that’s not quite what we get. Preaching to the converted, what emerges is less a polemic so much as low hanging gender representations. Masculinity lashed to the wheel of reimagined myth, the latter refitted to suit the crimes, the former serving as misdirection. Feminism amounting to women as sensitive, loving supporters, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The tragedy being that, in the end, it’s not cliched masculinity who emerges worse off but non-binary identity, reduced to an emotional footnote in a play purporting to give it voice and context. Obscuring, in the process, the immense value of Ní Dhúill’s Irish language text which, though overwritten, is rich in rhythmical magic. Initially things look promising as a lesbian artist waits for her partner to come home so she can confess a potential infidelity. The infidelity being with herself. Or, rather, with who she imagines her self might be. For she has accepted that she is not a woman and is wondering if she might rather be a man. Soul searching, she’s been painting in secret. Works involving the Brown Bull of Colley, the legendary bull from An Táin , which she conjures and converses with about her prospective transition to masculinity. A series of to and fro arguments sees the alpha bull recasting the tale of Queen Meabh to make himself the legend at its centre. Foregrounding the notion that men have to sacrifice themselves for the love of a good woman so the artist needs to grow a pair, metaphorically and literally, if she wants to be a man, or a woman. A come-to-Jesus tirade sees the artist reject what’s on offer in favour of a third way, referencing the two soul gender identity of certain cultures in the closing moments. But by then its ninety-five minutes are up and the status quo has been re-established. Men are baddies, women are loving and nurturing, and the third way is as unclear as it ever was. Leaving you marginally more educated and better informed than when you went in. Presenting a foregone conclusion masquerading as a debate ensures even brilliant points begin to look suspicious as you examine the terms of reference. In which cliched portrayals of toxic masculinity reinforce a lopsided binary structure. Especially as femininity is unquestioningly recycled as the loving carer. This despite the most vehement arguments against non-binary and trans often coming from prominent women. The recent British Government ruling on a legal definition of gender being a case in point. Then there’s Queen Meabh’s complex story and personality replaced by a reimagined bull suggesting projection rather than salient insight. Presenting masculinity as a singularity, synonymous with misogyny, risks looking like gaslighting. Evident in a rejection of an Up The Ra, male Irishness, even though it’s the Irish Women’s Football team who are most prominently associated with celebrating Up The Ra. Such gender complexities ignored as Ní Liomsa a Teach Álainn Seo (This is Not My Beautiful House) spends most of its time reducing masculinity to aggression and strength. Indicative of a power dynamic based on an understanding of power dismissed in the 80’s by Foucault. Power being far more complex. As are masculinity, femininity and non-binary. Theatrically, Ní Dhúill as director shows flair in utilising space and props. Yet a hugely impressive Seoirsín Bashford is rendered guilty of the most basic of sins; the distracting tendency to deliver lines to the floor or to some vague somewhere out there, something the director should have corrected. The error distancing the audience from the experience of being confidants and making Bashford look like they’re struggling to remember their lines. Not helped by surtitles, sure to enrage the grammar police, which are often out of sync with dialogue. A hairy coat and removable horns might aim to evoke the Brown Bull of Cooley, but married to a laddish, swaggering Dublin accent it's more evocative of a trumped up pimp. Highlighting the benefits of engaging an experienced, independent director. One who might have tackled Ní Dhúill’s overwrought script, which labours its points to the point of lecturing. Risking promoting long held illusions just as often as it challenges them. Ní Liomsa a Teach Álainn Seo (This is Not My Beautiful House) is supremely sensitive to the lived experience of non-binary individuals. Yet as long as non-binary discussions preach a reductive, singular masculinity and a saintly femininity, and preach only to the converted, they reinforce the very process they’re trying to escape; that of defining oneself in terms of opposites, in which opposites are made to fit the argument as ‘other’. Repeating the same old same old and hoping for a different outcome. Still, something important needs to be remembered; Ní Dhúill is to be applauded for creating a play about not belonging to either gender camp on which little of real substance has been written. In the process, Ní Dhúill shows huge bravery, compelling promise and genuine sensitivity. The problem is their aspirations and finer moments hold them to account. Even so, Ní Liomsa an Teach Álainn Seo (This is Not My Beautiful House) suggests a significant artist in the making, one whose use of Irish language speaks of great promise for both artist and the use of Irish language in performance. One final criticism. On Smock Alley’s webpage the play was said to run for sixty-five minutes. It ran for ninety-five minutes. Which might explain the gentleman leaving after an hour, and the mad scramble out the door at the end. Ní Liomsa an Teach Álainn Seo (This is Not My Beautiful House) by Anna Ní Dhúill, presented by Kilkenny based Cult Collective, ran at Smock Alley Theatre April 17 and 18.

Breda McCann and Wayne Leitch in Two Minutes. Image, Billy Cahill **** Breda McCann’s debut play, Two Minutes , first premiered in 2020 and was about to take the world by storm when COVID put paid to its prospects and promises. Five years on and McCann returns to where it all began at The Civic Theatre, Tallaght, with a spritely revival of her little ditty about Trisha and Billy, fourteen years married and having a final fling in the last chance, fertility saloon. Proving, in the process, that you can’t keep a good thing down. McCann revealing a natural flair for comedy in a hilarious debut that’s hugely heartfelt and wildly entertaining. A tale of mantras, music, and more intercourse than the Kama Sutra, McCann’s couple have tried everything to conceive. Yet despite there being nothing biologically wrong with either of them, the pitter patter of little feet isn’t happening. The frayed, five-a-side loving, Billy, is reaching the point of being done with it all. The organic, yin yang, mistress of chill, Trisha, fuming with frustration is not ready to give up just yet. Throw in secret Chinese takeaways, red raw bejazzling, and a quickie seduction on the side of a football pitch and you have a couple so wrong in so many ways they can only be right for each other. A couple fused by an older pain that informs their desire for a baby and their frustrations with sterility. Leading to choices which might bring them closer together or destroy what they already have. Throughout , Two Minutes exudes a punkish, DIY quality similar to an untrained musician grabbing a guitar to bash out a tune they’ve learnt by ear. McCann’s Two Minutes looking like an unpolished play in its rough, unvarnished state, full of raw, infectious energy that’s impossible to resist, and forgives several shortcomings. Including a Larry Hagman joke that will go over many people’s heads and a more serious unease with vulnerable emotions. McCann's shift to a tell-all monologue with a scrapbook, along with a rushed final scene dashed off like an embarrassed goodbye suggest difficulty writing deeper emotions. Unlike her comedy which is pure gold. Tensions director Audrey Devereux unevenly negotiates, sacrificing rigour and crispiness for an untidy playfulness. McCann’s Trisha a firebrand of delight, enjoying natural chemistry with Wayne Leitch’s Billy. Devereux wisely not wanting to mess with the magic, even as some scenes could have benefitted from more exacting precision. Even so, moments such as Trisha arriving pitch side much to Billy’s consternation leave you whisked away by the sheer joy of it all and begging for more. Structurally, Two Minutes sequential scenes look written for the screen rather than the stage. A smart producer should option it. As a debut Two Minutes has its flaws, but its irrepressible humour forgives almost everything. A three star production delivering a four star experience from a writer showing five star potential, Two Minutes is loaded with lashings of good fun. Two Minutes by Breda McCann, runs at The Civic Theatre, Tallaght until April 19. For more information visit Civic Theatre, Tallaght .

Beth Marshall and David Hayman in Death of a Salesman. Image Tommy Ga-Ken Wan **** There’s challenges in presenting a classic play. Including emotional balance and whether to place thematic stresses emphasising key points over others. All of which impacts on performance. As is the case with the current production of Arthur Miller ’s 1949 classic, Death of a Salesman currently at The Gaiety, a memory play revolving around the final twenty-four hours in the life of travelling salesman, Willie Loman. A play in which Miller’s towering talent was rarely more in evidence. The same likely to be said of David Hayman, who delivers a devastating performance as the iconic Willie. Which, under director Andy Arnold, highlights key aspects of Miller's devoted family man trapped in the long con of American exceptionalism; achieving richer emotional resonance at the cost of wider emotional range. Arnold’s version looking uncomfortably close given the current political climate. Daniel Cahill, David Hayman and Michael Wallace in Death of a Salesman. Image Tommy Ga-Ken Wan From the outset, Arnold nails his colours to the mast. Neil Haynes simple set dominated by an image of a giant tree imprisoned behind the bars of some wooden fire escapes. Nature and the city one of many juxtapositions that run throughout Miller’s script, along with the real and the imagined, the dream and the lived experience, the truth and the lie. Seats stage left and right with actors sitting between scenes, some doubling as live musicians, add a touch of Brechtian distance, ensuring you never forget you're watching a performance. A strong choice that undermines any realist temptation to become immersed in the spectacle. Into which a diminutive Willie enters loaded down with two burdensome suitcases. A shabby, hollowed out, shell of a man whose mind is beginning to go. His enabling wife making excuses to him as to why. A legend in his own mind, Willie espouses not so much the American Dream as the quick fix way to get it. The cult of personality which forgives all forms of cheating and stealing if you’re liked enough. Traits inherited by his sons, Biff, now a rambling bum, and Lucky, a philandering dreamer with the same dead end dreams. One last ditch attempt to turn their lives around reveals you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Even as insanity is repeating the same old, same old and hoping for a different outcome. Ensuring the ending is as inevitable as it is tragic. Benny Young and David Hayman in Death of a Salesman. Image Tommy Ga-Ken Wan With Hayman and Arnold opting to foreground tragedy, Willie is portrayed with a tragic flaw rather than as a man trapped in a game he was destined to loose. His flaw being he’s a naked fool proclaiming himself emperor, opening up rich interpretive possibilities in terms of masculine interrogations. Willie less someone playing with loaded dice so much as a man trying to load the dice. The game of success he believes he can rig already rigged long before by others. Willie’s demise into madness, loneliness, frailty and humiliation brought viscerally alive in Hayman’s stunning performance. Even as it leaves Willie’s arrogance and anger too softly spoken. Sacrificing swagger and front for an enduring sense of fraility and failure, it can be hard to understand Biff and Lucky’s devotion. Even more his wife Linda’s admiration and his neighbour Charley’s endless generosity, even as both see through Willie’s lies. Beth Marshall’s enabling Linda, Daniel Cahill's conflicted Biff, Michael Wallace’s devoted Happy and Benny Young’s tolerant Charley each turning in impeccable performances. Gavin John Wright, Simon Donaldson, Charlene Boyd, Stewart Ennis, Fay Guiffo, Bailey Newsome and Gillian Massey rounding out an impressive cast. David Hayman in Death of a Salesman. Image Tommy Ga-Ken Wan A jaded man in a jaded suit, who made it to the finish line only to lose the race, Hayman’s Willie is to be pitied more than reviled. Hayman wrenching every last drop of pathos in a powerfully moving performance. A terrific production of a terrific play, not everyone will agree with all the choices made. But Death of a Salesman is a startlingly brilliant, modern classic, given quality treatment in this powerhouse production. Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller, presented by Trafalgar Theatre Productions and Raw Material, runs at The Gaiety Theatre until April 19. For more information visit The Gaiety Theatre

Dan Monaghan and Ian Bermingham in The Last Man in. Ireland. Image uncredited *** Try explaining a Monty Python sketch. It’s tricky. The description never quite living up to the comic experience. Their unique brand of surreal, absurdist comedy operating on a variety of levels. Similarly Keith James Walker’ s off the wall The Last Man in Ireland. Ostensibly a comedy about three brothers, one living in the last house in Ireland. The Emerald Isle reduced to small patch of land following rising sea levels. The blurb claims it’s about grief and family dysfunction. In truth it’s about Irish dysfunction. Equally akin to satire as surrealism, more akin to Halls Pictorial Weekly than Python, and less akin to a play so much as an overplayed sketch. Its cultural grab bag of Irish cliches rode roughshod over. Puncturing the sacred and profane references historically used to define Irish identity. Did I mention it’s often hilariously funny? Often, but not consistently. Like an over extended sketch it lacks sufficient variety to sustain it. The brothers arguing whether to sell the house a device around which Walker litters jokes and insights of various strengths. Some wonderfully smart, some generating a snigger, some a smile, some missing their mark. The best usually over the top and accompanied by impeccable comic physicality. Dan Monaghan’s Michael, an introvert poet who can’t write poems, Ian Bermingham’s Barry, an extrovert, self obsessed actor whose career lies Stateside, and Barry McKiernan as gombeen brother Gerry, who’s a…gombeen, each give superb comic performances of popular Irish stereotypes in a land riddled with cliches. Unrequited love, the drunken Daddy and devoted Mammy, hints of Englishness, promises to keep the family home, the curse of tourism, our tendency to soothe the present with the past, or with whisky; the list goes on. Barry McKiernan  in The Last Man in. Ireland. Image uncredited Assured direction by Ian Toner unleashes many comic treasures. Toner capably distinguishing between when a scene needs to go over the top or be restrained. Ensuring the most crazy scenes are played with the serious intensity of a Mamet play rather than for easy laughs, making them all the funnier. Utilising Monaghan as the grounding straight man to Bermingham and McKiernan’s excessive overacting magnifies the play's comic antics. Yet along with its quirky humour there’s a datedness that tempers everything. In a post banking crisis, multicultural Ireland, the country’s accelerated rate of change means that many of Walker’s references look old school. Reinforced by a workmanlike set of retro cottage fittings, right down to a typewriter and luggage case. Still, its comic performances and hilarious antics are well worth the price of admission, today or any day. The Last Man in Ireland by Keith James Walker, presented by Modest Odyssey, runs at Smock Alley Theatre until April 19. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre

Emily Healy, Eoin O’Sullivan, Ruairí Lenaghan, Jed Murray, Darina Gallagher in The Sailor's Dream. Image, Al Craig *** Like the ships it purports to seek out, Jack Harte’s labour of love, The Sailor's Dream , is a romantic shipwreck. A feeling reinforced by Martin Cahill’s beachcomber’s set evoking flotsam and jetsam piled neatly onstage. A bell, a chest, some stools and a guitar all bathed in Avram Rosewood’s delicate lighting whose golden intensity tapers as it edges away from the centre. Within which the mystery of Sir John Franklin unfolds in song and story. An explorer who, in 1845, set out to discover the Northwest Passage, a sea route from Europe to Asia between the Arctic and Canada. Both his ships, the Erebus and Terror, disappearing without a trace. Not a single survivor of its 129 strong crew returning to tell their tale. Franklin’s wife, Lady Jane Franklin, a shrewd woman displaying financial acumen, relentless in her determination to discover her husband’s remains and assert his claim as discoverer of The North West Passage. That honour actually belonging to Sir John McClure. An intrepid Irishman whose Arctic Expedition in search of Franklin in 1850 saw him achieve what Franklin failed to. But not before Franklin’s wife, with help from her niece, Sophia Cracroft, along with Tennyson and Dickens, had Franklin immortalised in the Victorian imagination, culminating in a statue in Westminster Abbey. All this despite his obvious incompetence and posthumous rumours of cannibalism. Darina Gallagher in The Sailor's Dream. Image, Al Craig If it all sounds wonderfully intriguing, dramatically there’s little of interest. Efforts still afoot to find Franklin’s resting place unlikely to generate too much excitement given the only thing more pompous than Franklin appears to have been the British Admiralty. Textually, Harte’s language proves over wrought and over written, offering less a story so much as a work of non-fiction cleverly relayed; similar to Kevin Cronin’s, The Search for Franklin: An Irish Connection which inspired it. All of which impacts on narrative and performances, which land like dressed up lectures or direct address. Self-indulgent, blinkered, overly focused on side issues, including overt reverence for the Inuit people, The Sailor's Dream risks scuttling before it ever leaves port. Eoin O’Sullivan, Emily Healy, Jed Murray in The Sailor's Dream. Image, Al Craig Yet somehow it doesn’t. Like a folksy sea shanty, Harte’s use of music and text, along with too many facts and too little fiction, weaves an eccentric spell that lures you in, even as its lullaby tones and tame drama risk lulling you to sleep. Harte seemingly willing it all to succeed by sheer determination. Which doesn’t account for its undeniable charm, the result of director Andy Crook working some minor and major miracles to relieve the play's textual stiffness. Leaning into rather than resisting the play’s lecturing format, supporting song solos and monologues with searing, expressive gazes, showing compositional brilliance in simple yet effective arrangements, Crook then elicits strong performances from Darina Gallagher, Emily Healy, Jed Murray, Eoin O’Sullivan and Ruairí Lenaghan. Lengahan as a guitar playing, master of ceremonies bringing it all together whilst doubling up on roles. Along with a hard working Murray and O’Sullivan. All three supporting Gallagher and Healy representing the play’s true north. An endearing Gallagher enchanting as Franklin’s determined wife, with the magnetic Healy mesmerising as Tennyson’s wife and Lady Jane’s niece. Both revealing the real focus of the story. Healy revealing a promising young talent well worth keeping an eye on. Emily Healy in The Sailor's Dream. Image, Al Craig If there are other quibbles, Tennyson and Dickens overplayed as caricatures for example, there are also other graces, including the easy chemistry between O’Sullivan and Murray. An engaging interplay of song and speech, smartly used tech, an invested ensemble and a director at the top of their game, The Sailor’s Dream succeeds despite obvious drawbacks. Navigating its way safely to shore whilst sailing storm tossed seas. A testament to its crew, its naviagtor and its captain. Not so much Franklin. The Sailor’s Dream by Jack Harte runs at The New Theatre until April 12th. For more information visit The New Theatre

Eoin Fullston, Jack Meade, Sadhbh Malin, Mazzy Ronaldson, Molly Hanly and David Rawle in Youth’s the Season - ? Image: Ros Kavanagh *** Youth’s the season to be jolly. Is it? In Youth’s the Season - ? a twenty six year old Mary Manning marinates an Irish Vile Bodies in a Noel Coward drawing room comedy with just a dash of haphazard expressionism. Written in 1931, a year after Evelyn Waugh’s classic satire about privileged English youth, similarities between Manning’s promising debut and Waugh’s novel are undeniable. Manning going so far as to brazenly reference Vile Bodies’ Bright Young Things. Yet the comparison doesn’t serve the play well. An in-crowd you wouldn’t want to be seen out with, Manning’s wild things couldn’t be more tame, conventional or house broken. Even so, Manning’s lightweight tale provides a peek at Anglo-Irish concerns in the years following Irish independence, along with those whose sexuality made them anathema to the rising Catholic norm. David Rawle and Ciara Berkeley in Youth’s the Season - ? Image: Ros Kavanagh. Full of great lines, Manning’s reclaimed opus is not a great play. Indeed, it struggles to meet the mustard of being a good one. Structurally it moves uncomfortably between realism, farce and expressionist frames, the latter proving weakest of all. Set in Dublin, a group of petulant, privileged, self pitying poseurs prepare for, play out, then ponder the aftermath of a tame, twenty-first birthday party. A party whose upsets are so conservative even its participants agree it’s terrible. Decadence amounting to getting moderately drunk, trying to make your emotionless fiancé jealous, and trying to decide between which of two men to love. There’s even a scandalous kiss and such dull dancing as to leave you breathlessly snoozing. Action culminating in self-pitying posturing passed off as soul searching the following morning. Even so, some touching moments evoke the pain of rejected sexuality in search of a society and of independent women being undermined, the latter theme tempered by comedy. A final, supernatural twist gets tediously drawn out by way of a meandering monologue in which a gun is wielded. To conform or not conform? Is he mad? Do we care? Thankfully Manning’s comic touches, though hit and miss, provide much needed comic relief when they land. Jack Meade and Valerie O’Connor in Youth’s the Season - ? Image: Ros Kavanagh Yet Youth’s the Season - ? is not a comedy. Indeed, it’s not much of anything for trying to be a little too much of too many things. Tensions director Sarah Jane Scaife doesn’t cohere so much as compartmentalise, shifting uneasily between farce, realism and abstract expressionism. Sabine Dargent’s gorgeously opulent set speaking to the confusion. Its recognised realism offset by floating vases and symbolic cracks in the wall. More grounded are Sinéad Cuthbert’s superb period costumes and Val Sherlock’s divine hair which teases out a Louise Brooks bob. All tempered by an otherworldliness evident in Stephen Dodd’s excellent lights and Rob Moloney’s stirring sound and composition, descending from sweeping score into discordant, darker places. Evoking, at times, the forgotten charm of B-movies that endlessly reappear on retro TV channels reminding you why they’ve been forgotten. Kerill Kelly and Lórcan Strain in Youth’s the Season - ? Image: Ros Kavanagh Like an old necklace on Antiques Roadshow, Youth’s the Season - ? isn’t quite the heirloom you hoped it would be. Still, there are some genuine jewels in the guise of memorable performances. Ciara Berkeley’s vivacious Toots cementing Berkeley’s reputation as a rising star. Sadhbh Malin’s independently minded Deirdre and Molly Hanly’s wanting the best of both worlds Connie are both terrific. All upstaged by Valerie O’Connor as a scene stealing Miss Millington. In fairness, O’Connor’s ditzy mother is pure comic relief and doesn’t have to navigate the play's shallower waters. Evident in a bunch of histrionic men who, like its women, want change yet want nothing to change. Youssef Quinn as conventional husband material Harry, along with David Rawle’s gender bending Desmond, and Jack Meade’s conservative Gerald all terrific. Meade showing excellent comic awareness playing straight man to his own and other’s benefit. Kerill Kelly terrific in the thankless role of a misery loving Terence, a poet without poetry, along with his ever silent companion, Lórcan Strain’s Egosmith, a symbol so painfully obvious it doesn’t bear stating. A delightful Mazzy Ronaldson and Eoin Fullston rounding out an impeccable and impressive cast. Mazzy Ronaldson, Molly Hanly, Eoin Fullston, Ciara Berkeley and David Rawle in Youth’s the Season - ? Image: Ros Kavanagh If youth is a season sure to pass, you can be forgiven for wondering if The Gregory Project is ever going to pass. Thankfully The Abbey’s line up for 2025 gives cause for hope. Like the misjudged Grainne, Youth's the Season - ? feels more an academic victory than a theatrical one. And a pyrrhic victory at that. Unlike its obvious inspirations, Youth’s the Season-? is never wild, brave nor decadent enough. Never funny, clever nor witty enough. Never aesthetically nor philosophically subversive enough. True, there’s something going on, there’s just not enough of it. Historically, Manning’s dated play might have been hugely popular in its time, but so were Showaddywaddy. With both looking neglected today for good reason, despite some enlightening moments. Indeed, in a climate in which limited resources and opportunities place huge restrictions on artists, the hidden cost of other voices losing out needs to be tallied when reviving such expensive, cultural curios of B-movie quality. Youth’s the Season - ? By Mary Manning, runs at The Abbey Theatre until May 3rd. For more information, visit The Abbey Theatre

Kwaku Fortune in The Haircut. Image, Ros Kavanagh *** A revival of Wayne Jordan and Tom Lane ’s delightful fairytale from 2019, The Haircut introduces secretive king, Labhraidh Loingseach, who gets his hair cut annually by a barber who is immediately killed. That way they can never reveal the King has donkeys ears hidden beneath his long mane. His kingdom having run out of barbers, a lottery now determines the King’s latest hairdresser. This year it’s Kwaku O’Brien, a boy with a flare for kitsch, a dislike of football, and who dares to be different. Whose mother, Trina, convinces the king not to kill her son but to trust him not to tell. Only Kwaku, struggling to keep the King’s secret, whispers it to a willow tree leading to revelations and consequences. A celebration of acceptance and difference, of embracing change and of not imposing secrets on the young, The Haircut’s inclusive, feel-good message is hugely uplifting. But, as in 2019, its word heavy script struggles beneath its literary weight, with jokes catering mostly for adults. The result a piece of storytelling theatre light on theatricality, yet whose tale is genuinely enjoyable. Kwaku Fortune in The Haircut. Image, Ros Kavanagh Suitable for older children, The Haircut is modestly updated to reflect contemporary issues. Jordan’s direction lacking its characteristic theatricality, leaving an engaging Kwaku Fortune as Narrator relying on his warm, commanding presence and a handful of visual flourishes. A stark contrast with 2019 where a flamboyant TKB was more a master of ceremonies than narrator, embodying the play’s spirit of kitsch. Here, Sarah Bacon’s neat, grey suit suggests a member of the King’s entourage. Slightly rushed at times, delivery often resembles an audiobook, which risks younger audience members zoning out as scenes overplay their prose and overstay their welcome. Lane’s music and sound effects lending proceedings a children’s storytelling vibe. Music, played live by Paddy Nolan, Lioba Petrie and Berginald Rash, beautifully executed. Like the ancient story it tells, T he Haircut’s message of live and let live is timeless. It might plod at times, but the charismatic Fortune ensures young and old alike are entertained and come away wiser. The Haircut by Wayne Jordan and Tom Lane, runs at The Ark until April 6. For more information, visit The Ark

Don Wycherley in Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong. Image uncredited. ***** The hallmark of a truly great biographer is that they never flinch. Ensuring they themselves, or their chosen subject, confess their sins, shames, regrets and humiliations in all their unvarnished rawness. Especially when a temptation towards a PR paint job, or hindsight heroism is justifiable. By any such metrics, Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong by Mary-Elaine Tynan, Don Wycherley and Niamh Gleeson  is an outstanding piece of autobiographical theatre. Inspired by Tynan’s 2017, Life After Life: A Guildford Four Memoir,  what emerges is a searing indictment of injustice and a heartfelt song of survival. And that’s not even the best part. That would be Don Wycherley , whose career defining performance is of such devastating power the only appropriate response is awe. Not that you see much of Wycherley, so embedded in the role you frequently double take to make sure it’s not Armstrong onstage. A man cursed with being in the wrong place at the wrong time, with making bad decisions, with being a degenerate gambler with a fondness for strong drugs. Who fled to London in the 1970s to escape The Troubles only to find himself right at the heart of them by being wrongly convicted, or more accurately, framed for a bombing he did not commit on behalf of the IRA who he didn’t belong to. Along with Paul Hill, Gerry Conlon and Armstrong’s then girlfriend, Carole Richardson, known as the Guildford Four, Armstrong spent almost fifteen years incarcerated until their conviction was deemed unsafe and overturned, due to sterling work by their solicitors. Celebrity status and hanging with Daniel Day Lewis not sitting well with Armstrong upon his release, he married, moved to Dublin and settled down to a quieter life raising his family. Set in a nursing home, we encounter Paddy as his memory is beginning to fade. A clever device allowing narrative to slip between the years establishing connections that frequently overlap. Paddy talking to try piece together a jigsaw of memories. His first poker game, the family priest, the night the police came calling, the interrogations, the court case, the screws, both in prison and the nursing home, all bleed into each other. Smart, jumbled, economic fragments unafraid to risk confusion allow us share in Paddy's dilemma. Directed by Tynan, deep familiarity with her subject matter and a sensible approach of allowing Wycherley do what he does best ensures it all comes home with a bang, no pun intended. Though one suspects Armstrong would have appreciated the joke. Fringed by a single armchair, ragged bathrobe, some retro tunes and a completely pointless and distracting use of lights, Wycherley is utterly sensational. Rich, subtle, nuanced; gestures and expressions spill over with endless depth as Paddy fizzes with energy. Wycherley leaving no microscopic moment unattended; dancing like he's seventy or seventeen, or playing a handful of supporting characters with rigour. Throughout, horrifying facts are a distant second to the uplifting spirit of a remarkable man, who Wycherley realises and honours. Indeed, it's at times like this that the loss of The Irish Times Theatre Awards are most keenly felt. Wycherley’s tour de force performance is deserving of the highest plaudits. Indeed, bookies would stop taking bets on Wycherley were awards up for grabs, probably to Paddy's disappointment. It’s a testament to  Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong that were it pure fiction it would still make for a devastating piece of theatre. Still, it bears remembering what lies at the core of Armstrong’s real life experiences. An unsafe conviction suggests a mishap, an error, an accident. A lack of deliberate intent. But history has shown there was deliberate intent. That Armstrong has made peace with it is a measure of the man’s character. Audiences may not be so forgiving, given that none of the police or judiciary involved were ever convicted. Indeed, several went on to receive honours and awards. As the world spirals into dark places, the truth behind such lies of language needs to be remembered. Having premiered at The Viking Theatre, Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong currently runs as part of The Five Lamps Arts Festival before continuing its national tour. On the evidence of the enthusiastic, sold out crowd in East Wall’s Sean O'Casey Theatre, book your tickets now. A celebration of the human spirit in adversity Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong is not to be missed. Wycherley's performance destined to be talked about for decades to come. Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong written by Mary-Elaine Tynan, Don Wycherley and Niamh Gleeson, directed by Mary-Elaine Tynan is currently on tour. For more information visit The Five Lamps Arts Festival or Paddy - The Life and Times of Paddy Armstrong

Helen McGrath in Ivy. Image, Dominik Turkowski ** You can only but admire performers with the gumption to write and perform their own work. Even when that work doesn’t quite come together, as is the case with Helen McGrath’s hugely ambitious Ivy . A labour of love, love blinds in this troubled production in which an eager to please mother of two, in some kind of accommodation, relays the details from her married past and her new day to day living. A woman previously subjected to emotional and psychological abuse from a controlling husband who spends her day rearranging the debris of her life dressed in pyjamas. The rearranging of Dylan McGloin’s cleverly symmetrically boxes hinting of ritual, or OCD. Structurally, and dramatically, nothing much happens till the final moment which serves up a bittersweet catharsis. Instead, we listen to vague, ditzy ramblings as the real and imagined become clearly delineated. Ivy’s daily ritual ultimately ineffective. Her good girl, self talk sounding monotone, not telling us quite what Ivy might think it does. Problems compounded by the play’s premise. While many women leave their homes due to domestic abuse, those with even a cursory acquaintance with family law would take serious exception with McGrath’s premise of a woman forcibly removed from the family home and denied custody solely on the unfounded lies of her husband. But, like many things in Ivy , it’s never properly explained, just hinted at. Like it’s obvious when it isn’t. The work looking half done, offering less a story, or ritual, so much as a litany of distracting descriptions, bland observations and heavy handed metaphors. With butter topping the metaphor list. Resulting in confusion and obscurity rather than mystery. An invested performance not enough to fill in the blanks in Ivy’s unimaginative imagination. When it comes to McGrath’s writer-performer divide, there’s less a yin yang balance so much as each side vying for dominance. McGrath’s literary aspirations winning out to the point Ivy feels less like a play so much as a novel. So dominant is the writer’s presence it’s rarely Ivy’s voice we hear but the author’s. Overwrought prose sentences, long descriptive passages that meander aimlessly, and a host of golden literary allusions, Ivy screams to be read. As if written for the mind’s eye and not the spectator. Something director Esosa Ighodaro fails to address. Ighodaro’s physical approach imposing on proceedings, sometimes to effect as in a clever opening image. Given Ois O’Donoghue is listed as movement director, Ighodaro’s direction soon looks like misdirection. As if trying to distract rather than unpack. As McGrath delivers an energised, if occasionally strained performance, Ighodaro fails to unpack character, or text, to the level it needed. Relying instead on weak physical images and heavy pacing that occasionally catches the eye but offers little by way of depth or impact. Not doing enough to bring this mental health ritual together. A brave, risk taking performer who can light up a stage, McGrath isn’t quite there yet as a playwright. Like Ivy, McGrath’s script has a lot of baggage that weighs it down. A character study of a character not fully developed, speaking to experiences half illustrated and a system, and story, we don’t fully understand, Ivy’s absurd heart might be in the right place, but its ritualistic head is all over the place. Still, there’s evident promise, from both Ighodaro and McGrath, suggesting watch this space. Ivy , written and performed by Helen McGrath, directed by Esosa Ighodaro, runs at The New Theatre until March 29. For more information visit The New Theatre

Jordan Shanahan and Giselle Allen in Irish National Opera’s The Flying Dutchman. Image, Patrick Redmond *** A director establishes a contract with their audience within the first few minutes of the curtain rising. In Irish National Opera’s production of Richard Wagner's The Flying Dutchman , director Rachael Hewer’s contract aims to subvert the opera’s overt sexual politics. It’s not that Hewer strays from Wagner’s source material so much as takes exception to it. An all male first act in which a young woman is bartered without her consent by her seafaring father and a prospective husband marooned during a storm providing justifiable cause. Wagner’s rampant misogyny clearly in need of a feminist revisioning for modern tastes. Yet Hewer’s revisioning throws out the passionate baby with the misogynistic bathwater whilst playing up masculine stereotypes. Even as it tries to have its cake and eat it by indulging the very Romanticism it’s trying to subvert.  Caroline Wheeler and Giselle Allen in Irish National Opera’s The Flying Dutchman. Image, Patrick Redmond A trait evident in Francis O’Connor‘s inclined, atmospheric set, with a distracting ships mast frequently obscuring sight lines. Both awash in Howard Husdon’s broody use of light and shadow evoking the romanticism of Caspar David Friedrich. Wherein an all female opening sees a child reared on fairytales shake hands with countless strong women during a stormy overture. Establishing a dichotomy between vibrant music and staid staging, between foregrounded politics and punctured passion, creating tensions which INO’s The Flying Dutchman never quite resolves.  James Creswell and Jordan Shanahan in Irish National Opera’s The Flying Dutchman. Image, Patrick Redmond Narratively, even though his music is wildly evocative, Wagner was a poor librettist, especially when it came to love. His tale of The Flying Dutchman , inspired during a sea journey from Riga, focusing on a doomed sea captain cursed to roam the oceans. Allowed to come ashore every seven years in the hope of finding a faithful maiden to love him till death do them part. As characters go, The Dutchman is dull and one dimensional, full of doomed, Byronic intensity. A brooding Heathcliff pinning on darkened oceans for a true love he dreams of but has never seen. Indeed, there’s motifs and leitmotifs, which abound beautifully in Wagner’s music, then there’s saying the same thing over and over for nearly three hours. Jordan Shanahan’s superb baritone squeezing every emotional resonance from The Dutchman’s handful of repeated phrases married to Wagner’s superb music. So lush, rich, and passionate, it became the template for Hollywood’s Golden Era.  Caroline Wheeler, Giselle Allen and Carolyn Dobbin in Irish National Opera’s The Flying Dutchman. Image, Patrick Redmond Cinema echoed in Neil O’Driscoll’s weak projections; part portraits, part poorly rendered ship at sea. Yet a synchronised moment between The Dutchman and Senta proves an unexpected delight. Unawares she’s being haggled over, soprano Giselle Allen’s romantically inclined Senta, the impressionable child from Hewer’s overture, gazes longingly at The Dutchman’s portrait, envisioned as the ideal of manliness and romantic desire. Meanwhile, she strings along the hapless Erik, tenor Toby Spence brilliant in the supporting role of a jilted boyfriend desperately in love with a woman who dreams of a man she can desperately love. Had Hewer dug a little deeper she might have better understood the hidden implications of Erik’s masculinity trapped in the belief of women as paragons of doom or deliverance. Thankfully Spence’s impassioned singing elevates Erik’s equally romanticised conditioning into something poignant, heartfelt and recognisable. Indeed, Hewer looks far more comfortable when working with female protagonists, evident in the difference between sailors scenes and the working women. The former stiff and lifeless, the latter sparkling with effervescent movement and liveliness. The former silenced by stereotype as the latter speaks new gendered truths. Evident later on as The Dutchman and Senta reverse roles during a kitchen scene. Political gain deflating passion to a domestic drama, to the literal making of a sandwich.  Jordan Shanahan, James Creswell, Giselle Allen in Irish National Opera’s The Flying Dutchman. Image, Patrick Redmond Other problems don’t help. Stephanie Dufresne’s playful, though weak choreography suggests a compromise of convenience that’s more compromise than convenient. Even so, other elements delight. The ghost chorus far more powerful for unashamedly tapping into the opera's supernatural dimensions, something Hewer never looks comfortable with. Choral work is also impressive, as is singing despite an occasional unsteadiness in the highest register, something sure to resolve itself as the run progresses. Indeed, singing conjours the ghost of passion Hewer tries undermine, even as bass James Creswell’s Daland, along with mezzo soprano Carolyn Dobbin’s worldly Mary prove superb at earthing that passion. Grounding the opera’s emotional core, which is given full expression by Irish National Opera Orchestra under Fergus Shiel’s elegant baton. Wagner’s rising, falling, sweeping score reinforcing the dichotomy between music and staging. Hewer playing politics, Shiel’s surrendering to passion in a beautiful judged performance. Women's chorus in Irish National Opera’s The Flying Dutchman. Image, Patrick Redmond Like Disney’s live action Snow White , Hewer’s The Flying Dutchman feels like a well intentioned revision that buckles under the weight of its self-inflicted limits. Imprisoned within Hewer’s lopsided gender reading mood gets sold short for political gain, and often sold cheaply. Thankfully, as is often the case with Wagner, mind and heart lie more in his music, where he reveals permanent and impersonal truths. Even as, too often in his operas, words get in the way. Which is perhaps why one of the most powerful moments is the first wordless encounter between The Dutchman and Senta where music carries the emotional heft. Tovy Spence and Giselle Allen in Irish National Opera’s The Flying Dutchman. Image, Patrick Redmond If Hewer sacrifices a total vision of Wagner’s opera for a limited political message, its feminist frame compensates by ensuring the plight of Senta is felt rather than stated. Made all the more poignant by her lack of self-awareness, highlighting the libretto as reinforcing the culturally conditioned belief that someday her prince will come. Yet Hewer neglects to realise its damaging effect for the other gender onstage, also believing their salvation lies with the opposite sex. The final drenched image of a body hoisted from the sea making clear where Hewer’s one-sided focus lies. In giving The Flying Dutchman such lopsided symbolic weight, Hewer portrays only half the picture. Reframing the action as revisionist politics she conveys half the tale. Undercutting its passion, she delivers half the intensity. Thankfully, a sterling cast sing their hearts out and sing most of the heart back into it. Toby Spence, Giselle Allen, Jordan Shanahan in Irish National Opera’s The Flying Dutchman. Image, Patrick Redmond Their first production of an opera by Wagner, Irish National Opera offer An Evening of Wagnerian Insight and Music at the Dean Hotel at 6,00 pm on Wednesday 26th for those wanting more. Those interested in better understanding Wagner’s music in The Flying Dutchmen should check out INO’s instagram page where conductor and INO artistic director Fergus Shiel has a number of short, insightful posts well worth listening to. Even so, despite its shortcomings, the live performance is the way to go. There are enough superb moments in The Flying Dutchman to make it an experience worth checking out. One whose music alone is worth the price of admission. The Flying Dutchman , by Richard Wagner, libretto by Richard Wagner, first performed 1843, presented by Irish National Opera in a co-production with Garsington Opera, runs at Bord Gáis Energy Theatre until March 29. Fore more information visits Bord Gáis Energy Theatre or Irish National Opera.

Hannah Brady in Little One, Image, Matthew Williamson ***** Can a monster learn to love? Can kindness sow redemption in a scorched earth heart? What makes a monster anyway? Abuse? Neglect? How do you recognise a monster? In Canadian playwright Hannah Moscovitch’s stunning, dark tragedy Little One, receiving its Irish premiere at Glass Mask Theatre, adopted siblings Aaron and Clare unravel the bonds of family dynamics. Two troubled orphans thrown together as their neglectful step-parents insist Aaron play parent to his abused younger sister. Unfolding into a psychological thriller whose twisted tale is exhilarating dark and darkly funny. Made all the more so by the manner of its telling. Dan Monaghan and Hannah Brady in Little One, Image, Matthew Williamson Narratively a memory play, focus falls on the elder Aaron as he recounts growing up with his adopted sister, Clare. From her first bizarre encounter with a mail order bride’s husband at the age of four to the final, pubescent straw of Aaron’s missing cat, the sexually abused Clare has been the bane and responsibility of Aaron’s existence. Stabbings, dead goldfish, missing figurines found in the most unlikely of places; how much can an eldest brother take? Maybe Clare had nothing to do with what happened his cat, but maybe its good to finally have an excuse to be done with Clare and the responsibility that comes with her. Sure, everyone says she’s on the verge of recovery, but you can’t build your life on someone else’s suffering. What of Aaron’s life? Doesn’t his suffering count? After all, there are many types of abuse. Many conducted in the name of love. All of which provides you with a bare sketch of the depths Moscovitch plumbs. Ensuring Little One is an experience to be had more than a story to be told. Evoking terrors that lurk in the shadowed corners of the mind. Under the exceptional direction of Samatha Cade, Little One effortlessly yields up countless treasures. Cade, displaying compositional excellence, perfect pace, and a rigorous deep dive into the text, envelops it all in a deep yet delicate artistry. Marshalling her technical troops, Cade crafts a psychological space steeped in the warmth and terror of memory. Eoin Lennon’s shadowed, twilit lights and set, enriched by Denis Clohessy’s thumping soundtrack and sensitive score establish a liminal context in which an unblinking Hannah Brady delivers a riveting performance as the tortured Clare. Part Blumhouse anti-heroine, part Stephen King nightmare, with Migle Ryan’s effective dungarees evoking Mia Goth’s Pearl , Clare risks being little more than a device. But Cade and Brady resist the temptation, furnishing darker, deeper tones that are far more poignant. Dan Monaghan’s Aaron providing the perfect foil by way of a brilliantly controlled performance, journeying from eager to please child, resentful teen, to conflicted adult. Running the emotional gamut, Monaghan conveys a range of experiences through subtle yet sensitive details. Even as Brady delivers another of her disturbing monologues, Monaghan’s eyes flit with devouring concentration, reminding you that everything onstage is Aaron’s memory. A representation, or misrepresentation, of his troubled sister. That Clare might only truly exist in the space that Aaron refuses to accept. For that would mean looking at himself and the choice he made as a parental child when push came to shove. Hannah Brady and Dan Monaghan in Little One, Image, Matthew Williamson If Little One , written 2011, introduces the exciting work of Moscovitch to Irish audiences, of equally significant interest is director Samatha Cade. Working with what she has, rather than against what she has not, Cade crafts a veritable universe in one of the most demanding of spaces. Serving up a breathtakingly brilliant, stunningly complex, genuinely thrilling experience. If Moscovitch wraps things up with an unsatisfying bow, Cade has already done her job. Transforming Moscovitch’s little play into a monstrously big experience, ensuring Little One is not to be missed. Little One, by Hannah Moscovitch, runs at Glass Mask Theatre until April 5. For more information visit Glass MaskTheatre .

Owen O'Gorman, Ann Russell and Brid McCarthy in Sally's Return. Image by Kevin B. Newcome ** Playwright Michael J. Harnett and director Vinny McCabe’s Dublin Touring Company have created a theatrical cottage industry crafting original plays for the nostalgia circuit. And more power to them, given there's a dedicated audience who enjoy trips down memory lane. At best, like the memorable Madeira , whose success was due in no small measure to a mesmerising Deirdre Monaghan, Harnett's lightweight scripts entertain and enlighten. At the other end of the spectrum there’s Sally’s Return , which tells a desperately dull, drearily told, utterly unconvincing tale. Redeemed, but not saved, by a top cast who look wasted in this problematic production. It begins promising enough. A morning after a wedding in the country, with everyone a little worse for wear, sees Owen O’Gorman’s Gerry establishing backstory by way of a phone call to his wife back in Coventry. Enter fellow member of the diaspora, Sally; Ann Russell charging tensions as Sally reignites a conversation from the previous night with the evasive Gerry. For the next twenty minutes we listen in on something akin to a genealogy chart of people we never met nor care about, peppered with nostalgic recollections that renders action onstage nothing more than expositional chatter. The arrival of Brid McCarty’s adorable Bernie opens up a contrived question about the past with the same attraction as clickbait: false enticements promising much but delivering little. As an unconvincing story plays out to an unconvincing end, it’s hard to care for characters who are little more than contradictory mouthpieces revisioning historical issues from the 1970s through a 21st century lens. Along with a half developed theme of the dangers of medicating for depression. Without giving away Sally’s contrived motive for cornering Gerry, what can be said is that in the era of The Disappeared, knee cappings and much worse, Sally’s grievance resembles what Sarah Schulman terms overstating trauma, due, in no small measure, to Harnett failing to make his case. As a result, everything becomes a hard sell. Much more compelling is Brid’s tagged on tale of a practice common during the years of the Magdalene Laundries, leaving you wanting to know more of what is clearly the stronger story. Instead Sally’s Return settles for nostalgic referencing akin to the harp rendition of Butch Moore’s Walking The Streets In The Rain , resulting in a sugar rush of sentimentality that claims old friends to be the best. Even as the play spent seventy minutes proving the exact opposite to be true. Like Madeira , cast is by far the best thing about this production. Marie Tierney’s set, all latticed wood evoking a hotel garden or nursing home, ably lit by Andrew Murray, is competent without being compelling. Meanwhile Russell, O’Gorman and McCarthy give energised performances lending this disappointing offering far more dignity than it deserves. McCabe’s direction often leaving his three strong cast looking left to their own devices. Luckily, they’ve a wealth of experience to draw on. As does Harnett, who can, and has written far better plays than Sally’s Return . Sally’s Return by Michael J. Harnett, runs at The Viking Theatre until April 5. For more information visit The Viking Theatre

Magdalena Hylak in Begin Anywhere presented by John Scott’s Irish Modern Dance Theatre . Image, Nir Arieli. **** Begin Anywhere. A complex illusion of natural simplicity. Of minimising predictable patterns. Of subverting focus on the front of the body. All space, occupied or otherwise, being equal in value and importance. Similarly with movement, which often displays competing relationships regarding direction, rhythm, fluidity and timing. Underscoring dance’s connection to life, not only to music, which is itself subverted. The whole embracing collaboration and subverting isolationism. The subjective become the collective; the individualised ensemble. Composition and choreography refuting the habitual in pursuit of chance. But of whose choreography are we speaking? John Scott or Merce Cunningham ? The answer is both. In Begin Anywhere by John Scott’s Irish Modern Dance Theatre, which premiered to great acclaim at The Irish Arts Centre, New York in February, four solos by Cunningham seamlessly shift into the eponymous new work by Scott and musician Mel Mercier . And the contrast is somewhat telling. It’s not a case of emphasis or degrees, or of distinctions without a difference. Despite choreographic similarities, and Scott’s avowed devotion to all things Cunningham, Scott speaks his own choreographic language. If Four Solos speak to form as content, Begin Anywhere speaks to content becoming form. If Cunningham appears to be searching for something, for Scott that something is the search itself. Indeed, if  Four Solos ends too quickly, Begin Anywhere  struggles to end its search for searching’s sake. Ultimately, Scott and Cunningham might wield similar, choreographic coins, but they reveal entirely different sides. Begin Anywhere presented by John Scott’s Irish Modern Dance Theatre . Image, Nir Arieli. Take Cunningham's Four Solos, which includes Changeling  (1957),  Solo  (1975), along with excerpted solos from RainForest  (1968) and Travelogue (1977). Despite covering two decades, there’s precious little new under Cunningham’s classical, statuesque stars. The solos cohesion, built around a marriage of Western ballet and Eastern martial arts, with both married to John King’s composition, sees evolving poses played out against white noise, Zappa-esque bass rhythms and the gong-like sound of a Zen bowl. Dancers Magdalena Hylak, Boris Charrion, and François Malbranque plumbing spiritual depths with ballet poses and movements offset by articulating animal archetypes. Soloists overlapping as they transition in and out of the space dressed in Cunningham’s recognisable uniform. What Begin Anywhere sacrifices in terms of depth it compensates for with greater range and richness. And, arguably, humanity, trading idealised spirituality for something more fleshed and visceral. Four Solos selecting the dignified, ideal best of us; Begin Anywhere unafraid of the mess we are, right down to clothing for our shuddering, shaking, shouting bodies. An opening duet embodying the contemplative stillness of Cunningham is offset by an energetic explosion of exuberant tap as a soloist dances, cabaret style, across the stage establishing a jumping off point: we’re no longer in Cunningham’s Kansas but Scott’s Oz. Theory, like a bad joke reality ignores, is evident in interviews about Cunningham played as a constant loop with Mercier’s Irish traditional based score; with music played live onstage. Musicians Caoimhe Uí Fhlathata, Kevin McNally, Mick O'Shea and Mercier adding to the visual backdrop. Against which Scott’s energetic choreography channels Jackson Pollock, flinging endless choreographic paint to see what emerges. Leaving a sense of a serious minded search laced with playfulness. Of humour, heart, and spontaneity. Yet the longer it runs, the more the search seems like an endless experiment. If that’s true of life, it’s less satisfying in art where wheat gets separated from the chaff. Begin Anywhere presented by John Scott’s Irish Modern Dance Theatre . Image, Nir Arieli. If Cunningham mines for ingots, Scott sifts through dance’s riverbed seeking nuggets, and discovers many. But where Cunningham shines his gold with classical rigour and curated selection, Scott shows you the dust and dirt of randomness and chance. If the end sees dancers Vinicius Martins Araujo, Boris Charrion, Magdalena Hylak, François Malbranque and Adam O'Reilly arrive at a shared, swirling pattern in conversation with Mercier’s score, it can seem too late. By then, even a clever tableaux building sequence established from simple points of contact between dancers as they move across the stage looks like a rehearsal room exercise that's overplayed its hand. Risking, retrospectively, the same judgement on an energised counting sequence invested with joy. Asking the question, can experimentation be the finished artwork? A little process goes along way. A lot of process risks looking like…a lot of process. One thing’s for sure, where Cunningham’s solos attempt to control chance, Scott’s Begin Anywhere bravely submits to it. There’s a ton of historical and academic information in the programme notes and online which there’s no point repeating here. It is worth remembering, however, that greatness results from standing on the shoulders of giants. The phrase suggests a diminutive quality. Yet when you recall Cunningham’s formative years with Martha Graham, you realise that giants stand on the shoulders of fellow giants. Begin Anywhere is not mimicry, flattery or a tribute band testament to the inimitable Cunningham. It’s taking work that’s beginning to look historical and finding ways to continue its conversations into today. Scott, a giant standing on the shoulder of a fellow giant, trying to honour the great master’s legacy by seeing further into the future. Scott’s Irish Modern Dance Theatre celebrating thirty three years in the business of dance with this thought provoking and richly revealing production. Thirty three years. That doesn’t happen by chance, no pun intended. Here’s looking forward to their next exciting chapter. So, where should Scott begin? Hazard a wild guess. Begin Anywhere, presented by John Scott’s Irish Modern Dance Theatre, runs at The Project Arts Centre until March 15 before transferring to The Civic, Tallaght, on March 18. For more information visit The Project Arts Centre or The Civic Theatre .

John Cronin and Clara Fitzgerald in No Romance. Image uncredited *** Not for the first, or last time has a modest production been elevated by its superior cast. Nancy Harris’ s moderately amusing, No Romance: A Desperate Business, being a case in point. Like a pilot for a TV series, it offers a preliminary set up promising more to come. Only nothing more comes. Joe, a belligerent, blowhard beta male blusters to hide his brokenness. A failed businessman, son, husband and father, Joe is confronted by a string of mother, virgin and whore archetypes. The wounded Joe too gullible to see that yes, he’s an idiot with Mammy issues and secret fantasies, but Harris’s gender dice were loaded from the start. Still, the jokes are often funny, even if they disguise a plethora of clichéd sins. Beginning with Joe’s judgemental and recently deceased mother, whose body rests in the smallest coffin imaginable at a funeral home. Designer Ronán Duffy suggesting they were in a hurry to get home so made do with a Moses basket. Waiting for the mourners to arrive, husband and wife, Joe and Carmel, need to clear the air about some things. Or rather the wage earning, moderately racist Carmel does. Yet another mother disappointed in Joe. Meanwhile the virgin, their 22 year old daughter, is posting pictures online of her wet t-shirt competitions in Australia much to Joe’s hypocritical chagrin. Elsewhere, the whore transpires to be Abbi with an I, who mails intimate items of clothing she’s worn for a modest fee. Throw in double standards, ambush arguments, secret emails and a sexy Nigerian taxi driver and it all trots along nicely till Harris bails midway leaving the audience in the middle of nowhere. Feeling unfinished, No Romance: A Desperate Business is amusing more than funny, its martial relationship full of stereotypical, smart wife, dumb male tropes. In fairness, it's an isolated piece from a triptych of three short plays which had their Irish premiere in The Abbey in 2011 and whose juxtaposition might offer richer interpretations. Even so, director Ellen Buckley mines the married couple comedy for all it’s worth. Buckley eliciting two terrific performances from an excellent Clara Fitzgerald as a wife reclaiming herself and her life and a stupendously brilliant John Cronin, who risks cornering the market in weak-willed, boy men following a similarly brilliant turn in ANU’s The Dead . Just as Carmel is offended by what Joe’s mother thinks of her legs, men, too, are influenced by what other men think. Except there’s no other men here. Not for the first, or last time, will representations of masculinity omit those who should be having the challenging conversation. While it is vital men embrace feminism, women training boys to be their version of men, then punishing them when they fail is not the answer. A truth disguised beneath rich veins of comedy in Harris’s predictable tale. No Romance: A Desperate Business by Nancy Harris runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until March 15. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre

Stuart Graham and Conleth Hill in King Lear. Image. Ros Kavanagh *** For generations, learning Shakespeare in school, like learning Irish, was tantamount to educational trauma. Something you endured rather than enjoyed. If you drew the long straw you gleaned a modicum of excitement from Hal, Hotspur and Falstaff. Or the nubile, star crossed Romeo and Juliet . Or the bloodthirsty couple whose name we dare not speak. If you drew the short straw, like the current Leaving Certificate cohort, you studied King Lear . A bitter, old madman screaming at a storm out on a moor. Leaving you wanting to pluck your own eyes out rather than read another old man soliloquy. If ever a Shakespeare play was out of sync with a teenage audience, King Lear is it. Alas, The Gate’s current production does little to change that, or to offer an older audience much to get excited about. Aside, that is, from an invested cast. King Lear. Image. Ros Kavanagh Ageing and dementia, inheritance and power grabs, abandonment of the elderly once they’ve served their use; King Lear is replete with grown up, later in life themes. Lear dividing his kingdom between the fawning Regan and Goneril, and dismissing the faithful Cordelia, might well speak to the current face of US politics, but it's never developed. The emphasis here placed on greed within families, mirrored in the tale of Gloucester, Edgar and Edmund. As their worlds fall apart by way of contrived, convenient and inconvenient letters, the old King loses his mind in order to find it, just as Gloucester loses his sight so he can see. Not that it does either of them, or anyone around them, much good. Michael Glenn Murphy and Fiona Bell in King Lear. Image. Ros Kavanagh As productions of King Lear go, The Gate’s current offering is fraught with problems, the buck stopping squarely with director Roxana Dilbert. A former associate director of The Royal Shakespeare Company, Dilbert serves up a shapeless and somewhat shambolic three hours, busy yet lacking in real energy. Dilbert’s King Lear very much a museum piece. The museum in question being Madam Tussaud's. Staging, like Night at the Museum , frequently suggesting wax figurines coming momentarily to life whilst the rest of the cast stand like lifeless waxworks waiting to deliver their lines. Ti Green’s disjointed set and bland costumes bewilderingly dull and unforgivably distracting. Benji Bower’s intrusive score also falling short, even if the thunderstorm is moderately engaging. Throw in Ciaran O’Grady’s weakly crafted fight scenes, Northern accents slipping in and out of use, and it makes for a mediocre experience. Only Paul Keogan’s endlessly engaging lights remind you of what should have been. Stuart Graham and Eavan Gaffney in King Lear. Image. Ros Kavanagh Throughout, performances range from regrettable to memorable; running the gamut from underwhelming and over the top to moments that capture the sublime. Cast frequently looking adrift, as if lacking a cohesive central vision and working with weak compositional choices. Delivery suggesting soliloquies recorded for an audiobook. Even shared scenes frequently sound like competing soliloquies recited at an advanced, read through stage. Dilbert never achieving cohesion, or locating the meat beneath the text, or sounding the profounder notes. The whole looking confused rather than complex. Conleth Hill and Aidan Moriarty in King Lear. Image. Ros Kavanagh To be clear, this is a hard working cast. But they’re poorly served and appear left to their own devices. Some manage to shine. Stuart Graham’s Gloucester proves terrific, especially in later scenes, as does Michael Glenn Murphy as the energetic Fool. Eavan Gaffney’s Regan proves strongest of Lear’s three daughters; Gaffney’s steely expression and tensed fists pushing against imposed restraints. Aidan Moriarty’s Edgar, especially during his mad phase, frequently brings the thunder, along with an invested Conleth Hill as Lear. Hill scintillating during key scenes (most notably his reunion with Cordelia) suggesting greater possibilities had a stronger hand guided the helm rather than presenting Lear like an angry Moses cameoing in an episode of Star Trek . Just one of many difficulties Hill navigates which, if they never diminish his performance, never allow it to truly find its feet. Rounding out an uneven patchwork, a vibrant Fiona Bell as Kent, and an unmissable Ryan Hunter as comic villain Edmund turn in crowning performances, each worth the price of admission. But, performances aside, there’s little enough to admire here. Still, it’s on the Leaving Cert for 2025 so it’s a safe bet it'll attract a captive audience. Even if Shakespeare's unlikely to win too many new converts. King Lear by William Shakespeare, presented by The Gate Theatre, runs at The Gate Theatre until April 27. For more information visit The Gate Theatre

Eva-Jane Gaffney in Becoming Maggie. Image, Al Craig. *** In Donagh Humphreys problematic Becoming Maggie the prejudice, pretensions and personalities of a local drama society provide predictable comedic fodder. Suggesting an elephant’s graveyard of unfulfilled talent where could have beens, should have beens, has beens and those who never would be relive former dreams whilst rehearsing John B. Keane’s Big Maggie . Festering somewhere between vanity and insecurity, passion and pretension, each character is a first class failure dealing in second hand hope. As troubles stew more than brew, it all trots towards its inevitable conclusion. Back by popular demand, structurally, Becoming Maggie is a long, slow, drawn out car crash. Yet rarely has a car crash felt so wonderfully adorable, due entirely to its three charismatic performances. Suggesting another screenwriter writing for the stage, Humphreys leans into cinematic conventions rather than theatrical, relying on linked scenes passed off as story. The whole topped and tailed by fourth wall breaking monologues to set up and wrap up, as if the play doesn’t trust itself, or its audience, to get it. The opportunity for the story to organically unfold lost to verbal explanations that place the dramatic pot on medium heat and leave it stew rather than boil by not jumping into the action. Which occurs mostly during rehearsals in the local community hall, with brief visits to a bedroom and an apartment. Throughout, life coach and director, Bren-dawn, and his disillusioned and oddly uninformed wife, Jen, rehearse with newby Shane. As Brendan’s madcap directing demeans them both and makes the case for intimacy coaches, their affection for each other grows. But both broken winged creatures are currently incapable of flight. As it all falls unconvincingly apart, it stumbles toward a contrived, girl power ending that feels like a cheat, leaving the bittersweet taste of being sold short. Jed Murray in Becoming Maggie. Image, Al Craig. Despite some genuinely funny lines, Becoming Maggie frequently falls from the tightrope Humphreys unsuccessfully tries to walk, creating tensions director Andy Crook never resolves. Its three actors looking as if they’re in two separate plays. One a broad comedy with a pantomime antagonist, the other a dramatic comedy with naturalist tendencies. In which low hanging jokes and an unfleshed story make for big asks. Especially Jen. A clever woman believing working in commercials the glamorous side of professional theatre? Anyone, actor or otherwise, can work in commercials and everyone remotely connected to theatre knows that. Then there’s Jen’s undeveloped past and unexplained character flips in key scenes instead of a character arc leaving much to be desired. Never mind what she ever saw in Brendan who has no redeeming qualities. Luckily Crook elicits three compelling performances, even if they’re for two incompatible genres. Whilst Jed Murray turns in a compelling comic turn as the dapper dressed Brendan, a monument to egoism who sees the universe designed to meet his needs, Brendan’s cartoon portrait denies the production real force by hobbling Murray’s considerable talent at shaping compelling and credible characters. Glimpsed in moments when flickers of menace or self doubt haunt the eyes, revealing real human depths before Murray is quickly forced to don his pantomime mask. Shane O’Regan in the unenviable role of Shane, a pony-tailed, thirty something with pubescent level maturity, makes a sterling effort to straddle Crooks questionable marriage of pantomime and naturalism. O’Regan mesmerising when grounded in the real, less credible when forced into exaggeration. Terrific when playing next to a transcendent Eva-Jane Gaffney, whose imminent presence and photogenic features allow Jen, a plain Jane with hidden depths, convey a plethora of secret states that fill in the script's countless blanks. Gaffney’s star quality enriching every scene, elevating the whole, and promising greater things to come. Shane O'Regan and Eva-Jane Gaffney in Becoming Maggie. Image, Al Craig. Like an in-joke, Becoming Maggie sings to the dramatic society choir who are sure to appreciate its recognisable references. Yet there’s a funny, heartfelt story here with broader appeal looking to break free. If it doesn’t fully deliver on its promise, Becoming Maggie compensates with three incredible performances. Murray showing impressive comic skill, O’Regan displaying impressive talent, and a luminously irresistible Eva-Jane Gaffney, whose expressions alone launch a thousand possibilities. Becoming Maggie by Donagh Humphreys runs at The New Theatre until March 7. For more information visit The New Theatre

MILK مِلْك. Image by Eid Adawi **** Milk. Or rather, mother’s milk. Lactating in rivulets when not raining down like a deluge from heaven. Gathering as lakes, or gushing streams, nurturing the earth, plants and all who live and die. Like water, or blood, it is a lifestream of strength and sustenance. Gift of Mother Earth, or any life giving mother, who, like her children, suffer most during times of disaster, natural or man made. An experience vividly and viscerally realised in Bashar Murku and Khulood Basel’s stunning visual poem MILK مِلْك. Offering a profound meditation on pain and loss as experienced by women when disaster strikes. MILK مِلْك, image Christophe Raynaud de Lage Festival d'Avignon Given Khashabi Theatre are a Palestinian company, the temptation view MILK مِلْك solely as a response to Gaza’s current disaster are unavoidable. Yet if Gaza lends MILK مِلْك a resonant immediacy, the work evolved in 2022 to speak to a wider sense of how humans respond to unimaginable disasters. Politics and blame are not the issues here. As Bashar Murkus and Khulood Basel have commented; “three years ago, we thought we had succeeded in MILK مِلْك creating a theatrical poem about what wars leave behind. But over the past three years, as ‘real wars’ have crushed people before our eyes and stolen everything they love, we have come to realise how incapable theatre is of capturing even a single moment of war.” True, perhaps. But MILK مِلْك  makes a decent attempt at it. MILK مِلْك. Image by Eid Adawi Performed without words, MILK مِلْك trades in image as text. Murkus unafraid to let images linger and arrest attention beyond an immediate response, inducing a deeper, meditative engagement. Like the opening moments. The stage covered in floor mats, a single chair and a lifeless mannequin with holes in its arms and legs, as well as cavities in its stomach and chest. The image textured by Raymond Haddad’s two note melody; Haddad’s score revelatory throughout. Images becoming tableaux, a recurring device, often evoking a variety of pieta’s with madonna’s cradling their dead children. Seen as five women take to the stage, mechanically rocking the lifeless forms held in their arms till, eventually, they slip to the floor. MILK مِلْك, imabe by Khulood Basel As images and sequences follow - attempts to take a family photograph, to engage with lifeless mannequins like children being called to, cooed, kissed - there's a sense of MILK مِلْك as performance art within a theatrical frame, washed in a downpour of Pina Bausch. Physically demanding and repetitive routines, confrontational stares to the audience, the endless upheaval and reforming of the space, the hyperphysical physicality of impossible umbilical chords and lactating breasts grounding the action in visceral experience. Pushed to metaphorical extremes as the stage becomes a lake of breastmilk, or a heavily pregnant earth mother brings plants and fruits and hints at a bittersweet resurrection. Though such images pack a mean punch, it’s a punch often undermined by their repetitive nature. As Eddie Dow endlessly removes floor mats to create a wall of rubble you’re as likely to count them to see how many more he has to remove as feel the physical strain of the sequence. Like being constantly tapped by an annoying child, repetition risks you becoming desensitised and numbed, and checking your watch. MILK مِلْك Image by Eid Adawi Even so, a return to transformed images of cooing, kissing and calling children opens onto moments of such pain and beauty they imprint powerfully. Performers Salwa Nakkara, Reem Talhami, Shaden Kanboura, Samaa Wakim, Firielle Al Jubeh, Samera Kadry and Eddie Dow never less than compelling. Technically, too, everything about this production is simply stunning. Muaz Al Jubeh’s lighting design and Majdala Khoury scenography crafting a heavenly journey through unimaginable hell. As MILK مِلْك  opens onto its final image of women lying strewn amidst the rubble, their confrontational stare is still vividly felt, asking; "do you see us? Do you see us now?" We do. But now what? MILK مِلْك by Bashar Murku and Khulood Basel, presented by The Abbey Theatre and Khashabi Theatre, Palestine, runs at The Abbey Theatre until March 1. For more information visit The Abbey Theatre

Many Mes by Rocio Dominguez. Image, Patricio Cassinoni *** When it comes to Artspeak, like Newspeak or Doublespeak, your instinct is to immediately distrust it. Especially when it appears to contradict what’s right before your eyes. Which is not to say the real life inspirations for Argentinian artist, Rocio Dominguez’s Many Mes are not without their personal validity to the artist. It’s their framing, no matter how hauntingly beautiful, that feels like a hard sell and contrary to the production’s expressed purposes. "The unending quest for the completion of a rite of passage" says nothing whilst trying to suggest everything. Talk of immersion in a liminal space sounding off when the forty minute production is solidly centred from beginning to end. Along with the dubious notion of many mes when it’s abundantly clear there is only ever one; Dominguez. Not that Many Mes doesn’t aspire towards splintering and fracture. Dominguez emerging from Gearóid O’Hallmhuráin’s transparent dark towards Ross Ryder's superb videos on a stand-alone screen establishing a foundational dichotomy. Images of Dominguez scooping water and washing her hands from a basin, back naked and to the audience, offset and often mirrored by a basin of water onstage around which the live Dominguez moves. But though image and body are divided, it’s their similarities that establish cohesion. Same dancer, same body, same hair cut, same white trousers and vest top, same gestures, same movements. No evidence of many unique mes, just identical reflections mirroring more of the same. In Ryder’s video sequences, accompanied by Ingrid Boeck’s sound design, the opposition of body and image are often impressively synchronised. Evident in an orgy of dancer, silhouette and faded images executing identical patterns like a James Bond movie's opening sequence. The effect a multiverse of marginal differences. In which a single dancer defined by grace, poise, and exacting precision executes movements instilled with undercurrents of power. Throughout, Dominguez’s choreography evokes the rigour of a Zen Tea Ceremony. Simple, repeated sequences defined by precision and exactitude. Deep squats, wide stances, arms extended like sun salutations reinforce the kata-like structure. Even pulses, or allowing arms to naturally sway look controlled and measured. A whirling circular pattern of movement, a crawling sequence in conversation with a chair, the endlessly repeated washing motions soon become mildly durational. The whole speaking to ritual. But a ritual that never redeems, and rarely transcends to anything other than a self-conscious ritual. Many Mes Artspeak pushing a pull door and trying to sound reasonable. You could spend your entire life doing that, the door still won’t open. The truth far simpler. And more direct. Glimpsed in nuggets scattered throughout, articulated by a single body in motion. Many Mes by Rocio Dominguez, ran at The Project Arts Centre, Feb 18. For more information visit Project Arts Centre.

Lauren Farrell and Rex Ryan in Men's Business. Image by Wen Driftwood  *** A Simon Stephens world premiere is a major theatrical event. But it would be a stretch to call Men’s Business a Simon Stephen’s play. An adaptation of Franz Xaver Kroetz’s 1972 play, Mannersache , Stephen’s homage to the German playwright is clearly a labour of love. Yet it can be difficult to know what fish Stephens is hoping to fry with Kroetz's damaged, expressionist characters, who both look out of place in their reimagined modern setting. Politically, Kroetz’s study of class sees a bourgeoise, female butcher and her bit of rough, working class welder play out their dominant-submissive relationship to a mutually assured destruction. The play’s exploration of power, sex and relationships following the same format. The charmless Victor, a retarded beta male with alpha male delusions, gets off inflicting pain and humiliation on a compliant Charlie who’s looking for connection. Both characters essentially distinctions without a difference. Each ready to use, do, or sacrifice anyone to get what they want. But it all looks dated in a late Capitalist, kink comfortable 21st century where greater sexual awareness and online porn has replaced girly mags and naivety. And where the bourgeoise look to be as politically screwed as the working class. If Stephens emphasises sex and power, what emerges is less Last Tango in Paris so much as Last Dance in a Kilmuckridge Abattoir . Andrew Clancy’s clinical set as much an expressionist symbol as a physical space. In which loveless, empty sex scenes, under intimacy coach Marty Breen, are bravely, if one-sidedly rendered. Indeed, seeing a topless woman onstage risking greater vulnerability, especially when the scene didn’t need it, while the man never undertakes a similar risk raises interesting questions about performance power dynamics. Lauren Farrell’s detailed and delicate Charlie already laced with affecting vulnerability which stripping off adds little too. Charlie’s near expressionless expressions, her hard edged nuance, her slip sliding into despair all terrifically rendered in Farrell's beautifully etched and incredibly brave performance. Against which Rex Ryan’s menacing, loud mouth misogynist plays like a cartoon villain, and plays out to the audience a tad too much. Charlie filling out the play’s recurring silences with flesh and blood. Victor’s power play aggression charging the silence till it crackles. The dog, Wolfie, Victor’s imagined rival, stealing hearts and minds. Lauren Farrell and Rex Ryan in Men's Business. Image by Wen Driftwood  If director Ross Gaynor deftly manages to tap into the play’s dark humour, scenes set-up proves less successful. A weak, and unnecessary music intro reeks wannabe movie whilst looking desperate to inject some punkish energy. Instead, it just delays the action, looks contrived and slows things down. Endless costume changes and sluggish transitions further hamper pace. Violence, when it lands, is again cartoonish. But Men’s Business is nothing if not an absurdly humorous rabbit hole, albeit not a very deep one. Something Gaynor sensitively negotiates for the most part. While there is everything to admire here, not everyone is going to like Men’s Business. It isn’t Stephens’s best work. One suspects it isn’t Kroetz’s best work. Victor’s patriarch masculinity soon becoming a one trick pony that runs out of road. Playing into predictable male tropes till Charlie’s compliance begins to defy belief. Thankfully, Farrell’s sinuous performance makes the incredible credible and deeply affecting. Ensuring that though the play’s politics, be they relational, social or sexual, feel dated, Men’s Business crackles with undercurrents that strike theatrical gold. Even as it risks resembling a dirty old man’s sexual fantasy of domination and abuse. Glass Mask once again pushing at boundaries, premiering another new work by one our European counterparts. Men’s Business by Franz Xaver Kroetz, translated by Simon Stephens, runs at Glass Mask Theatre until March 1. For more information visit Glass Mask Theatre

Georgina McKevitt and Brian Gallagher in The Bad Daters. Image by Al Craig. **** Two lost souls in search of companionship opt for online dating. Liam, a gormless widower trying to do better meets Wendy, a law onto herself forced on a date by her sister. First impressions suggest opposites repel. Liam, so laid back as to be horizontal, is the diametric opposite to Wendy, whose unblinking laser stare would terrify the most vicious Mother Superior. Speaking without filters, displaying OCD and Tourette tendencies, Wendy compulsively sanitises her hands but can’t sanitise her curse loving tongue. No bookie would take bets on them surviving a date, let alone a second one, these broken and cracked souls. Yet in Derek Murphy’s darling rom com, The Bad Daters, it’s through the cracks that the light pours in. Shining gloriously in a bewitchingly uplifting production. Like Harold and Maude , or Benny and Joon, Murphy’s oddball couple offer a character study in loneliness and connection. Spread over a series of interconnected, cinematic scenes their relationship blossoms towards a turning point as Liam stays the course and Wendy feels less threatened. Yet whilst dialogue sparkles with incisive humour, too much is left unsaid, falling through the spaces between the scenes. The result less a story so much as a character arc that skates over depth, leaving the audience to fill in too many blanks. Given you’re wildly in love with all you see and hear, it can feel like being short changed. Still, The Bad Daters generates more laughter and heart in forty five minutes than most shows of a similar ilk could hope to muster. Brian Gallagher and Georgina McKevitt in The Bad Daters. Image by Al Craig. Throughout, Murphy’s simple staging and direction ensures conversations are allowed to breathe. Brian Gallagher delighting as the lovelorn Liam ready to do anything except the one thing Wendy wants. Comedian Gallagher knowing his role is to play straight man to a superlative Georgina McKevitt as Wendy. Like the  Extraordinary Attorney Woo , McKevitt’s character makes the awkward Wendy utterly adorable with a wonderfully affecting performance. The whole a delight from start to finish. Murphy's The Bad Dater’s one of the most charming, feel good, utterly irresistible productions you’ll see this year. The Bad Daters by Derek Murphy, presented by Bewley’s Café Theatre and Speckintime, runs at Bewley’s Café Theatre until February 22. For more information visit Bewley’s Café Theatre

Giles Terera, Steve Coogan, Tony Jayawardena, Mark Hadfield , Oliver Alvin-Wilson in Dr. Strangelove. Photograph: Manuel Harlan ***** Movie aficionados claim it as a modern classic. Others claim it’s a cult classic. Others, still, that it’s an outdated classic. Whatever way you look at it, Stanley Kubrick’s 1964, anti-nuclear satire, Dr. Strangelove, has classic movie written all over it. So why mess with it? Why transfer what was purposely designed for a black and white screen sixty years ago to the contemporary stage? Especially if contemporary relevances are thin on the ground? Then there’s those iconic performances. Sterling Hayden, George C. Scott, Slim Pickens along with Peter Sellers in a trio of roles. Why compete when you know you can’t compare? But that’s asking the wrong question. The question is not how does the stage version compare with the original movie, for nothing can compare with the original movie. Rather, the question is does it succeed on the terms it sets out for itself as a piece of theatre? In that regards, Dr. Strangelove most definitely succeeds, with Steve Coogan being something of a tour de force. Steve Coogan in Dr. Strangelove. Photograph: Manuel Harlan Throughout, director and adaptor Sean Foley, along with co-adaptor Armando Iannucci, remain true to the original script, arguably to a fault, injecting the odd modern reference. A superb opening song and dance routine, the device humorously circled back to at the end accompanied by Vera Lynn, introduces gung-ho General, Jack D. Ripper. A terrific John Hopkins as the cigar munching psychotic who dispatches a fleet of B52 bombers to launch a nuclear attack on Russia in the 1960s. Efforts in the Presidential War Room to call off the attack being thwarted at every turn. Even though the consequence is total annihilation from a Russian Doomsday defence system. After which we’ll meet again, or won’t, if the bombs drop. So what has this to say to a modern world where nuclear annihilation is not as pressing as during the arms race era? Again, wrong question. It’s not about nuclear power but about the misuse of power. About lies, prejudice, misinformation and disinformation informing major military decisions. Of putting idiots in charge of our fates and futures and wondering how it all went wrong? Of stupid doing what stupid does. Of how you can’t reason with crazy. Starting to sound familiar? Steve Coogan and Giles Terera in Dr. Strangelove. Photograph: Manuel Harlan Under Foley’s excellent direction a strong cast, including Giles Terera as the warmongering General Turgidson, Tony Jayawardena as the bewildered Russian ambassador Bakov, and Mark Hadfield as Presidential assistant Faceman, keep the laughs and insights coming. But it’s a phenomenal Steve Coogan who brings it together, elevating Dr. Strangelove into something special, drawing on both his comic and straight acting talents. Whether as the eponymous blonde scientist and former Nazi pining for the gold old days, which, of course, were dreadful, a straight up President Muffley, a beleaguered RAF Captain Mandrake or the Gung Ho Major Kong, Coogan is mesmerising; the mind boggling at the sheer number of costume changes. But even Coogan risks playing second fiddle to Hildegard Bechtler’s superlative set design basking in Jessica Hung Han Yun’s terrific lights. War Room, General’s Office, plane cockpit, Bechtler’s set eases from one to the other effortlessly. Akhila Krishnan’s stunning projections offering a visual threat as the bomber flies towards its final destination, and that iconic rodeo ride. Dr. Strangelove could have done a lot of things differently. Indeed, there are as many opinions as to how it should have been done as there are opinions. But, again, the question is does it work on the terms it set out for itself? A question already asked and answered. Which leaves only one question remaining; when do I go see it? The answer; as soon as is humanly possible. Dr. Strangelove, adapted by Armando Iannucci and Sean Foley, based on the motion picture by Stanley Kubrick, presented by Patrick Myles and David Luff, in association with Tulchin Barter Productions and Playful Productions runs at Bord Gais Energy Theatre until February 22. For more information visit Bord Gáis Energy Theatre

Charlene McKenna, Aaron McCusker in The Ferryman. Image, Marcin Lewandowski. ***** It might come as a surprise but The Gaiety, home to the Christmas Panto and Riverdance , has produced many important plays in recent years exploring Irish identity. Works new and old, not necessarily by Irish writers, that entertain and educate as they address our sense of ourselves. The Ferryman being a case in point. Jez Butterworth’s epically ambitious play, first produced in 2017, finally receiving its Irish premiere at The Gaiety. Which is very good news. For The Ferryman is a cracking tale, superbly directed, terrifically designed, and with a cast that’s simply to die for. Set in 1981, Butterworth’s generational, family drama highlights the trials and joys of the Carney family as they prepare to gather the annual harvest. Staunch, Irish nationalists living in Armagh whose son, Seamus, ‘disappeared’ ten years before. A euphemism for alleged traitors murdered by the IRA whose bodies were never found. Unless unearthed by accident. The discovery of Seamus’s remains at a time when the IRA was enjoying public sympathy on account of the Hunger Strikes making for an inconvenient truth. Intimidations to deny IRA involvement placing unbearable strain on an extended family already tearing itself apart. The Ferryman. Image, Marcin Lewandowski. Following a brooding prologue, steeped in verse, foreshadowing the darkness and dangers to come, The Ferryman divides neatly into three sections. The first act aswirl with the coarse, caring and commonplace cruelties of family dynamics played out around the kitchen table. A garrulous Niall Buggy superb as the loquacious, bookish layabout Uncle Patrick, crossing swords with an equally superb Anna Healy’s as the self righteous nationalist, Aunt Patricia. Meanwhile a terrific Brid Ní Neachtain as the crone like Aunt Maggie drifts in and out of the spirit world. Throw in some feisty nephews, a husband and wife, Seamus’ widow, and a modest tribe of children and the scene is set for a recognisable family sit com. In which rumours, gossip, emotional affairs and unresolved tensions turn the pressure up. Come the second act, women become foregrounded as mothers, virgins, and witch like crones recall forgotten pasts and predict unwritten futures. Women the true victims of war, along with children, as men attempt to justify their actions. Evident in the third, male dominated, and least satisfying act in which the truth doesn't set you free so much as contrive to become a death wish. The Ferryman’s chickens coming home violently to roost as bluster turns to deeds. The ending sudden and explosive, albeit feeling forced, unconvincing and a little contrived. Orén Kinlan, Lilymai Clancy, Anna Healy, Ava Molloy, Vega Farrelly, Bríd Ní Neachtain in The Ferryman. Image, Marcin Lewandowski. A mix of realism and Greek tragedy, Butterworth’s indulgent, three and a half hour script is unafraid of taking its time. If this allows some scenes to breathe, it can serve up unnecessary colour rather than moving action forward. The political, personal and mythological colliding with sentimentalised notions of tragic Irishness tipping uncomfortably into breezy cliche at times. Violent, whiskey swilling, fighting talk, replete with singsongs, stories and poetic lapses loom large. Yet it never topples into excess; walking a tightrope between myth and history, story and fact, this world and the next. Liminality present in Ciaran Bagnall’s angular set bathed in twilight glow capturing reality and nostalgia. Sinead Cuthbert’s costumes highlighting the look of the period. Charlene McKenna, Aaron McCusker, Sarah Morris in The Ferryman. Image, Marcin Lewandowski. Throughout, Andrew Flynn superbly directs a stellar cast. Aaron McCusker as Quinn Carney and Charlene McKenna as Caitlin Carney crackle with contagious chemistry. Joe Hanley delighting as the village idiot, Tom Kettle, breaks your heart in an extraordinarily moving scene reminiscent of Barry Geoghan in The Banshees of Inisherin . Sarah Morris superb as Mary Carney, a role that risks being a lightweight cameo which Morris imbues with strength and grace. Laurence Kinlan as the threatening heavy Muldoon is equally superb, ably supported by Robbie O’Connor and Andrew Graham McClay. But it’s the four, young Carney sisters who light up the stage. Olivia Byrne, Lilymai Clancy and Ava Molloy each hugely impressive. Along with a scene stealing fourth sister, Honor Carney, rotated between Francesca Europa, Matilda Gavin and Vega Farrelly. That said, an adorable goose and real life rabbit risk stealing everyone’s limelight. Whilst the 'disappeared' provide inspiration and focus, The Ferryman casts a much wider net. Asking questions about who we are, who we were and who we might become. And at what cost? Entertaining, educating, enlightening, it might be a marathon more than a sprint, but The Ferryman delivers a terrific production that's not to be missed. The Ferryman by Jez Butterworth, presented by Gaiety Productions, runs at The Gaiety Theatre until March 15. For more information visit The Gaiety Theatre

INO's Der Fledermaus. Image by Ros Kavanagh *** Mention Johann Strauss II and many imagine a nineteenth century Andre Rieu. The undisputed king of waltz and polka, Strauss’s frolicking dance tunes are as effervescent as sparkling champagne. As is his most popular operetta Die Fledermaus. Whose instantly recognisable overture opens onto a fizzy tale of frivolous lust, revenge served cold, masked duplicity and sprightly infidelities, all sprinkled with a smidgen of social commentary. Its tale of revenge for a practical joke setting up a serious of wild scenarios in which mistaken identities, an impending prison sentence and a bawdy party get the alcohol flowing. Yet what scandalised in 1874 looks dated in 2025. Irish National Opera resorting to naughty postcard humour and slapstick shenanigans, relocating from 1870’s Vienna to a 1920’s cabaret to try make it fizz. But the result is Cava rather than champagne. It’s bubbles not always popping. Doing enough to get you tipsy, but not enough to intoxicate. Alex McKissick, Jade Phoenix and Sarah Shine in INO's Der Fledermaus. Image by Ros Kavanagh Even allowing for the economy required of a touring production, the 1920's device looses much by way of glamour and glitz, with Paul O’Mahony’s claustrophobic design resembling a Hollywood movie apartment for a Noel Coward play. Low budget opulence with Art deco touches include bat emblems Bruce Wayne would be envious of. As for Bohemian cabaret, what’s presented is more cut price speakeasy than a debauched Kit Kat Club. Catherine Fay’s cliched costumes reinforcing the Cava level rebranding, with chorus girls looking like pound shop Follies. Facilitating a reduced orchestra onstage, suggestive of a cabaret house band, O’Mahony’s pyrrhic victory proves costly. The restricted playing area impacting on dancing and acting even as it places music on an equal footing. INO's Der Fledermaus. Image by Ros Kavanagh Conductor Richard Peirson’s playful arrangement might have distinct charms, with Peirson delighting when directly involved with the onstage action, but it comes at a cost as music sounds flimsy at times and, on occasion, tinny on account of less musicians. Choreography by Stephanie Dufresne, often clunky and clumsy, mirrors Davey Kelleher’s overactive direction. Relying on comic overacting, what emerges is less human nature so much as human caricature. Kelleher, like Dufresne and O’Mahony, suggesting influences in search of an identity. Under Kelleher’s heavy handed direction Die Fledermaus resembles less a lively operetta so much as a vaudevillian parody of an operetta. If madcap comedies and the silent movie era inform much of the look of Die Fledermaus , the result is a Mel Brooks Silent Movie styled send up. One approximating its inspiration more by accident than design. Granted, Strauss consciously subverted opera’s conventions in 1874, with many references evident throughout. But Kelleher over eggs the send up till it becomes comedic Grand Guignol. Soprano Jade Phoenix’s Rosalinde, with her Jean Harlow hairstyle, might aspire to evoke 1920’s chic, but her flustered fluttering suggests a Margaret Dumont clone hamming it up in a Marx Brothers sketch. Tenor Alex McKissick’s Eisenstein might convey a Hollywood movie idol, but a Clark Kent moment which sees McKissick uncannily resembling Harold Lloyd highlights the gulf between Lloyd's inventive physical comedy and the second rate antics on display. Antics that would look more at home in a children’s TV programme. Jade Phoenix, Alex McKissick, Aaron O'Hare in INO's Der Fledermaus. Image by Ros Kavanagh Where Die Fledermau s succeeds is in Daniel Dooner and Stephen Lawless’s English translation of Karl Haffner and Richard Genée’s German libretto. Singing, which struggles for balance with spoken dialogue at times, achieves a Goldilocks quality; sometimes too high, occasionally too low, mostly just right. And, lest we forget, occasionally stunning. The conducted chorus, the ‘So Sad’ trio, along with several solos remind you of what could have been, with mezzo-soprano Sharon Carty delighting in a trouser role. Yet it is soprano Sarah Shine’s vivacious and flirtatious maid, Adele, that holds everything to account. Shine’s solos, superbly sung, are married to top class acting and impeccable comic timing. Ably supported by Megan O’Neill as Adele’s sidekick sister, Ida, Shine shows serious comedic skill by playing the scene rather than playing for laughs. A comedic straight woman exposing others trying too hard to be funny. Reminding you that less is often so much more. Megan O'Neill, Sean Boylan and Sarah Shine in INO's Der Fledermaus. Image by Ros Kavanagh Musical theatre has its roots in operetta. Both trade in light, comic romances designed to delight and distract. Both rely on singing married to speech, acting and dancing. Subversions many opera purists turned their nose up at when Die Fledermaus first premiered in 1874. If Kelleher fails to grasp the operetta ball on occasion, uncharacteristically, he still manages to drop it.  A send up of a send up, Die Fledermaus is filled with fun and frolics. You’re sure to giggle, but not always to laugh. To tap your feet, yet rarely to feel the urge to dance. Even so, when it finds its sweet spot, Die Fledermaus delivers some utterly glorious moments. Die Fledermaus , by Johann Strauss II, libretto by Karl Haffner and Richard Genée, English translation by Daniel Dooner and Stephen Lawless, presented by Irish National Opera, is currently touring nationwide till February 23. For more information visit Irish National Opera.

Maeve Fitzgerald and Marty Rea in The Dead. Image by Patrick Redmond As another year draws to a close, pour yourself a generous indulgence of your favourite tipple and get comfortable. We’ve an entire year to cover so sit down, exhale, relax. Mindful, as always, of all the shows I didn’t get to see, let’s look at some of the highlights, lowlights, shining stars and black holes that made up the year that was 2024. Beginning with a little context before we get settled. Amy Molloy and Marty Rea in The House. Image, Ros Kavanagh It’s always the way of the thing; theatre is forever in a state of crisis. Funding and its distribution, lack of venues, working conditions, ChatGPT. Often it falls to the critic to highlight concerns. Shaw, Tynan, Billington all gave voice to the concerns of their times. Even so, many revile the critic unless they’re dishing out five star cheerleading scores. Sometimes the resentment is warranted. Often it’s just asinine prejudice passed off as self-evident truth. ‘No one has ever raised a statue to a critic.’ In fairness Sibelius didn’t have Google images where he could find lots of statues to critics. Or Behan’s ‘eunuchs who see how it’s done but don’t know how to do it.’ Shaw knew. Tynan knew. And both did it. Then there’s protecting the experimental sanctity of the artistic process. No one’s interested in undermining the artistic process. Most critics understand the sacrifices involved and that no one puts on a show intentionally to fail or to fall short of its own ambition. But sometimes they do, for a variety of reasons. Finally, and most disingenuous of all, Roosevelt’s ‘it is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles.’ No one would accuse you of undermining the strong if you criticised an undercooked meal you paid for, a new car you bought that sputters at ten miles an hour, or a five star hotel that turned out to be a hovel. Indeed, artists who are genuinely strong appreciate honest and insightful feedback as to where they might have stumbled. Even then, you’re not mandated to agree with the critic. It’s about provoking conversation. So with that in mind, let’s begin our round up with The Gate and The Abbey. Who, in 2024, looked as if they were vying to become Dublin’s newest Arts Centres. Eavan Gaffney in Breaking. Photo Anthony Woods If Roisín McBrinn and Colm O’Callaghan were considered a safe pair of hands following Selina Cartmell’s departure (Cartmell now installed as artistic director at Manchester’s Royal Exchange), safety proved a risk that hasn’t quite paid off. Stealing pages from the Abbey’s playbook, and sliding towards an education and community arts centre model, The Gate front loaded their summer with the old Abbey ruse of a tourist friendly, Irish classic. Brian Friel’s Dancing at Lughnasa proving a smart move and a fine production. Meanwhile Charles Way’s adaptation of Mary Norton’s The Borrowers proved underwhelming despite some terrific performances, as did Annie Baker’s Circle Mirror Transformation , both directed by McBrinn. Emma Donoghue’s ambitious, if patchy, The Pull of the Stars, directed by Louise Lowe, was an all female revelation that landed some solid blows. A double dollop of political theatre saw Thomas Bernhard’s The President, co-produced with Sydney Theatre Company, not being to everyone’s liking, even as The Lyric’s touring production of The Agreement was to most people’s liking. The end result a mixed bag of mostly modest delights. Claire O'Leary and Aoife Mulholland in The Borrowers. Image, Ros Kavanagh Meanwhile, The Abbey had another difficult year. Whatever Mark O’Brien and Caitriona McLaughlin’s artistic choices, they inherited a poison chalice and have borne it bravely and with dignity. Even so, with funding withheld for a time, along with that ‘report,’ The Abbey made a handbrake turn mid year and went dark, dropped shows and altered its schedule. Lingering suspicions about the timing of the report and reasons for going dark leaving a sour taste. Damage to The Abbey’s reputation immeasurable. Similar to Ireland’s theatrical reputation. Both sounding anachronistic despite spin to the contrary. As a former colleague in New York asked after seeing Luke Casserly’s Distillation in the Irish Arts Centre in June (having played at The Peacock in February), ‘is this what the Abbey invests in exporting these days?’ Personally I liked Distillation’s quirkiness, but, if I’m honest, I take her point. It’s good in its way, but is it a standard bearer? Is it as good as Malaprop’s brilliant Hothouse which rightly drew critical acclaim Stateside? Kate Gilmore in Safe House. Image, Ste Murray Back home, perforated with celebrity and cultural one night stands, The Abbey’s women writers programme The Gregory Project stumbled as the year went on before plummeting face down into Grainne. The road to Gregory lined with good intentions as Marina Carr’s impressive enough Audrey or Sorrow and Na Peirsigh/Persians Le hAeschylus , aistrithe ag Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill got the year off to a solid start. But Elizabeth Kuti’s lacklustre The Sugar Wife , Janet Moran’s similarly staid Aftermath and Hilary Fannin’s underwhelming Children Of The Sun failed to get out of first gear. Fortunately, the handbrake turn which saw Marina Carr lose out on a second Abbey production gave us Enda Walsh’s superb Safe House with a brilliant Kate Gilmore, who also shone in The President. Yet even an impressive Ella Lily Hyland couldn’t save Lady Gregory’s instantly regrettable Grainne . The year rounding off with Kat Hamill’s Gen Z, cartoon fluff that was the fun and frolicking Emma . Alter, by Kamchàtka. Image uncredited. Elsewhere in Dublin, The Project Arts Centre saw a changing of the guard as Sophie Motley took over from the much loved Cian O’Brien as artistic director. The baton also passing at Dublin Theatre Festival as Róise Goan took over as director from a stalwart Willie White. White and O’Brien much admired, as is the Project’s Carmel Mackey, a front of house fixture who retired this year…well, mostly. Meanwhile the Viking, Bewley’s Café Theatre, The New Theatre and Smock Alley kept their respective flags flying, along with The Civic, Axis and Draiocht Art Centres. It was often in such venues that more interesting work was happening. Similarly Glass Mask Theatre who, after a bumpy year, finally secured Arts Council funding and look set for a promising 2024. Sorcha Furlong in Tender Mercies. Image Al Craig. Once again it was outside Dublin that much of what was best was happening, especially during festivals. Indeed, the festival model looked like the preferred way for audiences to consume theatre in 2024. Yet festivals raise concerns about their impact on local theatres as well as the cost of travel, accommodation, and eating out for prospective audiences. Still, festivals did attract the best productions of 2024, including Druid’s fantastic revival of Tom Murphy’s, The House, the first of three Outstanding Productions of 2024 and the crown of Dublin Theatre Festival. Zak Ford-Williams (role rotated with Michael Patrick) in The Tragedy of Richard III. Credit, Melissa Gordon Elsewhere, Belfast International Arts Festival saw the award winning Lyric Theatre again showing how it’s done. The heartfelt The Tragedy of Richard III, starring Michael Patrick and Zak Ford-Williams, pushing at several boundaries. Even so, Cork Midsummer Festival proved to be 2024’s Outstanding Arts Festival for serving up some decidedly brilliant treats. Including Landmark Productions Theatre for One , in which Una Kavanagh in Louise Lowe’s Bait proved simply breathtaking. A promenade through Cork’s Shandon district in the delightful Winter Journey was both clever and smartly executed. Yet the transformative, nighttime forest stroll that was Alter by Kamchàtka, was the star of Midsummer and, unquestionably, The Best International Production of 2024. Meanwhile, Galway again set standards high with Mark O’Rowe’s stupendously brilliant Reunion , the second of 2024’s Outstanding Productions. Dancing at Lughnasa. Image Ros Kavanagh Opera had some strong outings with Kilkenny Arts Festival premiering Irish National Opera’s Trade/Mary Motorhead by Emma O’Halloran, libretti by Mark O’Halloran. INO enjoying a busy year with Rigoletto, L’Olimpiade, Salome and La Traviata, the latter 2024's Outsanding Opera Production. Wexford Festival Opera maintained its unrelenting commitment to excellence with The Critic by Charles Villers Stanford, libretto by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and Le convenienze ed inconvenienze teatrali by Donizetti. Lady Gregory in America , by Alberto Caruso, libretto by Colm Tóibín, was by all accounts, also a terrific production.  Ultan Pringle and Emmanuel Okoye in Boyfriends. Image by Owen Clarke If dance had a quieter year, there was still quality to be had, with Luail, the newly minted Ireland's National Dance Company raising hopes for things to come. Junk Ensemble’s superb Dances Like A Bomb and São Paulo Dance Company  by Dance Consortium served up early year threats. BLKDOG by Botis Sava and 13 Tongues by Cloud Gate Dance Theatre of Taiwan were highlights in an otherwise underwhelming Dublin Dance Festival. Hip hop artist Jessie Thompson’s hugely impressive Crawler took Edinburgh by storm, Thompson a rising star to watch out for. Hyperphysical, by Irish Modern Dance Theatre, was a wonderful, five star delight. Yet Coisceim’s Dancehall Blues takes Outstanding Dance Production of the Year for its irresistible grace and charm. Irish National Opera's La Traviata. Image, Ros Kavanagh 2024 was a year when independent artists and companies provided much needed freshness and excitement. Glass Mask Theatre, weathering the storm of hard knocks, enjoyed success with Simon Stephen’s Country Musi c and Stephen Jones’s From Eden. Whatever their teething pains Glass Mask addressed one of the most worrying aspects in contemporary Irish theatre: creating opportunities for emerging young talent, of which there is an abundance, most notably female artists. Jordanne Jones in From Eden , Pattie Maguire in Country Music, and Tara Cush in The Dole Wide World were each outstanding, even in instances when the show was not. Indeed, many artists redeemed what were lacklustre productions throughout 2024; Claire O’Leary in The Borrowers , Meghan Tyler in Aurora , Mary Murray in Cosima , Pattie Maguire again in Julius Caesar Variety Show , and Eavan Gaffney in Breaking, Children Of The Sun and A Streetcar Named Desire, each artist outstanding even when the work was not. Venetia Bowe, Cathy Belton, Simone Collins and Robert Sheehan in Reunion by Mark O'Rowe. Image by Kris Askey Just to say if you fancy pouring yourself a little top up, please feel free. We'll wait. Amanda Coogan in Possession. Image by Patricio Cassinoni Experienced performers were not to be outdone. Rebecca O'Mara and Fiona Bell were stunning in Children of The Sun. Catherine Walker and Cathy Belton both fabulous in Reunion , as were Ruth McGinn and Aoife Mulholland in The Borrowers . Maeve Fitzgerald shone in The Dead, Map of Argentina and The Pull Of The Stars, as did Sorcha Furlong in Tender Mercies and Happiness Then . Bríd Ní Neachtain agus Caitríona Ní Mhurchú lit up Na Peirsigh/Persians Le hAeschylus and Deirdre Monaghan was simply mesmerising in Madeira . As was Carmel Stephens in Mother and Child and Amy Molloy in The House . Ericka Roe in It’s Always Your Bleedin’ Own , Marty Breen in Bitch , and Eva O’Connor in Chicken cemented their reputations as formidable rising stars. As did Hannah Mamalais in Emma, Emer Dineen in 0800 Cupid , and Imogen Doel and Hazel Doupe in Circle Mirror Transformation . Still, Eavan Gaffney and Pattie Maguire shone, with both responsible for several Outstanding Performances this year. As did a brilliant Leanne Bickerdike in Jodie Doyle’s Hate F%#k. But if you insist on only one, that would have to be the indomitable Marie Mullen for illuminating The House, The Dead, Endgame and Audrey or Sorrow with a presence and elegance that's unsurpassed. Mullen's effortless effort exuding characteristic joy and conviction, enriching everything she does. Marie Mullen and Bairbre Ní Chaoimh in The Dead. Image by Patrick Redmond. Men, on the other hand, had a far quieter year as gender balance looked like a bad joke. The Abbey’s female focused season and shows like The Pull Of The Stars saw mostly experienced male performers catching the breaks. Hugo Weaving impressive in Thomas Bernhard’s The President , as was Stephen Rea in Krapp’s Last Tape . Louis Lovett delightful in The Maestro and The Mosquita . As was Jack Meade and Peter Gowen in Dancing at Lughnasa. Robert Sheehan, Stephen Brennan and Ian-Lloyd Anderson each terrific in Reunion and the comic stylings of Domhnall Herdmann set Emma alight. Yet Marty Rea stood out, excelling in The Dead , The House, and Circle Mirror Transformation, delivering several Outstanding Performances in 2024 Leanne Bickerdike in Hate F%#k by Jodie Doyle. Image Al Craig Other productions that brought something to the year include Amanda Coogan’s superb Possession with Theatre for the Deaf. Are Ya Dancin’ by Carol Gleeson and Helen Spring was a hugely successful attempt at an Irish musical focused on the showband era, one sure to make a comeback. Tina Noonan’s hard hitting The Island exploring men’s experience of institutional abuse proved a labour of love that brought much love to a sensitive topic. Throughout the year, tech and design were again executed to the highest standard, with Katie Davenport garnering Designer of the Year for Safe Hous e and La Traviata. And while you could argue for any number of seasoned directors who excelled, relative newbie Ois O’Donoghue warrants Director of the Year for the promise shown in Hate F%#k.  Ericka Roe in TKB's It's Always You Bleedin' Own. Image, Ste Murray Regards new plays, companies like Jaxbanded and LemonSoap Productions confirmed their reputations for interesting new work with Jodie Doyle’s Hate F%#k and Ultan Pringle’s Boyfriends respectively. LemonSoap Productions earning Best New Company. The hugely talented Joy Nesbitt, along with the equally talented Pringle striking out with a Gen Alpha vibe that’s irresistibly infectious. Indeed, Pringle’s Boyfriends was a cracking piece of work, as was his directorial work on the hugely impressive Beards . If Boyfriends was a contender for play of the year, that should probably go to Mark O’Rowe’s Checkhovian comedy, Reunion , which was superb on every level. But championing the young, TKB’s It’s Always Your Bleedin’ Own takes Best New Play of 2024 for being smart, sassy, sexy and socially astute. Some will argue Amy Kidd’s Breaking should be in the mix. But forty five moderately interesting minutes that are then played backwards with actors alternating roles leans too heavily into student level gimmickry. Leaving the jury out with fingers crossed that Kidd will deliver on sure signs of promise. Having worked with Fishamble’s illustrious Jim Culleton, she’s sure to have learnt a tonne. Eva O'Connor in Chicken. Image Paul Baker and Hildegard Ryan Approaching the finish line, we canter home with Louise Lowe for her Outstanding Contribution to Irish Theatre . The Dead, Pull of the Stars, Hammam, Theatre for One, Starjazzer , all delivered within a twelve month period and not a dud amongst them. With her partner in crime Owen Boss, Lowe and a dedicated team have made ANU into one of the most important Irish theatre companies of the past decade. Their production of The Dead , in association with the brilliant Landmark Productions, being one of the year’s theatrical highlights and the third Best Production of 2024, seeing Landmark responsible for two of the year’s three best productions. Lowe’s intimate, immersive, no pulled punches productions might not be to everyone's liking, but you can’t discount her brilliance as a writer, historian, or director, or deny how she has shaped much of what's best in modern Irish theatre. Dancehall Blues. Image by Ros Kavanagh What can we hope for in the coming year? With The Abbey’s programme still unclear it’s hard to know what to expect from the National Theatre. But with The Gregory Project continuing into 2025 with the political charged Palestinian play MILK مِلْك. , you wonder is the Gregory Project ever going to end? A project attempting to imagine our future through revisioning the past often at the expense of understanding our present. Steeped in overt gender bias wherein everyone is not equally represented. Meanwhile The Gate launches a rinse and repeat season as McBrinn doubles down on safety. A return to Dancing at Lughnasa and a touring revival of Erica Murray’s The Loved Ones dampening enthusiasm. Murray, without doubt, is one of our most exciting new writers. But most want to see what she does next, not what she did last, especially this early in her career. Leaving it to a promising Lear and Abi Morgan’s Lovesong to generate excitement. And to those independent artists, and those we have yet to meet, to set the theatrical world alight. Pattie Maguire and John Cronin in Country Music by Simon Stephens. Image by Wen Driftwood Whatever happens, theatre will remain in a state of crisis. The changing political landscape which ousted The Green Party after a disastrous term  means the departure of Catherine Martin as Minister for the Arts. Whatever her party’s considerable shortcomings, Martin was a true advocate for the Arts who will be sorely missed. Her departure leaving the industry to renegotiate policy, with some parties, like Sinn Fein, allegedly not even having an arts policy worth speaking off. Then there’s the distribution of funding which saw the Irish Theatre Institute clamouring for signatories to redress an imbalance which has seen theatre’s allocation, outside of the big two, remain fundamentally unchanged since 2008 despite soaring costs. That simply has to change. Jason Mcnamara and Jessie Thompson in Crawler. Image uncredited There are other challenges. Attracting an audience in a costly city with pathetic public transport and deserted bicycles lanes engender problems of access which theatre can’t directly address. Then there’s the challenge from live music, with gigs and music festivals providing that communal, cathartic experience theatre claims to deliver but too often fails to provide. Indeed, the Abbey’s PR celebration of its 120 years, Spreading The News , ended the night by ceding the stage to a musician. Ominous? Symbolic? Stretching the point? One thing’s for sure, you wonder what the future of theatre looks like? All you can know for certain is that shows like Alter, The Dead, The House, or Reunion , or emerging artists like Eavan Gaffney, Pattie Maguire, Ultan Pringle and Leanne Bickerdike, or seasoned icons like Catherine Walker, Marty Rea, Fiona Bell and Marie Mullen can still send your pulse racing, only to induce a stillness in which you don’t want to move, speak or breath. Theatre still has the power to take your breath away. It doesn't happen enough, but when it does, nothing compares to it. Bitch by Marty Breen. Imahe Sophie O'Donovan So here’s raising a glass to all those who bravely and insanely tried and inspired in 2024. We thank you. For the record, no one expects everyone to agree with everything said. But a good critic is like a trusted friend. They try inform the audience of what they can expect for investing their time and money and practitioners if the emperor is naked, semi-dressed, overdressed, or rocking the catwalk. You might think with friends like that who needs enemies? But a friend that says what some might not want to hear makes for a better friend and, hopefully, a better critic. Here’s wishing everyone every success in 2025.

Eavan Gaffney, Tishé Fatunbi and Sade Malone in A Streetcar Named Desire. Photograph: Olga Kuzmenko *** It’s one of Irish theatre’s cruelest ironies. Despite less theatres and opportunities to work, we’re producing more and more extraordinary young talents looking for work. A growing list of graduates from The Lir, Bow Lane and The Gaiety School delivering dynamite performances. Exemplified by the stunningly talented Eavan Gaffney. The best thing about the overhyped Breaking , Gaffney again illuminates the stage in an audacious A Streetcar Named Desire , playing the iconic Blanche DuBois. A woman whose age a gentleman never asks, even when he knows she’s lying through her thirty year old vanity. A Southern belle, who, like her Antebellum home, has seen better days. Gaffney concealing a multitude of sins in a production that, if it frequently finds its targets, is forever missing the mark. Narratively, nothing’s changed. The alcoholic Blanche, fleeing to New Orleans in the summer of 1947, crashes with her sister Stella and her unrefined husband, Stanley Kowalski, in their sweltering, two room apartment. As tensions brew, Blanche’s secrets come into focus and the paragon of virtue is revealed as anything but. Leading to a final confrontation and a denouement that is still argued about today. And an ending featuring one of the classic lines in all of theatredom. But that’s just the facts, the truth is far more complicated. Tennessee Williams’s classic play a sumptuous layer cake of competing metaphors and themes. Old America and the post war American dream. Beauty and ugliness. Civilised and animal behaviour. Desire and death. The real and imagined. Add your own. One of the hallmarks of a problematic Streetcar is that it sounds like Blanche delivering an interrupted monologue in which other characters serve as pauses and beats rather than flesh and blood engagements. As is frequently the case under Cathal Cleary’s direction, generating an overriding sense of a restrained ensemble all on the same side but not always on the same team. Focusing on language and individual character rather than scene and story, micro rather than macro elements come to dominate, feeling like a collection of scenes developed independently. Compounded by poor staging choices, aside from Stephen Wood’s texturally terrific lights. Maree Kearn’s prop heavy, elevated platform pushed away from the back wall falling uncharacteristically short on several counts. Facilitating a stiff, seated intro, with a disgracefully underused Stephanie Dufresne evoking P J Harvey dirging during a Goth phase; the costly pretension is echoed in Jack Baxter’s distracting music. Leaving the hardly used seating area pushing the stage area too far front, resulting in poor sight lines and an inordinate amount of back watching. Cleary showing a lack of appreciation for the compositional demands of Smock Alley's three side auditorium. Evoking little sense of the sweltering, cultural melting pot that is New Orleans. Less a sense of a collaborative endeavour, but rather of matched, mismatched, and half matched engagements. In which an invested cast pour everything into their characters, yet too often look as if playing complimentary monologues rather than the same scene. Or of looking into the darkness, but never venturing in. Take Jack Meade’s Stanley. While Meade’s imposing physical presence and man’s man authority captures one side of the coin, Stanley lacks the sexual charisma that drives Stella wild, reduced instead to a menacing, masculine misogynist. Those having seen Meade with Dufresne in Deirdre Kinahan's sparkling Tempesta know the problem isn't Meade who can certainly bring the charm. Yet lust and desire, the heat at the heart of William’s play, is mostly extinguished. Talked about by characters as if they'd heard about it somewhere else. A delightful Sade Malone as Stella, the colour blind casting raising questions about backstory given its Antebellum roots, plays the devoted housewife beautifully, yet is far less convincing as a sister or wild lover, the final scene falling flat as a result. The experience further lopsided as safe scenes trot along nicely between Stanley, Stella and Blanche, but anything requiring digging deeper feels like it's still in the rehearsal room. Meanwhile Gaffney’s Blanche is charged with such energy it feeds everything and everyone onstage; Gaffney not always getting the same energy returned to feed off. Gaffney diving in when connection is found, or retreating each moment they weaken; each syllable, eyebrow raised, or nervous smile excavating Blanche’s soul whilst trying to conceal its wounds. Hair choice far better in the second half as Blanche literally loosens her hair from Tee Baxter’s school marmish constraints and we finally see her desirous soul. Finding real connection with Kristin Phillips’s beautifully judged Mitch. Phillips terrific in the safer scenes, but not credible when Mitch comes to collect his due. Loré Adewusi, Tishé Fatunbi, Darragh Feehely, Morgan C. Jones, and Dean Landau rounding out a strong supporting cast whose accents are spot on. As Gillian Anderson's, and more recently Paul Mescal’s production made clear, A Streetcar Named Desire may seem dated in places, but it never goes out of date. Though clearly a labour of love, under Cleary’s direction A Streetcar Named Desire never quite ignites. Like a nun in a motel room at The Flamingo, a room haunted by ghosts of sins and lovers, it feels staid and puritan. The famous pyjama scene, Stanley’s animal call for Stella and their subsequent embrace lacking that raw, dangerous energy that makes Blanche, Stanley and Stella three of theatre’s most iconic characters. All that remains when desire is tamed is a streetcar. A place for people watching. Passengers in their separate space. Trotting along. A comfortable journey. Safe. Predictable. Nothing to trouble the soul. Still, there’s worse journeys. Indeed, Gaffney always, and Meade, Malone and Phillips often, do enough to make the journey interesting, offering glimpses of something deeper in unguarded moments. A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams, presented by Smock Alley Theatre and Cathal Cleary Theatre Company, in association with Once Off Productions, runs at Smock Alley Theatre till December 21st. For more information visit Smock Alley Theatre .

Jordanne Jones and Rex Ryan in From Eden. Image Irem Akay **** In the beginning there was Alan and Eva, talking about God in a bathroom in Eden. Not exactly how the Bible story goes, but in Stephen Jones' heart rending From Eden , there’s several similarities. Two forlorn souls find that fate, or God, has thrust them together. Hurting sinners in need of redemption. From Eden offering less a sentimental romance but endeavouring to explore a deeper kind of connectedness. Alan and Eva sharing a welter of accumulating confessions, each hoping that before the clock strikes midnight their Cinderella souls might find something truer than true love. Rex Ryan in From Eden. Image Irem Akay If Jones is too clever to play the opposites attract cliche, for a moment you almost wonder. Hiding in a locked bathroom at a New Year’s Eve party, Alan drinks wine from a glass whilst Eva drinks vodka from a plastic water bottle. He looks like an aspiring academic, she resembles the lead dancer in a hip hop troupe. He is recovering from a bereavement and a religious experience, she from a break up and a psychological breakdown. But there's similairites too. Both harbour secrets and share an intesne dislike for the organised in fun and religion. Those familiar with the original production, directed by the much missed Karl Shiels and starring Shauna Kerslake and Jones himself, will recall the utterly charming story that unfolds as these lost souls sail for harbour. Under Jed Murray’s compositionally astute direction, Glass Mask deliver a distinctly different experience. One with a little less charm but a much stronger spine as its two broken souls strive for connection. Jones’ binaries given greater distinction by Murray. Beginning with Rex Ryan’s Alan, looking like Ned Flanders pudgy, younger brother. Sporting an Asperger expression of unease in social situations, he desires human contact even as he finds it awkward joking or talking. Ryan’s understated performance superbly taking discomfort to a whole other level. Stiff movements and mannerism suggesting someone easily susceptible to being recruited into a cult, or of having survived one. Ryan showing huge smarts and generosity in having Alan play sidekick to the whirlwind that is Jordanne Jones’s Eva. A Cadillac of juicy pink, Eva is a storm raging inside and out, forever on the look out for the next impending fight. The dismissed bridesmaid sitting like a boxer, elbows on knees, leaning forward, preparing for the blows she’s sure are coming. Ready with a sharp tongue and cutting remark to counter. Except Eva’s no fighter. Just a puppy barking loud pretending she’s a guard dog. Eva’s heartbreaking confessions outbursts of self-hating vulnerability. Jones devastating and irresistible as a walking wound channeling pains all too familiar. Jordanne Jones in From Eden. Image Irem Akay It’s a paradox that speed can have the contrary effect of slowing things down. If pace lulls at times, a little reining in of haste in places would elevate From Eden into an even richer experience. In fairness, transfering from the Civic, where the production premiered, to the intimacy of Glass Mask Theatre involves a period of recalibration. Something Glass Mask themselves are going through having finally, and deservedly, received Arts Council support. Promising an exciting season of new work, both homegrown and from abroad for 2025. Like Alan and Eva, Glass Mask have weathered life's storms and are daring to hope what comes next? Like Glass Mask, what elevates From Eden into something that little bit special is what might initially feel unsatisfying; the subverting of obvious expectations. Building to a glorious final image perfect for the season, From Eden serves up a heart warming testament to all that’s best in us. From Eden by Stephen Jones, presented by Glass Mask Theatre, runs at Glass Mask Theatre until December 19. For more information visit Glass Mask Theatre

Ericka Roe, Lloyd Cooney and Cameron Hogan in TKB's It's Always You Bleedin' Own. Image, Ste Murray ***** Dublin 1 and its Northside adjacent residents. Little more than animal gangs pulling wheelies on Parnell Street. Or addicts shooting up openly in O’Connell Street next to children. And let’s not forget 2023’s Dublin Riot. Feckless, racist, thieving drug dealers, and that’s just the grandparents. Wouldn’t see that carry on in Ballybrack. The inner city’s response a socialist manifesto claiming disadvantage, deprivation, generational trauma or gentrification. Or romanticised claims at being the heart of Dublin. Salt of the earth Dubliners enjoying a singalong, a good bop, or a night at the bingo. Just like they did in the good old days. Except it’s not the good old days. It’s 2024. Hotels, like bicycle lanes, are cluttering the inner city and the flats are being torn down. Meanwhile a malignant energy is manifesting on what were once safe streets. In It’s Always Your Bleedin’ Own , the final instalment in The St Mary’s Mansions Trilogy, writer TKB (Thomas Kane Byrne) recognises all of the above yet insists it’s not the whole story. Cameron Hogan in TKB's It's Always You Bleedin' Own. Image, Ste Murray Trilogy fans familiar with Well That’s What I Heard and Say Nothin’ To No One , will find themselves only marginally better informed than those here for the first time. Action capable of standing alone, for the most part, as serial cheater Darren admits he’s having an affair with Amber Leaf Green no less. She of the Juicy Couture tracksuit, soon to be wed to Mick from the RA. A coffin dodger who can provide Amber with the respect and security she needs. But what she needs most is a bespoke wedding dress to stun her WhatsApp detractors. And who better than former neighbour, London based designer Cian Richards, to make it for her. A wannabe fashionista already looking like a has been; Cian is riddled with panic attacks, familial guilt, and third degree imposter syndrome following a failed collection. Reluctantly agreeing to help Amber in the hope of reclaiming his mojo, he returns to a vastly changed Dublin. Whisking up a whirlwind of jealousies, desires, drug fuelled bops and late night swims. Only for all three to arrive back where they started. But maybe now they’ll be able to say a proper hello, or goodbye.  Lloyd Cooney and Ericka Roe in TKB's It's Always You Bleedin' Own. Image, Ste Murray Despite sporting three incredible performances, not everything works as well as it might. Name associations overplay their hand and a machine gun spraying of lines means some humour flies overhead and misses its target. Then there’s an unforgivably lazy twist at the end that’s uncharacteristically poor. Yet while not perfect, it’s still rather brilliant, especially the manner of its telling. More character study than story; language, like fashion, denotes a performance of protest. Rhyming street slang, shared catchphrases, name associations, accents, rhythms and rhymes all facilitate a shared shorthand that refuses to endorse the status quo. Offering a shower of verbal fireworks in which insults rain down like sparks. A refusal mapped onto the body where authenticity and integrity are defined by the vagaries of fashion and pop culture conversations. Each character a physical, social, and artistic body strutting defiantly through life like it’s their personal runaway. Ellen Kirk’s catwalk set and fashion week costumes vibrantly defiant and expressive. Eoin Byrne’s lights and Lara Gallagher’s sound adding warmth, texture and energy. Ronan Phelan’s superb direction queering the pitch without lazily resorting to kitsch. Ensuring Lloyd Cooney’s tracksuit dim Darren, Cameron Hogan’s swaggering Cian, and Ericka Row’s inimitable Amber are each superb setting their collective catwalk alight. Bopping, swimming, shagging behind screens or heaving with anxiety; it hits like an assault on the senses and sensibilities. Meanwhile Kirk’s ever present scaffold silently evokes the once upon a time of the flats, along with their current demise.  Ericka Roe in TKB's It's Always You Bleedin' Own. Image, Ste Murray As stories go, Dublin’s inner city has been here before. Its people trapped between an uncomfortable past and an uncertain future. For Cian, Darren and Amber, that past lives in memories of the Q Bar. For an older generation it was previously known as The Harp. TKB’s dynamic trio might lament the demise of the flats, for his Nan and her generation it would have been the tenements. It’s a new spin on an old story infused with restless energy by Cooney, Hogan and Roe, each playing several characters. Most notably, there’s the divine Ms. Amber Green. With Amber Green TKB has given us a Molly Bloom for Millennials and Gen Z. A fiery, feisty, morally ambiguous Dublin woman with a quick wit, vicious tongue, and wild passions. Amber brought definitively to life by a superlative Ericka Roe in a career defining performance. And if you’ve seen Roe in Say Nothin’ To No One , that’s saying something. Roe has never been better. Nor, for that matter, has TKB.  Demanding to be heard rather than read, boasting three excellent performances, all exquisitely directed in cracking, meta-theatrical fashion, It’s Always Your Bleedin’ Own deserves to be in contention for best new play of 2024. Gerrup Helen, whoever you are, and get yourself a ticket. It’s Always Your Bleedin’ Own by TKB, presented by Breadline in association with Project Arts Centre, runs at The Project Arts Centre until December 14. For more information visit Project Arts Centre