Epiphany (a Helene Ott Review)

Lesley Conroy in Epiphany. Image uncredited

****

I would die for you. Lovers say it often. They may mean it; they may even believe it. But it is not a binding oath or a genuine plan. Rather, it is an attempt to give language to a feeling so overwhelming that ordinary words seem insufficient. A feeling that must, undeniably, be love. 

It is the memory of such a love that returns to Gretta Conroy in James Joyce’s masterpiece short story The Dead. In her youth, a delicate boy had not only promised to die for her but had, in a sense, actually done so. Michael Furey, declaring that he could not live without her, died shortly after shivering beneath her window in the cold and rain.

It is the reality of such a love that, when revealed to Gretta’s husband Gabriel, shatters his illusions of emotional mastery. The revelation provokes an epiphany that both wounds his ego and softens his soul. Yet Gretta, despite being the source of this transformation, remains largely in the background of the narrative. She is sidelined until she recounts the story of her youthful martyr, Michael Furey, revealing a deeply buried passion from her past and, by contrast, exposing its absence in the present reality of her marriage.

Seen run preview, a bold new reimagining of The Dead, Epiphany, places this moment at the centre of its narrative. Written and performed by IFTA-nominated actress Lesley Conroy and directed by Fiana Toibin, the production allows Gretta to step out of the margins and take control of her own story, much like Molly Bloom’s closing soliloquy in Ulysses. Through her perspective, we revisit the anticipation, events, and aftermath of the annual supper party hosted by Gabriel’s aunts. Relying solely on Conroy to bring its characters to life, Epiphany is necessarily more stripped back than Joyce’s richly populated and densely textured story. Fortunately, Conroy proves more than capable of filling the space. She conjures an entire world from thin air, seamlessly folding past and present into one another. Delivering with ease the theatrical somersault of a one-woman, multi-character show. 

Lesley Conroy in Epiphany. Image uncredited

In the intimate confines of The New Theatre, Conroy moves as though possessed by the dazzling whirlwind that is Gretta. She is at once audacious and tender, brimming with desire yet haunted by its persistent frustration. Some scenes call for gentle waltzing, warmly choreographed by Muirne Bloomer, only slightly weakened by Brian Dillon’s ornate sound design, which, unfortunately, evokes less the lingering memory of a party than the ambience of on hold music. Others require the solo-sex enactment of lovingly riding the wall, but where such choices might feel off-kilter, Conroy grounds them with emotional precision. Underscored by Cathy O’Carroll’s evocative lighting design, which effortlessly draws warm reds from anguished blues in perpetual dialogue with Gretta’s shifting emotional landscape; the production achieving a dreamlike fluidity. Conroy repeatedly finds moments of stillness amid the turbulence, revealing Gretta’s vulnerability and quiet despair. It is in these moments that she appears most alone on stage, even as she sustains the illusion of an entire cast.

“Women are confined to a perpetual state of yearning,” bell hooks once wrote. It is this restless longing that Gretta embodies, though she carries, too, the self-assurance of someone who has once been loved deeply. Where has that love gone?

Gretta searches for it everywhere - at once observes, perceives and watches herself being perceived. She seeks it in her husband's gaze, which never quite reaches her; in the celebrated tenor Bartell D'Arcy's glance, which passes over her entirely; and in the delicate stare of Michael Furey, forever preserved in memory and forever lost to the present.

Dara Gill's minimalist stage design, consisting of little more than a table setting and a stool, ensures that all attention remains fixed on Conroy's performance. Rather than distracting from the drama, the sparse set quietly reflects the emotional hollowness of Gretta's world. Gill's costume design operates similarly. Gretta's modest gown is worn with elegance by Conroy, yet its very plainness accentuates her growing sense of misalignment and undesirability. Once capable of commanding a room, she now reminds herself of being merely "country cute."

Lesley Conroy in Epiphany. Image uncredited

Although Gretta first appears archly youthful, seductive, and full of enthusiasm, a gradual disillusionment takes hold. As the evening progresses, she slips into something more delicate and tragic, and it is here that Conroy's performance reaches its greatest emotional depth. Where earlier she seemed to hold the audience at arm's length, Gretta finally breaks open. The barriers fall away, and she is utterly unveiled.

Alone with Gabriel, stirred by the memory carried in The Lass of Aughrim, the past suddenly becomes more vivid than the present. A remembered love eclipses a living marriage, or rather puts it into perspective. In this final unraveling, Conroy captures the devastating realisation that what Gretta longs for is not Michael Furey himself, but the feeling of having once been seen and allowed to look with a depth and intensity that her present life can no longer provide. 

Epiphany wounds before it heals, rendering the love, its loss and memory wonderfully luminous in its significance. It leaves you both heartbroken and hopeful as you step out of the theatre, likely overhearing whispered admiration for Conroy's performance.

Epiphany by Lesley Conroy, inspired by James Joyce's The Dead, presented by tenderfire and The New Theatre and prsented in association with Bloomsday Festival, runs at The New Theatre till June 16th (Bloomsday).

For more information visit The New Theatre

Helene Ott is a student of English, Drama, and Film at University College Dublin. Alongside her studies, she works as a writer, painter, and freelance photographer specialising in portraiture and visual storytelling.