In Extremis

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 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.