Shard

Chris O'Rourke
Oct 29
3 min read

*****

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.

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.