Ulster American

Geraldine Hughes, Matthew Broderick and Max Baker in Ulster American. Image by Carol Rosegg

****

In David Ireland's perceptively brilliant Ulster American, Irish Americans enjoy nothing more than talking about themselves. Knowing absolutely nothing about their subject matter proving no drawback when it comes to self-praising monologues. Baldwins, Fenians, anti-Irish scripts, ignorance is bliss until faced with what they don't know about what they didn't know in the first place. Like acting legend Jay, artistic director Lee, and acerbic author Ruth, meeting at Jay's home in advance of rehearsals for Ruth's new, Irish themed play. Two time Tony winner Matthew Broderick reminding audiences why he's the real theatrical deal as the indefatigable Jay. Who, along with an excellent Max Baker (a frustrated Lee), and a sensational Geraldine Hughes (a ruthless Ruth), serve up a comedy double act made of three components. Ciarán O'Reilly fanning the flames of Ireland's fantastically funny, unsettlingly scathing satire with some top drawer direction.

In Ireland's fast paced script, the plights, perils and problems of our time see culture, counter cultures and micro cultures clash. Art, gender, identity, add your own, all colliding in a confusion of prejudice. In which characters discuss Irish identity, even though there's not a native Irish person in the room. Yet it's their process, not its interchangeable content, that's Ireland's real focus. Vilified critics, temperamental women, theoretical rape or unapologetic Unionists easily swapped out for alternate cultural and social archetypes. In the end it's less about specific incidents and their moralities so much as broader cultural power plays.

Played out in real time over a single night, explorations of national identity, being a woman in an all-male world, and what's forbidden and acceptable to discuss in impolite society lead to hilarious misunderstandings. In no time whatsoever generational self-recognition turns to gentrified self-justification. Culminating in a carnival of badly choreographed violence. If thematically apt, the end proves dramatically flaccid, the whole dwindling to a humiliated halt. Like jumping off a still running train. The journey to that point having been well worth the ride, and promising so much more to come.

Max Bakr , Geraldine Hughes, Matthew Broderick in Ulster American. Image by Carol Rosegg

Like Charlie Corcoran's deceptive set, the devil of prejudice hides in plain sight in a multitude of devious details. Michael Gottlieb's lights and Orla Long's costumes conveying similar evidence of the unspoken underlying the everyday. In which characters spin elaborate rationalisations for their cultural biases which often seep through as subtext. Performances, directed by O'Reilly with exquisite comic finesse (the moments preceding the Margaret Thatcher joke a masterclass in timing), all built on strong choices that ultimately pay off. Guaranteed not to be to everyone's liking, Broderick is brilliant as the imperturbable, easily offended Jay; a grown-up Ralph Wiggum, showing about the same level of smarts, yet minus the squeaky voice. Opting to portray Jay as absurdly self-deluded, Broderick exploits the play's comic leanings revealing how close to insanity everything really is. Broderick's flat tones, limp gestures, weak warm-up routines all offset by two highly agitated, straight partners. Baker sensational as the peace-at-any-price-people-pleaser, Lee, trying to keep everyone happy whilst annoying them endlessly. If Hughes as the righteously indignant Ruth is a centre of rationality, she's equally as biased, manipulative, self-centred and prejudiced as anyone else onstage. Broderick's becalmed, eye patch dreaming demeanour a perfect foil for Baker and Hughes' wild exasperations, fuelling the comic maelstrom.

A collage of cultural hot potatoes, Ulster American might be dated by its details, but its truth lies beyond its historic specificity. Less a play so much as a shattered Socratic dialogue, characters are earnestly delusional, misinformed or uninformed mouthpieces. And therein lies the merit, and relevance, of Ulster American. If we're truly honest, the experience is often less "there, but for the grace of God, go I", but rather, "there go I". Ulster American a comic mirror held up so we can laugh at others before finally realising, "wait, are they talking about me?"

One critical gripe. While always a pleasure to see companies like the Irish Repertory Theatre presenting their work on an Irish stage, one Broadway import that's not welcome is the practice of parading latecomers to their seats once the show is underway. Seats usually in the middle of a section. This despite venue claims that those leaving the auditorium will not be readmitted so as not to disturb the audience, the performers or the experience. The irony obvious, the practice indefensible and to be resisted before it becomes commonplace. To be clear, there are many genuine reasons a person might be late. No one is saying latecomers shouldn't get to see the show if feasible. But attending patrons and performers should not be disturbed for their benefit. Discommoding a large audience for the sake of two people is simply ridiculous. Responsibility for accommodating latecomers lies solely with venues who need to find alternate ways of seating latecomers, thereby adhering to their own professed policies, and treating, with due respect, those already in attendance both on and off the stage.

Ulster American by David Ireland, an Abbey Theatre presentation of the Irish Repertory Theatre, runs at The Abbey Theatre until August 22.

For more information visit The Abbey Theatre