Abbey Theatre, Dublin
When Nikolai Gogol’s scabrous satire on Tsarist Russia first opened in 1836, it found a public that had long suspected its political system of endemic corruption – but was too afraid to say so. Among generally censorious reactions, Gogol had an influential defender. “Everyone gets his comeuppance, not least myself,” approved Tsar Nicholas I.
So goes the Gogolian conundrum: If satire receives official endorsement, has it failed?
Roddy Doyle’s new version of the play comes up against a similar challenge, finding a public that has long suspected its political system of endemic corruption – and said so liberally – but skewering a target now retreating into history which has left us with consequences that cannot be punctured.
Doyle’s version matches Gogol’s desire for “Russianness” with his own ear for “Irishness”. “Gentlemen – lads,” begins Don Wycherley’s cute hoor Mayor. “I have some shocking news.”
But such pleasing colloquialism quickly curdles into more cynical watchwords.
With the suspected arrival of a government inspector – travelling incognito – the officials admit to a culture of “brown envelopes”. The mayor makes a dubious, Callelean distinction between his “family home” and “principal residence” and, most egregiously, bribes Ciarán O’Brien’s foppish inspector (actually a low-level South Dublin schemer with an accent borrowed from Ross O’Carroll-Kellyovich) with the words, “it’s a dig-out not a bailout”. Far from the sly sting of satire, this is the bludgeon of observational comedy – a hazard of adapting classics for superficial topicality. In short, too little too late.
Jimmy Fay’s production contains an abundance of talent, with so many gifted comic performers (including Joe Hanley, Marion O’Dwyer, Rory Nolan, Peter Daly, Gary Cooke, Michael Glenn Murphy – pause for breath – Clare Barrett, Karl Quinn and Mark Doherty) squeezed into Conor Murphy’s slowly revealed steel-framed house, that few find room to manoeuvre, with the exception of Damian Kearney’s hilariously played postmaster.
Happily, Fay works best with the crowd scenes, where everything from double-takes to conspiratorial asides are served with the tickle of slapstick, while Liz Roche choreographs amusingly absurd tableaux.
Often, though, that physicality seems to compensate for flat stretches of the script (Doyle is too reverent to Gogol to give him the honour of an edit) and a late, excessively physical, display from Wycherley – now dressed as Mussolini for fear the production has been too subtle – seems like a telling gesture of frustration.
The most riveting moment comes straight from Gogol, bearing his message, if not his urgency, when the fourth wall crumbles and Wycherley directly challenges the audience: “What are you laughing at? You’re laughing at yourselves.”
In a case of mistaken identity, Gogol and Doyle both know, anyone can pass for the government inspector. The arch, sobering corollary is that anyone can be the mayor too. Trust no one.
– Runs until January 28th
