A look at some of the Dublin Theatre Festival

James, Son of James

Samuel Beckett Theatre, Dublin

Following the extraordinary - and almost wordless - Giselle, a darkly twisted, yet spectacularly beautiful Irish reworking of the classic ballet, and then The Bull, a splenetic and crude updating of An Táin, it has become hard to second-guess the eclectic and erratic work of director Michael Keegan Dolan.

Now comes the final part of his Midlands Trilogy for Fabulous Beast, one that is coy with its textual allusions, grasping occasionally at the thematic threads of the previous productions, but more recognisable for the dance theatre company's wayward idiosyncrasies than any satisfying display of its capabilities. Relying heavily on a dialogue drained of nuance and a less-than-subtle scenario ("plot" doesn't seem quite right) which could have been improvised to illustrate a Sunday school lesson, it largely neglects the transcendent powers of movement and thickens the suspicion that the company has thrown the dance out with the bathwater.

Following a long absence, James (Emmanuel Obeya) returns to Rathmore for his father's funeral, finding a town which - to judge from the white pine housing facade of Merle Hensel's design and the choreographed slapstick of an amusing opening scene - is currently under construction. What is buried in the community's foundations comes in gentle suggestions: a local politician resembles a ventriloquist's dummy for his iron-willed wife; a possibly suicidal young girl lives a possibly unhealthy life with her comically bandaged father; a policeman and his wife cannot conceive; a doctor smells funny, and so on.

This Anytown panoply of quirks and kooks, brightly costumed and lit with store-display brightness, may seek to widen the definitions of Irish society (something the international cast already do neatly), but it ends up looking like imported American schmaltz. The music, in which characters routinely sing the music-box melodies and sweetly depressive lyrics of Californian band the Eels (to the extent that the play resembles a jukebox musical), clinches it: We're not in the midlands anymore.

Within this community, an otherworldly, beatific figure resurrects the dead, performs miracles and immeasurably improves the lot of the female population, but is ultimately persecuted for the failings of a community. James is, then, an allusion to either the story of Christ or Edward Scissorhands. Whatever the archetype, the play (written by the company) still lacks a sturdy framework - as though the carpentry of the set would lend it some structure - and moves to an abrupt conclusion without foreshadowing or tragic momentum.

When it occasionally resorts to dance - measured out in duets of sometimes exquisite, sometimes ribald sexually- charged duets - you get a glimmer of the physical strength of the company. To have relegated such talents in favour of misfiring semiotics (the climax, with its religious persecution/lynch mob overtones, is less provocative than troublingly misconceived), meandering plot and confused social comment leaves us instead with just a fitful musical and a garbled message. Until Oct 13

Peter Crawley

Traces

Olympia Theatre, Dublin

Circus has left the tent, acquired the word "new" and now slaps it out on stage with more traditional theatrical forms. Some shows have retained the virtuosity and immediacy of the ring and metamorphosed into riveting theatrical experiences. Traces isn't one of them.

It tries hard. It offers the affected drama of a countdown towards impending doom, get-to-know-us personal stats and a self-consciously junk-strewn stage. But behind the stylising, the show is just about tricks.

The five acrobats arrive in a tumble and begin throwing themselves around the stage, spinning off another's crouched back or stepping on to clenched hands before being thrown into a somersault. Although the staging and the physicality aspires to fringe more than mainstream, there is no real edge, and it feels like middle-class kids trying to act tough. After this frenetic and physical opening, the pace is slowed by a series of set-pieces with skateboards, vertical poles and giant hoops, all loosely stitched together by a reflection on how we can make our mark on society. These traces range from the dull - a cringing mock TV quiz show - to the exhilarating, such as a breathtaking series of stunts on two vertical poles where gravity is truly defied as bodies leap one-handed and stop their descents inches from the floor.

At these times, Traces adopts a more presentational style. It's what the five performers seem happiest performing and, judging by the Pavlovian applause, what the audience want most. The finale is a series of hoop-jumping stunts, where the tension is built up by a recorded heartbeat rather than rolling drum. Hoops are piled higher on other hoops rather like a puissance, but unfortunately came tumbling down as quickly.

As this final set of tricks began to go awry, there was at last some real drama: one trick didn't work and another made it on the third attempt. Ironically, it was as this gloss faded that the audience most bonded with the performers, and we cheered loudest when success followed failure. Until Oct 6

Michael Seaver