The Queen And Peacock
Dra∅ocht, Blanchardstown
Three drinkers and a barman settle in for what looks like a quiet night in a London gay bar, The Queen and Peacock. But old differences soon start to bubble to the surface, and both London's gay scene and the seismic shifts in contemporary Irish society come in for closer inspection. Playwright Loughlin Deegan's choice of a pub setting is understandable, given that it plays such a key social role, both here and in the emigrant community, but it imposes a dramatic stasis - all that sitting around, drinking - that the actors sometimes find hard to overcome. There are some fine performances, though, particularly from Darragh Cunningham, a newcomer to the Irish stage, and Charlie Bonner, whose final scene has an admirably restrained pathos.
Louise East
Runs until Saturday
Baked Beans & Raspberry Ripple
Bewley's Cafe Theatre
The landlady-and-new-lodger scenario is an old formula, and Nodding Dog Theatre Company's twist on it is to make the poshly spoken lodger, Mr Smith (Gerard Byrne), a drug dealer. Frankly, if he's as successful as he says he is, you'd wonder why he has chosen to stay in such a dive - unless I missed an intended irony. There are many holes through which credulity slips in Iris Park's uneven piece of comedy theatre, as it's neither funny enough nor sharp enough to make you suspend disbelief. Miss Brown (Geraldine Plunkett), the landlady, asks Smith for something to liven up her social club's Christmas party, which is the bones of the plot. In the event, he doesn't deliver, which is a bit like the play itself.
Rosita Boland
Runs until October 13th
Dr Scrontium's Mad Kahoogaphone And Homeless Medicine Show
Molly Malone statue
I encounter the kahoogaphone by a motley gathering of musicians who are playing ragtime. The contraption is not unlike Molly's cart, but loftier and with a mysterious coloured canopy. Pied Piper-like, the Opera Guerrillas lead us along Westmoreland Street and over O'Connell Bridge. The company's intention is to raise awareness of homelessness. Bemused onlookers stare after the trail of our merry troupe as we snake along by the Central Bank. I count eight figures slumped against walls and bridges, one smiling man holding a suspiciously fresh cardboard box. Definitely an extra, I think. He isn't. We are taken to a secret venue, where the show begins. Despite a laboured and simplistic narrative, the Guerrillas' aim is realised. The disorientating power of this promenade piece is the perfect medium to dislodge the jaded view of our immediate environment.
Belinda Kelly
Runs until October 13th
How I Failed To Become A Popstar
International Bar
Singer-songwriter Jody Trehy's musical on the lack of originality, passion and integrity in pop music treads a fine line between bitterness and revenge. He cross-references success in the pop business with fairy tales, reminiscences and cracking songs (the latter very much in the mould of Bernelle, Brecht, Brel and Bowie), while cocking a snook at the sterility of "muppets miming live to a backing track". Using guitars, a minidisc and basic lighting, Trehy questions the changing attitude towards the commercialisation of rock and pop, calling it more an "accidental by-product of wheeling and dealing" than a creative impulse. Blending a circuitous but structured narrative with some very sharp comic lines, Trehy, who is more an enthusiastic than a skilful actor, delivers an exuberant, slightly verbose lunchtime show that starts slowly but ends with a flourish.
Tony Clayton-Lea
Runs until Saturday
The Maids
The Cube, Project
Claire (Victoria Monkhouse) and Solange (Liz Quinn) are chambermaids to Madame (Shane O'Neill) in this dark play by Jean Genet. The two sisters despise their mistress, as well as her wealth, finery and flamboyant lifestyle, with the same searing passion with which they ache for it all. But they are imprisoned by their servility. Locked in a fantasy fuelled by (self-)hatred, they repeatedly act out a truncated role-play of the Hegelian master-slave relationship, insulting, loathing and protecting each other until the final annihilation. Untitled Assembly presents a meticulously constructed performance, which despite its care never quite swings deeply enough into extremes. That Madame is played by a man adds a bit of camp lightness. Perhaps it was intended to divert the emphasis onto the maids' self-imposed agony. One element clamours for change: the fatal cup of tea, pronounced "tay" (as in "cupβn . . .") throughout. Spoken against their otherwise strictly British accents, it renders this crucial prop ridiculous.
Christine Madden
Runs until Saturday
