In the programme notes to Our Father, Edna O'Brien sets out her formative theatrical experiences: the angry playrights of the 1960s, Shakespeare and Chekhov: "a ghost who steals into our unconsciousness for all time". Sadly Chekhov is less ghost then puppet master in this, her first play since 1972, that emerges as a cross between Three Sisters, The Cherry Or- chard and Lear.
At its core is a dysfunctional family, reunited for a wedding anniversary at a run-down pile somewhere in the west of Ireland. There's beautiful, errant Emer, middle-sister Peg back from South Africa, responsible Helen and sharp-suited Teddy and his sharper-tongued wife Carmela. Their mother is a faded beauty whose only solace is God; still crowing at the top of the family tree is the bullying tyrant of the title.
As in any family drama, accusations and revelations abound. A pivotal theme, however, is less in evidence. The title and opening image of cascading candles suggest religion. But no. Incest then? Nothing definite. What was the disgrace that sent Peg into exile? The narrative is strewn with unanswered questions. The crucial omission is any understanding of why Jamie is as monstrous as he is, where his terrible anger comes from. He is no aristo fallen on hard times. The house was somewhere he hunted ferrets as a boy and "set my cap at it". The Chekhovian love of the land turns out to be as lopsided as his so-called love for his family, a question of what they can do for him.
If the two-hour roller coaster of high emotion leaves the audience breathless, the fault lies neither in the direction or the fine performances, but in the writing, which substitutes melodrama for nuance of character or plot. Only the final scene - when Emer returns, Cordelia-like, to her wheelchair-bound father - does O'Brien approach Chekhov's depth of emotion. O'Brien's wizardry with language is not quite enough. Without Chekhov's structure and direction, Our Father remains firmly in his shadow.
