Irish Times writers review the latest offerings from the arts world.
Juno and the Paycock
Liberty Hall Theatre, Dublin
This is the fourth successive year for the East Wall PEG Drama and Variety Group to present a play in Liberty Hall, and the label of community theatre, as applied to their work, does little justice to the standards they have achieved. Here they bring to Sean O'Casey's classic an instinctive feeling for his world and words that does full justice to both.
The sense of authenticity is pervasive from the start as Juno (Margaret Croke), Captain Boyle (Paul Horan) and his shoulder-shrugging sycophant Joxer Daly (Colm Meehan) take their places on stage. Accents are Dublin working-class perfect, and so are the nuances of the simmering relationships, always on the edge of disintegration. This is slum life as it was in the notorious tenements, enough to tax anyone's powers of survival.
And this interpretation reveals how sorely they were taxed. Boyle substitutes bombast for his lost manhood, and he and Joxer need alcohol to persuade themselves that they deserve to exist; walking tragedies both. They generate a deal of laughter between them, but it is of the kind that has been splendidly described as the crackling of thorns under a pot. The time is near when they will be crushed under its weight.
Juno is the very epitome of the unselfish wife and mother who must keep standing while others fall. Among those is her crippled son Johnny, here in an outstanding cameo performance by Ronan Dempsey. Daughter Mary (Jill Kavanagh) and neighbour Maisie Madigan (Aisling Moir) are solid in support, as are other actors with lesser parts. The practical no-fuss set design is by Fran Laycock. Dara Carolan again directs with skill and sensitivity to achieve another new-lamps-for-old triumph from a talented group.
Runs to Mar 4
Gerry Colgan
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The End of the Beginning
Bewley's Café Theatre
A golden oldie by Sean O'Casey is currently occupying the lunchtime stage at Bewley's, generating laughter that belies its years. Director Alan King saw in it an opportunity to combine native comedy with that of those immortals of the cinema, Laurel and Hardy, and the blend is delicious.
It is set on a small farm, in which wife Lizzie does virtually all the work while her husband Darry loafs about giving himself lord-and-master airs. They have a tiff, as a result of which she goes off to mow the meadow while he undertakes to do the housework for the day.
Darry, pompous and portly, is doing mild exercises to a gramophone record - his vanity has been tickled by a local woman - when he is joined by his lanky and lugubrious pal Barry. They try out the callisthenics together with ludicrous results, and move on to a slightly risqué musical number they are practising for a concert. After this aberration, they get down to the domestic chores.
Everything goes wrong, of course, as the two break dishes, wreck the lights, incur minor injuries and get into an indescribable situation concerning a heifer. It ends with the incredulous Lizzie surveying the wreckage as Darry blusters on, re-allocating the blame for everything.
In this 45-minute work may be seen elements from O'Casey's major plays; the wastrel husband and sycophantic friend, the unselfish wife subjugated by male chauvinism and society's edicts, the elevation of farce to high comedy through colourful dialogue and a beady eye for characterisation. The actors are well plugged into their roles, with John Olohan (Darry), Brendan Conroy (Barry) and Dairine Ní Dhonnchú (Lizzie) finding social resonance beneath the laughter in this very enjoyable production.
Runs to Mar 18
Gerry Colgan
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Kadin Sarkilari
Coach House, Dublin Castle
This programme surveyed women's song in the medieval Mediterranean world. It was performed by L'Itinéraire Médiéval (four members of the French early music group Ensemble Perceval). The music was drawn from oral traditions and manuscript sources, and teased out feminine aspects from the once male-dominated business of singing and song-writing.
From Galicia, there were two women troubadours' views on the entanglements of courtly love. From Catalonia, there were the reflections of a reluctant nun and of a princess poisoned by her own jealous mother. From Castile, there were cantigas (songs in praise of the Virgin Mary); from Turkey, songs by Ottoman composers; and from the world of exiled Iberian Jewry, Sephardic ballads.
Polyglot vocalist Gisela Bellsolá lent her deep and expressively arid tones to these mixed emotions as if addressing native speakers of Turkish and a range of Hispanic tongues. But without the benefit of printed English translations for those who needed them, the meaning was mostly confined to the music and to her discreet body language.
Though most of the melodies could have stood on their own (the cantigas in particular), some were garnished with percussion, and all were accompanied by the strumming of exotic stringed instruments. Director Guy Robert switched between harp and three-stringed saz, a long-necked Turkish lute. Solo items from Agnés Agopian on the zither-like quanun, and from Anello Capuano on the lute-like oud, brought welcome touches of variety and virtuosity.
Rather than emphasising cultural contrasts, this presentation of diverse material constructed a (perhaps controversial) stylistic common ground, and suggested that the popular medievalism of the 1970s is now finding a niche as a world-music genre of its own.
Andrew Johnstone
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Jack Johnson
The Point, Dublin
As a former champion surfer, Jack Johnson knows all about patience, opportunity and exhilarating momentum. Yet the Hawaiian musician's surge of appeal on these shores took many by surprise (no one more than the promoters, who switched Johnson's first Irish concert from Vicar Street to the Point and still sold out in a heartbeat).
Like most surfers, who save their adrenaline for the tide, Johnson is almost a parody of relaxation on land. Strolling on in a green tee, cargo pants and flip-flops, he could be lounging around a beach house. This is also true of his music; from the low-lidded gaze of Never Know to the blues-lite riffs and calypso syncopation of Taylor, Johnson's four-piece band whip up loose and laid-back confections. In rhythm and temperament, the emphasis is firmly on the upbeat. That's somehow at odds with the ardour of the crowd, their screams drowning every subtle interlude, but Johnson never struggles with the venue.
Caught unaware by his popularity, you might have thought Johnson's appeal was an American secret, known here only to the holders of J-1s. But tonight the lazy Sunday feel of Banana Pancakes or his single Sitting, Waiting, Wishing is the kind of imported cultural phenomenon we never knew we needed.
You can have too much of a good thing, of course. Despite an unusually clever anti-war ditty, frequent White Stripes covers and the witty embellishments of pianist, accordionist and melodica-ist Zach Gill, this writer found it so toxically pleasant that only a weekend of espressos and speed metal might restore the balance. Music is like the surf, however, and it's only a matter of time before Jackson's fans seek out more demanding shores such as The Mountain Goats, Andrew Bird or Richard Swift and start chasing bigger, trickier waves.
Peter Crawley
