Patrick Lonergan reviews Blue Raincoat's latest production, It's a Short Life and John Allen was at the NCH where Cara O'Sullivan, the RTECO under the baton of Matthew Rowe wowed the lunchtime audience.
It's a Short Life. The Factory, Sligo
Blue Raincoat's latest production intriguingly blends different theatrical styles, giving us a play by the Bulgarian dramatist Stanislav Stratiev, which is directed by France's Emmanuel Vacca and performed by an Irish cast.
This mix results in many exciting moments, but the different elements don't always cohere.
Stratiev's play satirises Soviet-style totalitarianism, presenting an absurdist fable about an architect who loses a button on his trousers. He seeks help from the residents of a nearby tower-block, who are conditioned by their poverty to greet him with suspicion and, eventually, violence. He moves then to a clothing repair workshop, where he undertakes a frustrating series of bureaucratic rituals without actually getting his trousers mended.
These encounters make a simple point: if the state can't control you, it will use its social structures and bureaucracy to make you lose control of yourself.
That idea is presented repeatedly, to the point of tedium. This is because Stratiev is attempting to write in the tradition of theatrical absurdism, which means that his audience must not just observe the architect's frustration, but share it. The strategy of alienating the audience works for such writers as Beckett and Ionesco, because their plays allow us to use our irritation with the action to form a deeper understanding of ourselves. But Stratiev's ideas are conveyed so explicitly that no such understanding is possible: aspiring for absurdism, the play only achieves frivolity.
As always with Blue Raincoat, there is some exquisite acting; and the company's ambition and willingness to take risks are hugely stimulating. The production is also very funny: the four performers interact energetically with the audience during set-changes; while tableaux, masks, corporeal mime, and good old-fashioned hamming are used to humorous effect. But there are problems too: comic exaggeration sometimes lapses into hyperbolic self-parody, while the script's repetitiveness is matched by a lack of modulation in the delivery of some lines - resulting in rather a lot of shouting. And some scenes just don't work: notably, an extended spoof of the opening scene of Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey is beautifully enacted, but too familiar to be effective. - Patrick Lonergan
Until Aug 12. No show Sun or Mon
Cara O'Sullivan/ RTÉCO/Matthew Rowe. National Concert Hall, Dublin
Short orchestral pieces like Reznicek's Donna Diana overture and Fucik's Florentine March were once the mainstay of military bands and salon ensembles. Nowadays, on their rare outings in concert, they are often delivered with a shallow showiness that belittles their musical merit.
At lunchtime in the NCH, the young British conductor Matthew Rowe took both works seriously. He maintained admirable instrumental balance and offered many moments of subtle dynamic nuance. His less- than-breakneck speeds, something that allowed for clear articulation of the more rapid passages, still conveyed a sense of urgency by means of strong rhythmic pointing.
The RTÉ Concert Orchestra repaid the conductor's efforts with consistently good execution. There was elegant interplay between woodwinds and strings in the trio section of the Fucik march, a work climaxed by disciplined but exciting brass playing.
Orchestra and conductor were equally effective in Copland's Variations on a Shaker Melody and two of Falla's fiery dances. They were especially so in depicting the murky ambience of the mythological river in Sibelius's Swan of Tounela. Here, the brooding majesty of the eponymous bird was eloquently limned by David Agnew's suave cor anglais solo.
Cara O'Sullivan was the vocalist in the song to the moon from Dvorak's Rusalka. The soprano was in sovereign voice, but the performance offered more than just an isolated operatic chunk.
The intimate fusion of soloist, conductor, harp and orchestra turned the water-nymph's plaintiff plea for male companionship into something of a four-way musical love affair.
The passion was marginally toned down in Rodrigo's 1948 Four Madrigals of Love. Here, singer and orchestra delightfully depicted the changing moods of the protagonist as she moves from self-pity, through coquettishness, to joyful anticipation. And the soprano plainly enjoyed her short flirtations on high with the solo piccolo.
Perfect fare for a sunny August lunchtime.
John Allen
