Mother Teresa is Dead
Project Cube, Dublin
Charity begins at home, but where does it end? For Jane, a western woman who has left her husband and child without warning, her guilt, concern and emotional breakdown bring her to a shelter for street kids in Madras.
Seven weeks after her disappearance, her husband Mark pursues her to India and, in Helen Edmundson's delicately probing drama, a tussle ensues between morality and responsibility, between home and the world.
There is still more transplantation involved in Focus Theatre's thoughtful and engaging production. Director Joe Devlin has relocated each of Edmundon's English characters to an Irish context. It's an intriguing decision. Though this loses the postcolonial echoes of Edmundson's text, Devlin's alterations directly implicate an Irish audience in the play's moral dilemma: in what is supposedly one of the most affluent and charitable countries on earth, how far do our donations stretch, and who do they serve? Nothing is simplified in Edmundson's play, its conundrums beautifully realised and underscored in Anne-Marie Woods' set, inventively lit by Kevin Smith. At once abstract and practical, Woods has constructed something that variously resembles a sanctuary and an arena, its centre-stage circular recession, draped in red moss, might suggest a Hindu temple or a battleground.
Such pleasing ambiguity boosts each performance too. In a world without saints, no one here is quite what they seem; from the serene mask of Catherine Byrne's divorced artist Francis to the smooth-talking façade of Gabeen Kane's handsome doctor Srinivas - a man so dubiously suave he explains "physical intimacy" as just "a profound way of connecting with someone's Karma". As the confused Jane, Elizabeth Moynihan makes a convincing hysteric torn between two worlds and - her Karma vulnerable to profound connection - two men. But Paul Roe's admirably underplayed Mark is more remarkable. We recognise Mark as a racist and insensitive bully, but Roe never allows his character that knowledge, and it's rare to see such a nuanced (and even sympathetic) depiction on the stage.
Having so adeptly exploited the potential of Project Cube while its own space is renovated, Focus Theatre may now share the predicament of Edmundson's characters; it will be hard to go home. In the meantime, however, the quiet struggle between selflessness and selfishness, the pressures of the rat race and the desire to "opt out", make this a timely, intelligent and engaging production. - Runs until August 26th
NCC/Antunes
National Gallery
Monteverdi - Lamento d'Arianna
Lars Edlund - Nenia
Reger - O Tod wie bitter bist du
Monteverdi - Lagrime diamante al sepolcro dell'amata
Martin Adams
This was the last concert in the National Chamber Choir's series Eros and Thantos (Love and Death), and the programme was perfectly devised for that purpose. It progressed from love to death; and it showed how different ages have responded to these eternal themes.
Monteverdi's Lamento d'Arianna is one of the most celebrated laments in all music; and his Lagrime diamante al sepolcro dell'amata is likewise a cycle of madrigals, written in this case on the death of an 18-year-old female student of the composer. These works framed the programme; and the way they were paced by the NCC and its director, Celso Antunes, was an impeccable demonstration of Monteverdi's ideal - that music should serve words, not the other way round.
In such music, even the best performances raise questions. For example, I wondered about the somewhat mannered inclination to end lines with a fade-out. When Arianna sings "In cosi gran martire" (In this great suffering), a fade-out ending makes her seem too limp for the strong character she is. Her subsequent, despairing "Lasciatemi morire" (Let me die) does not need a lead-in - it comes after a silent sigh.
Lars Edlund's Nenia uses the opening progressions and the first two words of Monteverdi's lament. It epitomises the shift from music as the servant of words to the 20th century's worship of sound for its own sake. Tightly written by a composer who fully understands the choral medium, it is a demanding and striking piece that holds one's attention throughout its ten minutes.
Reger's O Tod, wie bitter best du is a gem. It must be a treat to sing; and this performance showed it to be a prime example of the late-romantic tension between death as agony and as transcendent release.
The Russian Futurists
Whelan's, Dublin
Davin O'Dwyer
"I do pop 'cause that's where my heart goes, I don't call it art, no sir." The opening lines of this performance by The Russian Futurists are a statement of intent, but plenty of others might disagree with the first line of Let's Get Ready to Crumble. The songs of Torontonian Matthew Adam Hart are art with extra doses of heart. Sweet, expansive, gorgeously produced pop with an old-school hip-hop influence, Hart might get a lot of comparisons to the Magnetic Fields and The Flaming Lips, but it is the exuberant power pop of The Go! Team that his sound most closely resembles. His albums are famously home-produced, but judging from his rich sound, he must live in a fully-equipped high-tech studio with a big band in the attic. Instead, his music is full of carefully selected samples, irresistible melodies and endearing lyrics.
Hart may be a one-man band on record, but on tour he is accompanied by two keyboardists, Scott-E and Sean-O. The latter, however, was taken ill just before the performance, apparently an allergic reaction to some fish and chips. David Kitt had fulfilled keyboard duties for Jape during their blistering support set, and how The Russian Futurists could have done with such assistance. The set was seriously curtailed (they played for less than an hour), and the sound was often muffled. Hart's vocals occasionally sounded as if they were coming through a mobile phone. With songs as precisely crafted as Hart's, it's disappointing when the live version sounds thinner than the original.
Despite those problems, The Russian Futurists' songs are so infectiously upbeat and Hart and Scott-E's demeanour so affable, that it was impossible not to grin along with the bouncing melodies. Wearing thick hoodies with their names printed on them, they probably wished, in a venue as hot and sticky as Whelans, that they had printed up T-shirts instead. Or even vests.
Hart was careful to apologise for the shortened set, and while this performance was not vintage, expect The Russian Futurists to be one of the highlights of the Electric Picnic festival at the beginning of September, where their flawless pop songs should capture the spirit of the weekend perfectly.
