Michael Dunganreviews Sarah Chang and Ashley Wass at the National Concert Hall Mary Lelandsaw Jason and the Argonauts at the Half Moon Theatre in Cork and Gerry Colganwas at the Bewley's Cafe Theatre to see This is a Play.

Sarah Chang, Ashley Wass
NCH, Dublin

Beethoven - Sonata No 9, Kreutzer.
Richard Danielpour - River of Light.
Prokofiev - Sonata No 2
American violinist Sarah Chang was a 14-year-old celebrity prodigy when she made her Irish and European debut here 12 years ago. Her late, great teacher at New York's Juilliard School, Dorothy DeLay - whose former pupils include Nigel Kennedy, Midori, and Itzhak Perlman - said that Chang arrived to her, aged seven, already more musically developed than any other pupil in 50 years.

Even so, in 1995 - when her wide-ranging Dublin programme included Mozart, Strauss, Brahms, Shostakovich, Elgar and Sarasate - she professed herself not yet ready to perform Beethoven in public.

It was fitting, then, that she should open her return recital in The Irish Times Celebrity Concert Series with Beethoven. What stood out in her musical maturity was a deep-rooted fieriness to match that in the opening movement of the Kreutzer, the fieriest of Beethoven's violin sonatas.

His own description that this work was written "as though a concerto" was fully realised by both players, particularly in the outer movements, with Chang deploying her unfailing refinement, virtuosity and extrovertism to her soloistic line. Pianist Ashley Wass - an unjustly early casualty of the 2000 AXA Dublin International Piano Competition - was likewise equal to the orchestral demands of his part, especially in the flying moto perpetuo of the finale.

The pair established a wholly different, languid quality for River of Light, a piece composed in memory of Isaac Stern by New Yorker Richard Danielpour. It incorporates a handful of musical tropes to convey more the wonder and mystery of death than the fear it arouses. Wass's understated handling of this often cinematic part was nicely balanced by a strong sense of chamber music from Chang.

The final piece was Prokofiev's 1943 Sonata No 2, originally for flute. Its four movements showcased even more of Chang's technical and expressive range, from the almost sarcastic fire of the scherzo to the special tenderness of a quiet passage that emerges unexpectedly in the midst of the romping finale.

Michael Dungan

Jason and the Argonauts
Half Moon Theatre, Cork

It might be claimed that Scotland's Visible Fictions company doesn't do enough to enlighten the probable, and in Ireland almost certain ignorance of the stories of Greek mythology among the school-going audience at whom its production of Jason and the Argonauts is aimed. Certainly a programme note would have helped us through some of the chunkier explanations. But maybe the teachers prime their pupils before taking them to the show, although as they couldn't stem the crunching tide of crisps, sweets and plastic bottles, despite an introductory plea by the theatre staff, this must be doubted (though resource packs for the play can be downloaded from the Half Moon Theatre's website). However, it could also be claimed justifiably that the show itself is enlightening, and not just about the Classics.

Enacted by Simon Donaldson and Tim Settles, the script by Robert Forrest is an ingenious interweaving of characters, assisted by a cast of action-men dolls and a blanket box as prodigious as anything opened by Pandora. Economy of style need not hinder the imagination and this production acts, or should act, as a catalyst on whatever limited use youngsters might make of plastic and inanimate toys. This is in fact a kind of toy-shop creativity which the children, even while chomping, seem to love.

Jason looks for his ship in the Argos catalogue, Spiderman keeps on popping up where he's not wanted, and, in a wonderful moment of transformation, the small ship made out of newspaper grows to take up the entire stage. A major role is taken by the wooden-wheeled wagon, something a band of strolling players might have used, which here becomes a hillside, a rostrum, a throne, a cavern or anything else the mythical adventurers demand. The energetic but well-balanced playing is supported by Daniel Padden's music and sound effects, and the production is directed by Douglas Irvine with such elan that even though the golden fleece is only a jacket with its lining turned out, it somehow seems to be the real thing.

• Runs until Monday

Mary Leland

This is a Play
Bewley's Cafe Theatre

It opens like a playlet by Tennessee Williams. An old auntie watches as usual with her fragile niece Sissie for the train to pass through their little hamlet, but this time it stops and a handsome stranger gets off. This is merely a sub-plot to the real business, which is the expression of the interior thoughts of the three actors as they struggle with a bad play.

Auntie (Geraldine Plunkett) is deeply sad that she hasn't got a better wig. She notes with resentment the little vanities of her juniors, and longs to get off-stage for a smoke. For reasons that become apparent, she is keeping an eye on the young couple. Like the veteran she is, she saves her big effort for the climax.

Sissie (Judith Ryan) is all fluttery and tentative on the outside, a typically damaged Tennessee Williams female. Underneath her eyelashes, she notes how the Stranger misses his cues and lighting spot, and is watching the audience. She is herself looking out for her mother, wondering why she never comes to see her.

The very tall Stranger (Marcus Lamb) struts his macho stuff as he imagines Robert De Niro would do, and hopes that a talent-spotter he believes to be present won't leave before he gets to take off his shirt and show his pectorals. There is a running theme about lettuce, and it transpires that both he and Sissy have a lettuce tattoo on their forearms. All is revealed; they are siblings, Auntie is their mother and incest has narrowly been averted.

By Canadian Daniel McIvor, and directed by Simon Manahan, it adds up to 40 minutes of clever and clued-in fun.

• Runs to May 12

Gerry Colgan