Irish Times critics review a performance of Antigone at the Mermaid Centre, Bray and Mariza at the Liberty Hall Theatre, Dublin

Antigone at the Mermaid Centre, Bray

In times' of trouble, when the relationship between political loyalty and individual conscience is at stake, there seems to be an irresistible urge to return to Sophocles's Antigone. Most 20th century conflicts, from the first World War to the rise of fascism, stung some major playwright into a revision of this great survival from the fourth century BC.

Antigone exerts this continuing fascination because it can be adapted to an infinite variety of political purposes. This flexibility comes from its ferocious simplicity: the immovable object against the irresistible force.

The ruler of Thebes, Creon, has decreed that the body of the rebel Polyneices, must lie unburied, so that by this example, the State will be saved from anarchy. This is his painful but absolute duty. Polyneices's sister Antigone, however, has an equally absolute duty: to bury her dead brother.

In 1984 alone, there were four Irish versions of Antigone, by Aidan Carl Mathews, Brendan Kennelly and Tom Paulin, in the theatre, and by Pat Murphy in her film Anne Devlin. Within the three theatrical variations, the range of political resonances was comprehensive. Paulin's version, The Riot Act, was located by its language in Northern Ireland. Mathews's had direct references to the Criminal Justice Bill that was then before the Dáil and Kennelly's was concerned with the psychic legacy of Irish Catholicism.

Given this adaptability of the story, the obvious question that surrounds Conall Morrison's production of his own new version is what angle is it taking? Oddly enough for such a gripping, forceful piece of theatre, the answer is not at all clear. On the one hand, the visual packaging of the production suggests very strongly that Morrison wants us to imagine the contemporary Palestinian/Israeli conflict. This packaging, moreover, is unusually insistent. Apart from the posters and the programme, there is a continual series of stunning photographs, most of them representing that conflict, projected behind the action of the play.

As brilliantly arranged alongside Conor Linehan's effective live music as these images are, however, they actually work against the grain of Morrison's version. The great strength of the piece is the simple, unfussy directness of the acting. And neither his text nor his production are at all specific to the Middle East.

Indeed, since Morrison's text pretty much retains the shape and spirit of the original, it is hard to see how they could be. The basic texture of Sophocles's story is that of an intimate, internal tragedy. All the protagonists are literally members of the same family. To match this to the very different circumstances of Israel and Palestine would demand a far bigger intervention in the original.

Such is the robustness of the production, however, that this matters far less in practice than it ought to. The only really serious consequence is that the presentation of Creon in Morrison's text, and consequently in Robert O'Mahoney's performance is, for the first half of the play, rather too one-dimensional. In the search for a political parallel, he is made too much of a straightforward bully. The horrible necessity, as he sees it, of violating the laws of respect for the dead and of punishing Antigone, should seem much more painful to him than it does here.

This is not a fatal problem, however, partly because O'Mahoney is still a compelling presence, and partly because Morrison and Pauline Hutton present Antigone as, in her own way, almost as harsh a creature. From the very beginning, Hutton gives us a startlingly unsentimental heroine: furious, implacable, intolerant, as tyrannical as Creon in her relationship with her sister Ismene (Diane O'Keeffe).

The great skill of Morrison's direction is that this high-pitched, rhetorical, angry style, rooted in his own meaty, colloquial text, is perfectly controlled. While O'Mahoney and Hutton hold aloft their absolute convictions like banners, the other characters are not cowed.

Simon O'Gorman's superb Chorus is just as passionate in his inconsistency as they are in their self-assurance. Donal Beecher, with his wit and eloquence, even turns the guard who reports Polyneices's burial from the usual cowering wretch into a feisty showman.

By allowing everyone to stand up for themselves, Morrison both turns the declamatory style into a unified tone and gives the production a fierce energy. The almost universal display of swagger also makes the collapse into anguish all the more devastating, as first Antigone and then Creon dissolve in the face of death.

The sheer vigour and emotional clarity of the production cuts through the hesitations and ambiguities of its specific political message. Indeed not knowing quite what we are to make of this relentless story restores its true power and makes it oddly relevant to these uncertain times.

Fintan O'Toole

Mariza at the Liberty Hall Theatre

Mariza may not have immediately looked the part, but she knew how to play it. Beyond the requisite black shawl of the Fado (Portugal's passionate and melancholy folk music), Mariza's carefully fashioned acid-blonde hair and designer gown suggested a stray model from Jean-Paul Gaultier's runway. But, for the singer credited with redefining this most dramatic of music genres, matching contemporary lines to centuries of tradition is perfectly apposite.

Gliding onstage to join her guitar trio, Mariza fused style and substance against the plaintive coalescence of bass and classical strings. Entwined with the intricate melodies of Portuguese guitar, her singing was both affecting and meticulous.

Between the stumbling rhythms and torch-song defiance of Loucura, or the brisk, precise frivolity of Maria Lisboa, it took a while to realise just how archly manipulative the demure Mariza could be, holding the audience fast with imploring eyes or coyly abandoning us with studied modesty.

Mariza sets a scene as well as she performs one. Before a yearning Barco Negro, we were encouraged to imagine her in 16th century Portugal. Together with frequent references to musicologists, colonial legacy and her Mozambique birthplace, Mariza's inventive possession of the Fado seemed buttressed by a sense of historical entitlement.

Through robust guitar work, beguiling costume details and disarming interaction, Mariza's audience rapport tightened like a velvet vice. When she led her musicians into the auditorium for an unamplified Terra d'Agua, a helpless crowd surrendered to the full embrace of her voice, standing as one for its ovation.

Peter Crawley