The Irish Times reviewers have been to the theatre to see My Brilliant Divorce; heard comedy from Dylan Moran, trad from Mairtín O'Connor, Seamus Begley and Jon Sanders; and classical song by Schubert among others.
My Brilliant Divorce
Apollo Theatre, London
Angela, in her 40s, is replaced in her husband's affections by a younger and prettier model. Divorce follows, and the anguish, loneliness and suicidal desolation involved are hardly staples of popular entertainment, much less comedy. Yet Geraldine Aron mixes humour and pathos in almost equal measure in Garry Hynes's Druid production of her one-woman play, starring Dawn French, whose comic skills, more usually seen in TV sketches with Jennifer Saunders, are perfect for this 75-minute stage piece.
In spite of the darkness at the heart of the play, the tone is slight and breezy, with plenty of one-liners and self-deprecating asides. Although it was first commissioned by Druid Theatre, it's unusual and overtly showbizzy fare for the company and director Hynes.
Without French, Angela would be a far more irritating character - a solipsistic, pathetic hypochondriac - but French brings such charm to the role that we are completely on her side in her journey through late-night helplines, humiliations, vibrator silliness, disastrous dates - "I saw this tiny man in the distance, and as he got closer he didn't get any bigger" - therapy and loneliness.
The situations might sound banal and cliched, or even patronising, and in other hands could be, but the combination of Aron's smart lines and dry wit, worthy of the best sitcom, the inspired casting of French and the snappy direction of Hynes, lift it above the ordinary.
There are problems with the slightly odd Irish connections (the mammy in Dublin is heard on the phone from time to time) and inconsistencies of character. Does she truly have no real friends? Can a woman this bright and witty really not get a job or cope? But this is a piece of assured, amusing and occasionally moving comedy drama, lifted enormously by French's sheer physical funniness and impeccable stagecraft.
The passage of time is punctuated by loud and impressive fireworks (the husband left on Guy Fawkes night) and indeed the whole production makes great use of gimmicks and gadgets - a giant sex shop bag, her dog on wheels, a stage riser. This is beautifully staged, perfectly cast, undemanding entertainment.
Deirdre Falvey
Mairtín O'Connor/ Seamus Begley/ Jon Sanders
Gleneagle Hotel, Killarney
They had the chemistry of a courting couple. Seamus Begley's trademark glint in the eye ricocheted off the walls in the company of Kent-born guitarist, Jon Sanders. Despite a nagging flu, despite the odd dud note (a rare escapee from the pleats of Begley's accordion) and despite a disappointingly small crowd, this pair from west Kerry coaxed, cajoled and regaled the assembled faithful with a rare gathering of tunes and songs.
The stalwarts of the repertoire, particularly Mo Giolla Meár lurched forth, lifeless, but once they swung off the main drag in the direction of a rake of new material (from Sanders's quantum leaping Music For A Found Harmonium to Begley's latest beatific acquisition, the Australian ranching song, Andy's Gone A Droving) there was no holding back - on stage or off. A gallant opening salvo in what was to become a rousing double session.
Mairtín O'Connor's reputation for penning highly original, challenging and complex tunes is not only safe from plunder, but soars high into the stratosphere where few writers repose. His accordion isn't so much a conduit for the music; it's a launching pad for a plethora of styles, tempos, tempers and even the odd tango.
It was the kind of turbo-charged line-up that more usually finds a home at presidential gatherings and other elite soirées, with Garry Ó Briain on keyboards, guitar and mandocello, Seamie O'Dowd (of Dervish) on guitar, Ken Edge on sax and clarinet, Cathal Hayden on fiddle and banjo and Danny Bert on percussion. Here, however, they hit full throttle and let the G-forces take care of the punters.
Of course there were some whose eyebrows rose in shock at the cosmopolitan mix, and others whose tolerance for experimentation was stretched to the limit. But anyone with an ear for divinely inspired arrangements and downright cheeky name games (to wit, The Corribean - a Galway man's substitute for that more exotic ocean) found themselves high kicking in time from the opening tune, The Atlantean.
Despite O'Connor's somewhat pedantic intros, we whooped and hollered to the strains of a Turko-Connaught piece of erotica called Maamturk; we disengaged the pelvic girdles in time to the aptly-monickered tango, Oblivion and we went into orbit on the back of O'Connor's magnificent Come West Along The Road.
Even a dodgy sound system and the constraints of theatre seating couldn't dull the senses. This was music that tweaked at the cerebrum, the cardiac muscles and the hips with deliciously wicked consequences. And when it was all over we flowed out the door like liquid mercury - jointless.
Siobhán Long
Dylan Moran
Vicar Street
There was always the danger that someone as young as Dylan Moran could box himself into a "Young Fogey" corner - becoming a Victor Meldrew for the Nokia generation as he irascibly trained a jaundiced eye on contemporary life. While he is still as withering about many of today's social foibles, Moran can also look at the bigger picture and draw humour out of the most arcane situations.
Whereas before, he had indulged in all sorts of surreal imagery and unlikely flights of fancy, there is more of a concrete approach in evidence now. The youth of today, with their music - "music that is so loud you only hear it when it stops", and their piercings and their general "eagerness" are summarily dismissed from the confines of his ever-present but invisible armchair.
This sort of material, no matter how well honed though, can be executed by any common or garden comic. Where Moran really excels is in his ability to work comic wonders with the English language, utilising a range of vocabulary that has never been used before in this type of entertainment and bringing his lexicon to bear on a diverse range of subjects.
It's how the adjectives, adverbs and recherché turns of phrase are juxtaposed against such banal topics as the etiquette at dinner parties that provide the real excellence here.
As self-deprecating as ever, his delivery is still of the "theatrically indignant" style and although less bewildered than in the past, he remains professionally perplexed. In these days of identikit routines, it's a real pleasure to listen to one so literate and lyrical, and to be reminded why he is the best stand-up comic the country has ever produced.
Brian Boyd
Hakon Vramsmo/ Llyr Williams
Law Society, Dublin
The opportunistic publisher who threw together Schubert's last songs under the evocative title of Schwanengesang (Swansong) may have thought the dulcet and fairly conventional settings of poems by Rellstab would make the public readier to accept the more profound and original settings of Heine.
A similar effect was created by Vramsmo in this recital when he sang all seven Rellstab settings and followed them with five of Wolf's Morike settings. Perhaps in order to even out the disparity the Schubert songs were given more weight than they need. The result of this was to make Wolf's ascendancy the more obvious, and singer and pianist reached a level of performance that brought out the full meaning of the songs.
The second half of the programme was almost a showcase for the singer's very pleasing voice. After three highly romantic settings by Samuel Barber, there were three morsels from Mozart (Don Giovanni and Figaro), and three pieces from Rodgers/Hammerstein. These last were extraordinarily well done, but a little out of place in a Lieder recital. Normality was restored in the first encore, a beautifully rendered performance of Morgen by Richard Strauss.
Douglas Sealy
