Steven Berkoff's Kvetch opens with a gimmick. The safety curtain starts to ascend, and gets stuck. An impatient member of the audience begins to heckle, then mounts the stage to explain the fears that beset us all. Actors dread mishaps, insecurity lurks inside displays of confidence, even the fear of fear dictates behaviour - and that's kvetch. Then it's on with the motley.
A wife cooks an evening meal, fretting about her domineering husband (will he be tardy, food overcooked, trouble in store). He is not only late, but has invited an office friend to dinner (hope he says no, why did I ask?) The friend accepts (omigawd, can't think of an excuse). The food is awful but no one dare say so. Wife's mother, old enough not to give a damn, makes her presence felt.
The dinner teeters on the edge of disaster, husband tries to tell a joke, guest doesn't get it but laughs immoderately. Minor gaffes abound, everyone looks the other way.
As each character gives voice to inner pandemonium - kvetch - the others freeze; there is more frenzied soliloquy than external dialogue. The cast ( Karen Ardiff, Sean Kearns, Peter Hanly, Nuala Hayes and Philip Judge) are terrific, driven at a cracking pace by director Conall Morrisson, as seems to be demanded by the script. Clever insights and savage demolishments of conventions abound.
There are, however, a few reservations to be made. The structure is in itself a running joke that soon runs dry, a tickling stick that becomes an irritant. Berkoff has a refreshingly uninhibited way with vulgarity but that too grows predictable.
Runs to Sunday (booking at 056-52175)