Theatre in Review: Irishtown (Irish Repertory Theatre)Theatre people certainly have it in for their own these days. On Broadway, Smash follows the development of a new musical about Marilyn Monroe, which spins out of control when the leading lady takes on distinctly Monroe-ish characteristics. Bad behavior ensues, aided by bitchy gags about obscure Mandy Patinkin flops. At the Irish Rep, Ciara Elizabeth Smyth's new comedy focuses on the mayhem surrounding a New York-bound Dublin stage production, its intrigue-ridden company driven to desperate acts. There's nothing wrong with this type of self-satire; from The Royal Family to The Producers, it has often yielded comedy gold. Write what you know, after all. But I'm beginning to believe that the practitioners of this sub-genre need the aid of fact-checkers. Just as Smash depends on the audience accepting the notion that a popular Broadway musical theatre star would fall, suddenly and psychotically, under the sway of the Method, Irishtown forces its cohort of show folk ("The Irishtown Players") into a series of plot contortions, shaped by flagrantly unprofessional behavior. Who are these people and why do they have careers? The company -- which appears to be less august than the Abbey or the Gate, but less scrappy and avant-garde than, say, Fishamble -- is prepping to premiere a new play in New York, so tensions are high. Why the troupe would take a chance on an untried piece instead of bringing over a sure-fire hit is a mystery; then again, in an example of Smyth's intermittently wicked wit, we learn it is a follow-up to that popular hit, The Happy Leper of Larne. (Martin McDonagh is hardly the only bold-faced name to get a thorough working-over here.) The new piece, Who Are We If We Are Not Ourselves At All (take that, Fintan O'Toole!) about a woman who is sexually assaulted and then trapped in an unsympathetic legal system, sounds rather like Prima Facie, Suzie Miller's Broadway hit of a few seasons back. It is, we are assured, very, very brave. In record time, however, rehearsals are stalled thanks to day drinking, an in-house triangle, and a gossipy trio of actors bent on undermining each other and second-guessing every word of the script. When the author, Aisling, walks out in a fury, taking her play with her, panic sets in: If the company members don't deliver a production in a week, they will personally be on the hook for $250,000. (This is another red flag; I'd like a look at those contracts.) With no other options, the frantic cast, aided by Poppy, their nonplussed director, tries to devise a good-to-go play from the ground up. Not that anyone notifies the design team, production manager, technical director, press agent, or whoever is building the set in the United States. But I cavil. Nicola Murphy Dubey's production makes the most of the script's cheeky disrespect for the giants of modern Irish theatre and her cast often appears to be having a good time. They include Saoirse-Monica Jackson as Siofra, the achingly sincere leading lady, who, to her considerable bemusement, has won an award for best newcomer twice, "ten years apart;" Kevin Oliver Lynch as Quin, the only man in the group, whose latest infidelity has reduced him to living in a six-by-six garden shed ("It's good. Although I'm not sure it's entirely waterproof"); Brenda Meaney as the tough-talking Aisling, who announces her desire for a script as tight as "a fucking nun's vulva;" and Angela Reed as Poppy, whose people-pleasing ways act mask her scandal-prone work history. Presiding over them all is Kate Burton, a steady source of hilarity as Constance, the in-house diva and chief pot-stirrer. "Well, there's a reason Poppy no longer works at the Royal Shakespeare Company," she murmurs to Quin. "I heard a rumor that she likes to do extra 'character work' with certain actors. If you pick up what I'm putting down." When challenged about the veracity of such charges, she replies demurely, "I have no idea if it's true, but it is fun to say." It is Constance who spearheads the objections to Aisling's script ("Yes but where are the rolling hills, where is the bar, why is everyone alive?") joined by Quin ("I'm talking about the style of Irish writing that people like. Where all the peasants are fighting and drinking and making love with their cousins"). When Aisling walks, the actors, working in improv, birth a monstrous McDonagh-meets-Brian Friel-meets Enda Walsh mashup, filled with alcohol, incest, mental illness, and interconnecting monologues. It's amusing as far as it goes, but this is where one realizes that Irishtown is little more than a comic sketch, its undeniable cleverness stretched to the breaking point. Irishtown gets the usual loving Irish Rep treatment, in this case thanks to Colm McNally's amusingly detailed rehearsal room setting (abetted by his solid lighting), Orla Long's costumes, and Caroline Eng's sound. The cast is unflagging in its energy -- I will long treasure the sight of Burton, having fallen into despair, hugging a pillar for dear life -- and Smyth does have something cogent to say about the commodification of Irish culture for moneyed American audiences. Still, Irishtown is only fitfully successful, a stop-and-start evening that relies on behavior that belongs to some alternate universe. This piece and Smash beg the question of why professional theatre practitioners can't spoof their world while holding on to some baseline of reality. "I've just never been in an Irish play with a happy ending," Constance frets. She's in one here, more or less, and her fears may turn out to be true. --David Barbour 
|
