Theatre in Review: The Ferryman (Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre)

	Laura Donnelly. Photo: Joan Marcus.

Jez Butterworth is a playwright of many parts, alternating trim, enigmatic works such as The River with expansive, broad-canvas state-of-the-nation dramas like Jerusalem. The Ferryman may be his most ambitious work to date, and -- for all the praise that was showered on Jerusalem -- it is, to my mind, the first that instantly looks like a masterpiece. Time will tell if that judgment sticks, but, for now, one can enjoy a drama that, in its breadth, canny construction, and sleight-of-hand storytelling towers over everything else currently on Broadway. Wedding some of the mystical, back-to-the-land elements of his earlier works to a taut thriller narrative and featuring a gallery of characters almost Dickensian in their variety, The Ferryman paints a stunning portrait of Northern Ireland during the Troubles, when violence spread across the country, leaving a permanent stain.

It's harvest time on the Carney farm in the summer of 1981, and the family is pulling together to get the job done: Quinn Carney and his sons are at the ready and a pack of young cousins from Belfast is arriving to help out; the day will conclude with a feast. But the past is, quite literally, rising up to haunt them all. A day or two earlier, the body of Seamus, Quinn's brother, was discovered in a peat bog. Seamus, a political activist, died in 1971 under mysterious circumstances, and Muldoon, a representative of the IRA, is determined that no questions be raised. (The deaths of Bobby Sands and other hunger strikers is focusing world attention on the plight of IRA prisoners, a message that is not to be adulterated by any messy, inconvenient facts.) In a prologue notable for its understated brutality, Father Horrigan, a priest who has for years ministered to the Carney family, is dispatched to deliver Muldoon's warning that dissent will not be tolerated. When Horrigan initially demurs, Muldoon produces a photo of the reverend's sister: The threat is all the more menacing for merely being implied.

Once the action shifts to the Carney farm, Butterworth deploys a series of twists and reversals, each of which deepens one's interest in the family and the baleful fate approaching them from the outside. The first of these is the introduction to Quinn and Caitlin, who, with their easy intimacy, look for all the world to be a married couple. It's only later that the news casually drops that Caitlin is Seamus' widow, and that Mary, Quinn's wife, has retired to her bedroom, nursing various "viruses" in what amounts to an abdication of her role in the family. Exactly what Caitlin, Quinn, and Mary all feel about each other is held back until the moment when crucial, life-altering decisions must be made.

I hate to tell anything more, except to note that, holding his dramatic cards close to his chest, Butterworth shifts focus from one member of this rangy clan to another, in a strategy that may strike some as rambling at first, but which is really a careful laying of the groundwork for the explosive confrontations to come. It is Quinn's refusal to promise silence on the subject of his brother's death that sets in motion a series of events that, for all their heroism, may end in his family's destruction.

In Sam Mendes' production -- masterfully orchestrating an ensemble of 21, plus a baby and a live rabbit -- character after character leaves an indelible mark. Paddy Considine's Quinn is a loving paterfamilias, watching over his large brood with a mixture of warmth and skeptical humor, but there's a weariness about him that subtly indicates the steep cost of keeping his household in balance; he is also haunted by guilt over his previous involvement in the IRA -- where he is still seen as a hero -- and Seamus' fate, for which he feels responsible. Laura Donnelly's Caitlin is marked by a brisk efficiency that doesn't entirely mask her deeper feelings. (Feeding her turbulence are the many reported sightings of Seamus that have been leaked to her by the IRA, for reasons that only gradually become clear.) Among the older generation are Mark Lambert's Uncle Patrick, florid of speech and manner, who can't relate the briefest incident without making it into a lengthy comic saga, and Dearbhla Molloy's Aunt Patricia, a spinster, bitter as burnt tobacco -- her hair pulled back into a kind of skullcap with braids and her face sagging with dissatisfaction -- who fuels her fury by listening to Margaret Thatcher's interviews on the radio. Tom Glynn-Carney adds to the tension as a teenage Carney cousin who has helped out Muldoon and, under the influence, indiscreetly talks about it. (He also delivers the play's most potent defense of the IRA, providing a crucial reminder that the organization's violence wasn't a case of spontaneous combustion but a reaction to a festering political dilemma.) Others include Justin Edwards as Tom Kettle, the mentally challenged Englishman who, as a foundling, was taken in by the Carneys; Stuart Graham, who, as Muldoon, ices up a room simply by entering it; Rob Malone as Oisin, Caitlin's son, simmering with fury and stealthily keeping watch on everyone; Genevieve O'Reilly as Mary, a professional martyr with a calculating mind -- and, perhaps, a real grievance; and Charles Dale as the hopelessly compromised Father Horrigan, who finds his vows surprisingly easy to break. In some ways, Fionnula Flanagan has arguably the most difficult assignment, as Aunt Maggie Far Away, a semi-invalid who drifts in and out of consciousness, rather too conveniently allowing Butterworth to drop key bits of exposition; thanks to her sensitive handling, the role never seems too much like a device.

Aside from the opening scene, the play unfolds in Rob Howell's superbly detailed farmhouse kitchen, with its flagstone floor, dizzyingly steep staircase, and multitude of children's pictures for decorations. (Howell's costumes are accurate to the period and characters.) Peter Mumford's lighting creates a series of exquisitely calibrated time-of-day looks. Nick Powell's highly effective sound design includes helicopters, radio broadcasts, and atmospheric effects such as a sinister undertone and the distant wail of banshees, heard by Aunt Maggie.

As the day unfolds through dinner and into night, the characters swirl around each other, revealing an intricate network of affections and animosities (even as Muldoon and his demands loom ever nearer), each of them contributing to a climax in which Quinn takes a series of actions that elicited gasps from the audience at the performance I attended -- which, for all their heroism, leave the future startlingly bleak for his loved ones. The Ferryman is gripping enough on its own terms, but, these days especially -- the CNN studios were being evacuated even as I made my way to the Jacobs for the matinee -- Butterworth's consideration of the toxic effects of violence, even in the most righteous of causes, seems particularly meaningful. Just about everybody in The Ferryman is desperately seeking justice; the question is why it proves so elusive to them all. -- David Barbour