Smock Alley Theatre
There’s bucketloads of atmosphere in this show: staged in the cavernous empty space of Smock Alley, the audience seated on three sides on church pews or bare benches, a peat-strewn floor, rough wooden structures, hazy lighting and a live musician - plus a terrific script and three very fine actors. But it doesn’t quite all add up. As much about the power of words as the struggle for power, on the one side is the status quo of the earthy village ploughman (Vincent Regan) with his precious horses. On the other is the distant miller (Lorcan Cranitch, maybe a tad miscast), despised and reviled for his difference and his living off the labour of others. In the middle is the ploughman’s wife (a magnificent Catherine Walker), luminous in her thirst for knowledge and her wonder at the world, voicing what she sees – bird, cloud, tree – almost like some aboriginal naming ritual. Making great use of the huge performance area, the opening scenes are quite enthralling, but there is a gradual nagging feeling that instead of developing and growing everything stays more or less the same. Despite her credentials, flautist Eleanor Dawson is the production’s weakest link. What starts out as evocative and haunting becomes a bit monotonous and dreary after a while, and the vocal elements just feel incongruous. www.landmarkproductions.ie
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