Ballyturk at The Lyttleton

I don’t profess to have seen every single one of Enda Walsh’s plays but Ballyturk loosely follows the pattern of two that I have, namely The Walworth Farce and Misterman.  This pattern can loosely be determined as a play within a play set in a sealed environment from which there doesn’t appear to be an escape route.  The characters enact various scenarios using the voices of the community in which the “play” is set, whilst giving nothing tangible away as to what is going on.  So far so obscure and that is the rub, according to one reviewer of Ballyturk who wrote, “what’s the point?”.  The point, as far as I’m concerned, is that he’s missing it!  Ballyturk, thanks to the acting abilities (and stamina) of the cast is funny, poignant and, ultimately, entertaining.   Is the fact that one can’t necessarily fathom what Enda Walsh is getting at really that important?  I don’t think so.  It just means that the audience have their own views on what is happening and why.  And there’s nothing wrong with that.

The impenetrable space (that is until Stephen Rea’s character appears) in the village of Ballyturk is wonderfully realised by Jamie Vartan.  It is a bleak, grey room, its walls embellished with naïve pencil drawings of the inhabitants of this fictional place.  Odd pieces of furniture are stacked against one wall, whilst the other is home to a cuckoo clock and fake potted plant.  There is, amongst other paraphernalia, an exercise bike and a hand held vacuum cleaner.  The latter is slavishly used to hoover up spilt cornflakes by Mikel Murfi, which seems a useless exercise seeing as there follows an episode where talcum powder is liberally shaken everywhere.  That the two actors, Cillian Murphy and Mikel Murfi, are fit is without question. Watching them race maniacally through their daily routine, dressing, undressing, dancing to the hits of the 80’s and the younger one occasionally leaping onto a high ledge is exhausting.  Not only are they well matched in the physical aspects of the play, but the chemistry between them is very apparent.  When Number 1 has an epileptic fit, Number 2 (they’re not given names, only numbers) gently hugs him until it passes and the scene is incredibly moving.  All in all it’s a virtuoso performance by them both. 

Stillness descends with the arrival of Number 3.  A quietly spoken, cigarette smoking, Stephen Rea appears when the upstage wall disappears to reveal the world outside.  His stillness is in sharp contrast to what has gone before, as is his language.  Poetically philosophical, he even croons a Chet Baker song following a cup of tea and a biscuit, carefully plucked from a Jenga like tower.  Always eminently watchable, Stephen Rea is brilliantly cast as the be-suited enigmatic stranger and some of the funniest moments occur upon his arrival.

One of the saddest is when one of them, on the instructions of Number 3, ‘it is time for one of you to leave into your passing’, does just that.  The upstage wall re-appears, the outside world disappears once again leaving the remaining actor alone and bereft.

There is more, so much more strangeness from Enda Walsh’s writing and direction, with echoes of Waiting for Godot mixed with Under Milk Wood.  It is a true theatrical experience and one that I thoroughly enjoyed.

Therese Raquin at The Cambridge Arts Theatre

Emile Zola’s Therese Raquin usually conjures up misery on a grand scale and is one to avoid if you’re after a light hearted trip to the theatre.  But when Alison Steadman is playing the role of Madame Raquin, you’re sure it will definitely be alright on the night.  This new adaptation by Helen Edmundson of Zola’s most well known novel is more than alright, it is excellent.  The superb Alison Steadman, aided and abetted by a stellar cast and director Jonathan Munby, ensures that there are periods of lightness and even humour amidst the gloom of this tragic crime of passion.  Added to this are balletic sequences encapsulated within the many scene changes plus several ghostly apparitions, making this a truly mesmeric production.

Alison Steadman’s Madame Raquin, is foster mother of Therese (Pippa Nixon) and doting and interfering mother of Camille (Hugh Skinner).  Deliriously happy at having engineered the marriage of her one natural child to the other, Madame Raquin will eventually come to rue the event.  For Therese has no romantic love for the sickly, unworldly boy and of this we are sure from the outset.  Speaking little and blending into the background, her character only comes alive when introduced to Camille’s friend, Laurent (Kieran Bew).  And, oh my, how alive.  Suddenly this supposedly meek and mild nonentity metamorphoses into a wild child, hungry for all the bedroom delights that the poor Camille is unable to provide but Laurent can.  The only problem is that this all-consuming passion between Therese and Laurent has tragic consequences for everyone concerned.  I will say no more regarding the plot, apart from the fact that it involves murder, followed closely by gut wrenching remorse.

I’ve already mentioned the delights of Alison Steadman, who not only brilliantly depicts the loving mother who can’t stop herself poking her nose in at every opportunity, but also the horrendous state of being locked within her own body after suffering a stroke towards the end of the play.  Pippa Nixon inhabits Therese with every fibre of her body and manages to convey almost every emotion going.  She must be exhausted at the end of every performance.  The two main male actors are also exemplary.  Hugh Skinner infuriates and instils both negative and positive reactions from the audience.  We’re against and for his Camille in equal measure and he ensures we experience a spine tingling spookiness in the second half.  On the other hand, Kieran Bew, playing his eventual nemesis, portrays a natural charm and has no difficulty in persuading us that it is more than possible for Therese to be immediately captivated.

There is also excellent support from the three friends who arrive at the Raquin’s apartment in Paris every Thursday for a game of dominoes and inject a little much needed humour to the proceedings.  Desmond Barrit, is Superintendent Michaud, his niece, Suzanne is played by Charlotte Mills and the obsessive compulsive Grivet, is brought to creepy life by Michael Mears.

There have been many incarnations of this tale of doomed love but I would hazard a guess that this one I saw at The Cambridge Arts Theatre last week, is by far the most ingenious.