Reviews

Occi Byrne, the protagonist of this one-man show written, performed and directed by Conor McDermottroe, is a destroyer.

Tender only when he feeds Agnes, the swan who has become his last friend, he blasts through remembrance of the downfalls and disappointments that have brought him to this hard pass; but the seeds of destruction were scattered around him long before he took them into his own hands. Not unlike Gerard Mannix Flynn's James X, McDermottroe's play is a searing call to shame for the institutions which have failed a vulnerable individual, and for the society which has spurned him.

McDermottroe's young man, however, has suffered in different ways to Flynn's; his trouble began in the womb, when his mother travelled to England to abort him, but decided instead to give birth.

The boy and his mother suffer through poverty, abuse and fear; though these years could be more fully evoked by McDermottroe's otherwise superb script, the damage they have done to Occi's psyche is memorably evinced. Through battles with the church, with the State, with friends and, most distressingly, with his psychosis, Occi comes full circle to a place of loneliness and remorse; his mother and best friend both dead, the latter murdered by Occi.

McDermottroe's monologue is perfectly paced, the language tight and original, bringing vividly alive the inner world of a man who sees so much but has so little. Through the onstage presence of another actor to flesh out his relationships to those around him might have helped the audience, in truth, McDermottroe is entirely at home with his character, scarcely needing, it seems, to draw breath as he charges through a sensitive and powerful performance. The play carries no moral, nor is it loaded with the intention to convey a certain message. But as a portrait of mental illness and the terrors and struggles that its sufferers face, it cannot fail to leave a mark. - Belinda McKeon

Runs until Jan 22nd

Planxty - The Point, Dublin

Planxty have been gathering momentum for some 12 months now, and by the time they hit the stage for the second-last concert of their new year series at The Point, they were flying low. Luka Bloom set the scene with a delicious snapshot of his music, ever trawling and foraging for new ways of seeing.

With a year beneath their collective belts, and a glorious stage set of photographs (reminiscent of Steve Pike's magnificent pictures that accompanied Timothy O'Grady's I Could Read The Sky) to underscore each song and tune set, Planxty are surer of their footing, confident enough to stretch and bend the repertoire to gather in material from Andy Irvine's days with Sweeney's Men, and from Christy's solo catalogue.

Mostly it works. Andy revived Willie o'Winsbury and allowed us a peep into the world of Spanish kings, errant lovers and fair maids: a snapshot of the linguistic complexities of English folk music at its very best. Christy's St Brendan's Voyage failed to soar quite as high; its crowd-pleasing lyrics and seriously dodgy grasp of west Kerry geography somehow at odds with the intricate arrangements bestowed upon it by Liam O'Flynn's pipes and Donal Lunny's bouzouki.

Liam O'Flynn's pipes are Planxty's undisputed backbone and they soared magnificently, most especially on the double-jointed piping jewel that is An Buachaill Caol Dubh. But Andy Irvine's fragile vocals and lateral-thinking mandolin rowed in behind the pipes with a subtle authority that added multiple layers to such standards as The Blacksmith and Arthur McBride. In fact, he took complete possession of the latter, a song he had previously bequeathed to Paul Brady whose version most thought couldn't be bested.

Of course Donal Lunny's bouzouki, guitar and keyboards are still core to Planxty's revolutionary sound, as are Christy's ever-unpredictable verbal salvos, not to mention his matchless reading of Little Musgrave, The Good Ship Kangaroo and As I Roved Out. But Planxty have become bigger than any one of their individual parts. They've created the musical equivalent of a Harry Clarke stained glass window: each piece glistening brilliantly in its own right, but finding its full glory in the reflection of all that surrounds it. Providence smiled sweetly on all those wise enough to witness the rekindling. - Siobhán Long