A look at what is happening in the world of the arts.
Monged
Project Arts Centre
The new Dublin of trendy apartments and minimalist bars, of ecstasy and lap-dancers, has yet to find its laureate, in the theatre at least. It is too raw, too unprocessed, to be either shaped into myth or demythologised. And perhaps it always will be. Perhaps it is too airy and cool to generate the kind of resonant conflict that drives theatre. Or perhaps, since so much of it is about aping global trends, its true expression is simply in Hollywood movies. But we won't know until enough people have tried often enough. Fishamble, who have such a fine record of introducing new dramatists, roll the dice with Gary Duggan's first play, Monged.
The play does what it says on the tin. To be "monged" means to be out of your head, and Duggan's story is simply about three young Dublin men scrambling their brains with ecstasy, cannabis, cocaine, and alcohol. It shows, in part, that 21st century Dublin youngfellas monged on exotic chemicals are not necessarily any more interesting than 1950s Termonfeckin young fellas pissed on Smithwicks shandy. Being sober in the company of people who aren't is never all that thrilling.
But Duggan writes very well, and in Jim Culleton's slickly energetic production, there is enough of a sheen off his play to suggest that he might well have a lot to say about these times.
If Duggan or anyone else is to anatomise the new Ireland, a good start would be to actually have people talking to each other on the stage. But Monged is part of the new wave of monologues that is starting to date as rapidly as all merely fashionable devices do. Its structure bears some of the marks of Jim Cartwright's Road, but more obviously of the Dublin plays of Conor McPherson and in particular of another Fishamble alumnus Mark O'Rowe. To be fair, though, Duggan has chosen to write largely in monologues (there are some brief passages of dialogue) because the form allows for the rapid transitions and the broad sweep that he wants. Monged is a kind of cross between Ulysses and a buddy movie, unfolding over a day and telling the story of three lads on the lash around the town.
The form does allow for a grand tour of the city, even while it limits the depth of contact with any of its sights. Within those limits, though, Duggan is a deft storyteller with a gift for pacy, punchy narratives and for quick, clean characterisations. He introduces us unfussily to his cast: the cocky drug-dealer Dave, the geeky, innocent data-processor Bernard, and the self-satisfied would-be musician Ray. He sketches in the unseen characters around them: Dave's pneumatic lap-dancer girlfriend and the paranoid dealer who sells him a load of ecstasy; Ray's weepy ex-Goth girlfriend; the design student who sits beside Bernard at work. While nothing much actually happens, the play works best as a kind of random sample of twenty-something Dublin. It doesn't try to get to the heart of the city but it does feel its pulse.
Monged works because Culleton and his cast don't try to wring out of it what they know is not there. Using the variety of spaces opened up by Sabine Dargent's intelligently functional set, Culleton moves the action around with impressive dexterity, providing a sense of variety and richness that the text cannot. The characterisations of Paul Reid's Bernard and Jonathan Byrne's Ray are as well-oiled as the characters become. And Rory Keenan's Dave is a little gem of a performance, lucidly revealing the pretensions of a man who has watched too many gangster movies while also making him sympathetic enough to be constantly watchable.
This may be just a stone skipped across the surface of the city, but it does at least jump a few times.
Fintan O'Toole
Nick Lowe
The Helix, Dublin
Nick Lowe is in danger of becoming a forgotten man; he's been plying his trade of songsmith from the early 1970s, a staple in the booming British pub rock scene with bands such as Brinsley Schwartz (who toured the length and breadth of Ireland, says Lowe, "when smoking was compulsory"). It was through the co-founding of Stiff Records in 1976, however, that Lowe came into his own, as both record producer and solo artist. The fact that Lowe is still around, following almost 30 years of very good albums and commercial indifference, says as much about his resilience as it does about the record-buying public.
And yet here he is, on the Helix stage, his hair almost as white as his shirt; he's lanky, witty ("thanks for coming to this gig, the first on our Scandinavian tour", possibly referring to the chilliness of the venue), and looking a lot older than his 54 years. A rich man, too, by all accounts, from his songs being included on the soundtracks of American blockbuster movies (Kevin Costner's The Bodyguard, for one). Lowe doesn't need to sing in front of few fistfuls of people for the money, then; clearly, he does it for the love of the song. And what songs he had under his thin leather belt.
With just an acoustic guitar and occasional piano (played by support act and "colleague", Geraint Watkins), the songs ranged stylistically from loose rock'n'roll and folk shuffle to 1950s lounge and sombre country. At his best when the songs touched on the still hearts of darkness (Lover Don't Go, The Man that I've Become, You Inspire Me, Lately I've let things Slide, and Has she got a Friend?), Lowe's voice, which has developed into a lonesome, resonant instrument over the years, generated a type of silent remorse that comes with seeing a hearse passing by: one day, we think, this will happen to me.
A fine gig, then. Quite possibly, even, an all time Lowe.
Tony Clayton-Lea
Netherlands Dance Theatre 2
Waterfront Hall, Belfast
A company of dancers aged between 17 and 24 years might be tempted to smear on the youthful bravado, but NDT2 has survived for nearly three decades through considered craft rather than visceral overkill. A set of pas de deux by Hans van Manen might seem an odd choice for such a young company: those pure forms are nutritious but can taste bland, needing restraint and complete trust in the material to be effective.
The quartet of Alexander Ekman, Xavier Gobin, Aurélie Cayla and Andrea Schermoly tackled Simple Things with an assured grasp of both the intellect and theatricality behind each move. Different couplings emerge from the quartet that shift emphasis from the emotional narrative between the two bodies to more sculptural poses, but all resist adding superfluous drama and remain respectful to the evolving forms.
This was especially difficult coming after the boisterous Dream Play by Johan Inger. Set to the first half of Stravinsky's Le Sacre du Printemps, it's no more than an extended daydream. Four men and two women get drawn into an archetypal Le Sacre world, full of ritual games, bonding communities and a chosen victim. Barely picked out by Erik Berglund's sparse angled beams of light, the charcoal and black-costumed men jerk and shudder in contrast to the women's long angular lines. There's not just a clear gender divide at play, but also plenty of mickey-mousing to the music with loud brass chords mimicked by open mouthed screams. A monolithic lump of wood transforms into a platform as the action gets more frenetic and confusing, until a gunshot winds up the story.
Minus 16 at first seemed brash and inelegant, but managed to introduce the dancers as people through individual solos and get members of the audience to dance onstage. Moments like this can be toe-curlingly embarrassing and rely on the performers' charm and choreographic know-how to be effective. Gladly neither were in short supply and the 15 dancers (including Dubliner Sarah Reynolds) drew whistles and cheers at the final fireworks of frenetic unison movement.
Michael Seaver
Gigi
Gaiety Theatre
It opens with a tableau set in the Paris of 1901, in which colourfully costumed people are frozen briefly in time. Then Honore Lachailles, boulevardier extraordinaire, steps forward to sing Thank Heaven For Little Girls, and we remember where we are; watching a new R&R production of Gigi, the Lerner and Lowe musical based on a story by Colette. It is rather like spending an evening with an old friend, warm and nostalgic.
The story is a saucy one. Honore is a womaniser, old enough to know his faults and still young enough to enjoy them. His handsome and wealthy nephew Gaston is set to follow in his footsteps, and meantime has a platonic kind of friendship with the girl Gigi, who adores him. But she is being trained to be a courtesan by her aunt Alicia, a woman who has changed hands more often than Montenegro; never been conquered, though, only annexed for a time.
So down the road, love collides head-on with sex, and guess which wins.
There is a beguiling if transparent innocence about it all, and the story provides a launching pad for some memorable musical numbers. There are three show-stoppers; Honore's I Remember It Well, Gaston's heart-tugging Gigi, and Gigi's plaintive Wide Wide World. More tuneful songs and comedy numbers - eg She Is Not Thinking Of Me and The Contract - fill the eye and ear to repletion.
Production values, as always with R&R, are impeccable, as is Noel McDonough's direction while, in the orchestra pit, Gearoid Grant commands a rich musical interpretation. On the stage, four performers are no less than commanding; Garry Mountaine's Honore, Paul Byrom's Gaston, Roisin Sullivan's Gigi and Glynis Casson as Alicia could travel anywhere. With chorus and dancers in good form, the evening is complete, a sustained burst of sound and colour to beguile even the misanthropic.
Runs to April 23rd.
Gerry Colgan
