Reviews

Hansel and Gretel, Cork Opera House: As an operatic entertainment to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the Cork Opera House, this production of Humperdinck's Hansel and Gretel combines many of the best features of the theatre's history though all that time: spectacle, magic, music, fine singing and - although a rare appearance in this opera - a firm chorus.

This is a Cork Opera Works version - director Helen Eastman is responsible for the translation as well - with the company orchestra conducted by John O'Brien, and it reveals a strong professionalism in approach and achievement. The first effects are those of the set by Lisa O'Mullane, with towers of gauze making the trees and a canopy of leaves, while the costumes of the woodland sprites echo the colours and fabrics of the stage. Lighting by Paul Denby enhances this sense of magic and both he and O'Mullane seem to relish opportunities for woodland fantasy. There are times when the stage is overcrowded and the choreography is laboured (especially that of the angels who lead the lost pair into danger rather than into safety), while the gingerbread house itself is a matter of foam rubber and an afternoon tea biscuit assortment rather than one which catches the fairy-tale atmosphere of the rest of the set. However, this is an opera of some contrasts, not all of which are managed by the orchestra, although by the second act the playing is united and strong for a score which gives mezzo soprano Sonya Keogh, staunchly partnered by Adrian Powter, some terrific moments as both mother and witch. Yvette Bonner as Gretel and Catrin Johnsson as Hansel sing very well together, bringing a sprightly confidence even to phrases where the stress falls according to the music rather than the language.The children's chorus from Cork Opera Works is a delight, crowning a presentation distinguished by reachng its high values. - Mary Leland

Rufus Wainwright, Vicar Street, Dublin

He flounces on to stage and remains in the flounced position until the end; you have to admit that as far as overt flouncing goes, Rufus Wainwright is the champ of camp. And as for the diamante-held scarf (more Judy Garland than Johnny Cash) that just refuses to sit just so - well, it's either you or Rufus, and it looks as if Rufus is staying put.

It was that kind of night, really, good jokes about supposedly sacrosanct subjects (the Pope, Jeff Buckley), more grandiose moments than anyone has a right to, a little bit of grandstanding, and some glorious singing. His father (Loudon Wainwright III) might be regarded as one of the most established and highly regarded singer-songwriters of his generation, but Rufus is fast becoming something else entirely, the perpetrator of an insidious plot to transform pop music from something monochrome and sedentary into an art deco-inspired fusion of vaudeville, cabaret, spiritually-inclined rock, flagrantly gay pop, and - well, frankly, anything else of a suitably ornate nature that springs to mind.

The beginning is stupendously ambitious, an aria for the twilight zone. Agnus Dei, from his latest album, Want Two, is performed without the aid of a safety net. Rufus lands squarely, and continues with songs ranging from the equally sublime (Peach Trees, Memphis Skyline) and the poignant (The Art Teacher, This Love Affair) to the pitch-perfect (Gay Messiah) and the virtually transcendent (Hallelujah).

The appeal lies more than in just the languorous, elegant drama queen thing, however. This particular Wainwright has captured something in song that marks him out as special. The indignity of loneliness and the search for love might not be copyrighted aspects of the songwriter's art, but Rufus at least sings it like he means it. - Tony Clayton-Lea

Eels, Vicar Street, Dublin

The endlessly mutating Eels are back, and their main man E seems to have cracked the age-old problem of artistic stagnation. Each new album allows him to regenerate in all manner of unexpected ways. Where once Eels were unquestionably a trio, these days they're a septet, replete with genteel strings, elastic saw, autoharp, recorder and a drum that doubles as a suitcase.

Blinking Lights And Other Revelations is the excuse for Eels's latest visit to what E insists is their "favourite place to play in the whole world". It's a series of snapshots that hint at a musician who's made considerable peace with the world - just for now. Opening with the Theme From Blinking Lights and seguing neatly into Dust Of Ages, E served up an appetiser that hinted the sky just might be a different colour in his world.

There's a beautiful internal logic to this latest gathering of songs. Each lines out its pristine argument, never loitering for long, and exits as quickly as it arrived. Son Of A Bitch and If You See Natalie are fleeting pen pictures, portraits of family life that glory in their own inherent dysfunctionality. They're the kind of tales Randy Newman, Annie Proulx, Raymond Carver and especially David Lynch have tackled in the past, but in E's world they glisten with renewed life.

These were two hours of tight scripting that skipped guilelessly through the shiny new Theme For A Pretty Girl That Makes You Believe That God Exists to Railroad Man, and on through a startling reinvention of everything from the previously manic Souljacker 11 and Flyswatter to I Like Birds. Eels current configuration is pivotal to their latest creative (p)urge: fuelled in no small way by Renaissance man and multi-instrumentalist Chet, double bassist Big Al and an all-female string quartet.

Five encores, one surprise Prince cover and a whole lot of fun later, Eels finally left the building and just for a split second, it seemed like they were smiling. Yet another chapter in our beautiful relationship with Mr Unpredictability. - Siobhán Long

The Dreamer Examines His Pillow, Old Museum Arts Centre, Belfast

Pulitzer Prize-winning writer John Patrick Shanley gives a vital clue to an interpretation of this oddly compelling play, declaring in a brief programme note his belief that the last act takes place after the audience leaves the theatre and goes out for drinks or dinner. At the end of Stray Dawg's spirited attempt on this wordy three-hander, many questions are left hanging in the air, together with a definite, if unhelpful, affirmation that, within the realms of human relationships, sex is often a destructive driving force and nothing is ever as it seems. Richard Clements and Ellen Burns are Tom and Donna, a young couple who are a classic case of can't live with, can't live without.

When Donna arrives at Tom's squalid flat, they are trying to live without - a situation he deals with by going into little-boy-lost mode, striking up an intimate attachment to his beer-laden refrigerator and sleeping with Donna's 16-year-old sister.

In desperation, Donna turns to her drunken, ex-painter father (Nick Hardin) in the vain hope of finding support and enlightenment, only to discover a stranger as screwed up and strung out on needy sex as she herself is.

Once Clements and Burns have settled into the Bronx accents, they make a pretty credible pairing, while Hardin, a native New Yorker, survives a few textual wobbles to bring welcome irony and humour to proceedings.

Director and company founder Sean Paul O'Rawe rises well to the tricky task set by the play's shifting realities and proves himself a man well up for the challenge of bringing this Irish premiere to raw young audiences.

At the Old Museum until 21 May, then at the Playhouse, Derry on 23 May and the Market Place, Armagh on 2 June - Jane Coyle

Tasmin Little and Wayne Marshall, NCH, Dublin

The first time I heard Tasmin Little was at Russborough House in 1991, when she offered an unusual programme that opened with Kreisler's Praeludium and Allegro and followed on with two sonatas.

She repeated the pattern at the National Concert Hall on Wednesday, for the penultimate programme in the current NCH/The Irish Times Celebrity Series, this time running to three sonatas (Bach's Sonata in B minor, BWV 1014, Grieg's Sonata in G, Op. 13, and Prokofiev's Sonata in D, Op. 94) rather than the two at Russborough (which were by Delius and Respighi).

The two concerts were entirely different in effect. In Russborough, all those years ago, the playing communicated vividly. Little has always struck me over the years as an intelligent player, with an unusually good grasp of the long musical line. On Wednesday her playing sounded bland, with blemishes of intonation that stood out all the more clearly for the smoothness of their surroundings.

Her cause was not helped in the sonatas by the playing of her partner at the piano, Wayne Marshall. Marshall is a pianist of fine technical control and clear musical purpose. But his abilities were often used to turn him into a sort of musical lapdog, making nice accommodating noises and only occasionally raising his head to show that an individual personality was available if needed.

What was lacking was a sense of real musical engagement between violin and piano. It was not to be found even in the Prokofiev, where Marshall allowed himself the greatest latitude in characterisation.

As in the Russborough programme, but to a lesser extent, Little indulged her sweet tooth, this time for arrangements of Cole Porter and George Gershwin, which were preceded by a solo piano improvisation in which Marshall viewed Danny Boy through the lens of Ravel (mimicking the obsessive repetitions of Le Gibet or La Vallée des Cloches) with some shades of Messiaen thrown in for good measure.

With Marshall in supercharged mode at the keyboard, and Little at her most successfully svelte, it was the evening's bon-bons which yielded up the greatest and most consistent musical nourishment of the evening. - Michael Dervan

Sharon Shannon, Frankie Gavin, Michael McGoldrick and Jim Murray, NCH, Dublin

The all-star cast attracted a suitably healthy audience to Earlsfort Terrace, a venue which has made huge efforts to embrace traditional music in its regal setting in recent years. The quartet bring all manner of superb musicianship to the table: Sharon Shannon's accordion thriving in the company of Frankie Gavin's restless and erudite fiddle; Michael McGoldrick's flutes and low whistle weaving the most complex patterns in between; and the trio scaffolded by Jim Murray's increasingly lateral-thinking guitar lines.

On the final night of their extensive tour to promote their CD, Tunes, Shannon and company certainly lit a substantial fire under a rake of tunes which had failed to ignite in the studio. Opening with The Cappataggle Shuffle set, fuelled by a tune each from Shannon and Gavin, fiddle and box jousted playfully, basking in their obvious delight as play mates, with Michael McGoldrick's flute tracing filigree patterns in between.

The ease with which each of the four musicians melded their own original tunes with more weathered companions is a tribute to their individual compositional skills, as well as to their collective loyalty to the tradition. Michael McGoldrick's sublime The Bass Rock revealed a writer who relishes the space in between as much as the notes themselves. Murray's languid Summer's Coming was the ideal compadre to the Asturian Pasucais of Coana, Gavin's Cappataggle Shuffle was a snapshot of a musician relishing the challenge of capturing local flavours in his own tunes, and Shannon's diverse contributions were proof positive of a musician still fired by an inventiveness that sees her effortlessly striding through jigs, reels and slow airs with balletic grace.

And yet, amid all the erudition, something was amiss. Michael McGoldrick's contribution was ever-electrifying, but somehow stymied by the tightness of the overall arrangements. Having left his pipes behind, he seemed to melt into the landscape, only emerging for short interludes when flute and low whistle could breathe free. Murray was the triumph of the night, his emergence as not only a subtle accompanist, but as a writer and performer of confidence was revelatory.

It was as if, amid the abundance of riches, the quartet lacked a defining musical identity that would set them apart, and celebrate their virtuosity in earnest. Maybe they're a work in progress, quietly honing their collective identity on the road. Or maybe this was an air bubble of opportunity that they've seized, only to return to their respective solo and group work now that the diary dates have been delivered.

Either way, it was the promise of greatness that mostly dampened what was still a fine, if occasionally workmanlike night of music. - Siobhán Long