Reviews

Written and performed by Gina Moxley and Donal Beecher, A Heart of Cork is one Cork 2005 presentation which has no need of supporting documentation.

Artist Margo Dempsey, a cultural outcast destined for a FÁS course instead of the conceptualised art-work inspired by her own bowel movements, has taken the "real" Moxley as hostage and, assisted by her reluctant if sympathetic husband, is demanding a performance opportunity as the ransom.

Because both writers have scaffolded the plot with the language of creativity now current in Cork and as bewildering as Mandarin to the uninitiated, the dialogue, delivered by Margo in an authentic Cork whine, is extremely funny most of the time. Her aggrieved explanations of art in the community ("you don't see surgery in the community, do you?") exemplified by the bus station as a poetic metaphor, with buses lined up in stanzas and the Glounthane route axed because it wouldn't scan, have a wicked immediacy.

Tremulous with indignation, Margo is an anthology of local exclusion. Cork as European Capital of Culture has changed her from a risk-taker to a hostage-taker, and even her staging has been thwarted: "If I were Fiona Shaw there'd be a lighting change here," she moans as she thinks of the rejection of her proposed Maud Gonne Fishing, a promenade production.

Suffering from Imagined Talent Syndrome and with her nerves "in tats", Margo, and the play itself, succumb to the more fatal disease of plot failure. As she reaches her moment of epiphany, Moxley/ Margo is encouraged by her mother (Beecher) who punctures the hilarity with an unprofessional and mean-spirited spew of personal animosity - aimed again at Fiona Shaw. This mystifying barrage dilutes the otherwise sparkling mischief-making served up by both performers. - Mary Leland

Runs until Sat

Woyzeck

Players Theatre, Trinity College

After Georg Buchner died in 1836 at the age of 23, his plays were not performed in Germany for 60 years, or translated into English for 100 years. Yet he is recognised as a genius, on the basis of three plays, the last of them - Woyzeck - unfinished. It consisted of a number of overlapping drafts, a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. This makes it open territory for any director brave enough to pioneer a new interpretation, such as Robert Wilson's brilliant version seen here a few years ago, which dispensed with the script in favour of mime and music. Director Paul Fagan, for Clean Canvas, has been less adventurous, but still supplies a new translation and an ending that draws on the body of Buchner's work.

Has fortune favoured the brave? Well, yes and no. The dialogue is convincing, ranging from raw realism to a hard lyricism that paints startling word pictures, and encapsulates the images of society and its victims that make this such an absorbing play. Woyzeck is an Everyman, a struggling survivor going through life like an open razor, dangerous and vulnerable. This version captures the despair and numbing oppression of his existence.

The production, however, has its flaws. Emily Campbell's set design, five panels with semi-transparent insets and a few scattered beanbags, accommodates the rapidly changing scenes. Her costumes, however, are a pristine selection of garments in white, red and peach colours, making the women look like schoolgirls in short dresses and long stockings. And the casting is not ideal. On the credit side, Steve Smith is a persuasive Woyzeck, gaunt and staring, Faela Stafford is excellent as his friend Karl, and - casting problems aside - there are no dud performances. The production has an innate integrity that deserves to find appreciative audiences. - Gerry Colgan

Runs until Sat