Reviews

A look at what is happening in the world of the arts

Over the River and Through the Woods

Andrews Lane Theatre, Dublin

It is now almost 40 years since Brian Friel's Philadelphia, Here I Come! opened on Broadway. Philadelphia is a funny and accessible play, but it is also highly sophisticated in its use of language and of theatrical form. Yet it ran for 330 performances and could be counted as a commercial hit. Thirty years later, Joe DiPietro's Over the River and Through the Woods was a success in the supposedly more experimental off-Broadway arena. It deals with the same basic subject - a young man agonising over a decision to leave his family and strike out on his own. Like Philadelphia, it is funny and accessible. Yet its lack of formal ambition and its sweetly comfortable safety are marks of the decline of the American commercial theatre in the meantime.

Over the River is rather typical of the kind of play that tended to be successful off-Broadway in the late 1990s. It is skilfully written with an efficient narrative arc and a sprinkling of witty dialogue. It draws much more from TV sitcoms than from theatrical tradition. It provides an entertaining evening without ever threatening a real emotional or intellectual engagement. And while it touches on hard subjects such as ageing, death and despair, it has a soft underbelly.

The softness lies in the play's basic premise. We have to accept that Nick Christano, an ambitious New Jersey marketing executive in his late 20s, is so devoted to his Italian-American grandparents that he might turn down the chance of a big promotion that would involve a move to the west coast. Even in its own terms, the premise is scarcely credible.

Nick visits his four grandparents every Sunday and they lavish "the three Fs" - family, faith, and food - on him. But it emerges in the second half of the play that he has never really talked to them. The whole notion that he is enmeshed in their world seems to be rooted far more in nostalgia for an imagined America of tight-knit families than in any sense of contemporary American reality.

The upside of this nostalgia is that an old-fashioned play provides a set of decent parts for older actors. Di Pietro's one flash of courage is in his willingness to give the stage to elderly actors. In Terry Byrne's well-crafted production, Mark Huberman gives an excellent account of Nick, and Mary Woods is quietly impressive as the woman with whom his grandparents hope to match him. But the real pleasure is in seeing the old stagers. Barry Cassin brings a nice touch of devilment to the playfully cantankerous Frank. Barbara Adair is completely convincing as an Italian momma who uses food as the language of love. Edwin Owens manages to make the loud, boisterous and bumptious Nunzio amiably charming. And Deirdre Donnelly, though she is far from the old stager category, does a terrific impersonation of one, giving a subtly moving account of the kind of blowsy American matron who tends to be patronised both in plays and in reality.

Those who like their drama on the rocks, with plenty of water and a large dash of sweetness, will find Over the River perfectly to their taste. Anyone after a bit of bite will have to look elsewhere.

Runs until Dec 17

Fintan O'Toole

Jamie Cullum

The National Stadium, Dublin

Unlovely as the National Stadium may be, it makes a curiously suitable arena for Jamie Cullum. Where better than a boxing ring for Cullum's brawling mix of pop, a sucker-punch of hip-hop, and the sharp left-hook of his fugitive jazz solos? Hopping onto the stage and throwing out air punches, the 26-year-old bop idol is ready to rumble.

With album sales in the millions, Cullum has few enough jazz-dabblers in his weight category. Tonight he is presented as a media icon: his every move captured by video cameras, his close-up beamed back on large screens, his performance available as a ringtone.

Opening with a Jimi Hendrix cover, Wind Cries Mary, an ebullient quintet may drop the vamp to a whisper while Cullum mutters the lyrics of Kanye West's Gold Digger, but he savours the final squall more, the thudding discordance of sitting on his piano keys or crunching them with his knee.

Yet there is equal élan - and even finesse - in his soloing, where the flutter of his right hand drizzles intricate passages through Old Devil Moon to match the pugilistic ostinato of his left.

The problem is that Cullum the showman tends to eclipse Cullum the musician. His witty, fleet-footed banter, his turntable skills on Get Your Way, his sudden Brazilian percussion workouts, his invasion of the aisles for a stripped down Frontin' are all gloriously entertaining (far more than a clutch of pallid new songs), but you can become jaded by such one-upmanship.

When he stamps on his piano during I Get a Kick Out of You, then carefully hurls a stool at the keys, one wonders what he'll throw at it next. Another piano? Of course, there are worse crimes than trying too hard, and playing continuously for the best part of three hours, the indefatigable clatter of his enthusiasm is infectious. Not quite the knock-out he was aiming for, then, but in performance Cullum certainly wins on points.

Peter Crawley