The Dead House review: A funeral, a community and a precise, imposing Martin Beanz Warde

The Dead House

New Theatre

★★★★☆

Martin Beanz Warde, the charismatic polymath, notes in the programme for The Dead House that, although his debut play does concern an Irish Traveller, “it could just as easily be any other Irish family”. That’s true. Who from this country will not recognise his economic sketch of a domestic funeral? The men are too proud to show emotion. The women gather blackly “like crows” around the coffin. The mourners are required to eat sandwiches at an hour when they’d really prefer a bowl of Weetabix. But The Dead House is also specific. Warde nods to misconceptions from outside his community. The protagonist laughs good-naturedly at his family’s own delusions. There is a great deal going on in this busy 50 minutes.

Warde’s greatest asset is his own engaging manner. He has an imposing presence, but he moves with precision and grace. Watch as he places his hand on his heart (literally) and, with lemony irony, begins: “Some in my family believe…” Get him into an Edwardian drawingroom comedy soon.

Before that we have the matter of his hero’s late grandfather. Directed with admirable order by Maisie Lee, the one-man show begins with Patrick, neat in black jeans, black, black jacket and black Chelsea boots, addressing the fourth wall from a simple dining chair. The walls are as black as his clothes. Jess Fitzsimons Kane’s lighting picks out yellow oblongs to stand in for coffins and picture frames.

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We gather quickly that the Dead House – not a phrase our mourner enjoys – refers to the place where the deceased lies before making his trip to the graveyard. Patrick eventually leaves his seat and walks us about the house. In the bathroom he encounters the dead man’s toothbrush. Elsewhere he comes across a traditional barrel-shaped caravan and considers where he came from and where he is going.

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Warde is best known as a stand-up comic, and much that is memorable in The Dead House could be filed under Observational Humour. A particularly amusing repeated refrain touches upon his family’s perception that Galway city is a modern Gomorrah teaming with ne’er-do-wells and (honestly, as if) hippies. Patrick is gay, and, though the play doesn’t much touch on the grosser excesses of homophobia, he does get a chance to roll his eyes at patronising misunderstandings. One family member, of course, thinks she knows the man who can make him happy.

Even if one weren’t aware of Warde’s professional background one might find oneself wondering if The Dead House – developed with Fuel, Druid’s artist-residency programme – completes the journey from monologue to one-man play. Just about. That is to do with the multitude of voices and with Warde setting down phrases that gain in resonance as the action progresses. “We’re not the Travellers you read about,” Patrick says with heavy sardonicism. The comment is as much about what gets written as it is about how humans (be they Travellers or not) conduct themselves.

What really establishes The Dead House as a piece of theatre is, however, Warde’s ability to occupy the stage. Get him that bourgeois comedy. Get him a bit of kitchen sink. Ask him to have a crack at Falstaff.

Continues at the New Theatre, as part of Dublin Theatre Festival, until Saturday, October 14th