The Playboy of the Western World

IF architecture is, as is said the mother of all the arts Belfast can rejoice in its splendid new Waterfront Hall.

The first production into its studio theatre is, appropriately, by the famed Lyric Theatre, playing for three performances this week before returning to its own waterfront home by the Lagan.

This is a revival of Synge's work directed by the always imaginative David Grant, who may, however, have overcooked the creativity on this occasion.

It is clear that the stress of settling into the new space left the first night's efforts somewhat on the ragged side.

But even when the production has grooved, I think some of its shortcoming will remain.

Tribute first, though, to those elements which gave undiluted pleasure. Conleth Hill's playboy, Christy Mahon, gives free rein to the actor's chameleon qualities, moving effortlessly from craven fugitive to free spirit a really enjoyable and different interpretation.

Birdie Sweeney as his father, Old Mahon, uses his leprechaun appearance to add satire to a role usually taken by big men, underlining Christy's fantasy world.

John Hewitt carves out a solid figure of the publican Michael James. The role of Pegeen Mike is, of course, crucial to the play's impact, and Eileen McCloskey is clearly, at this point in her career, lacking in the authority and charisma it demands. Her muted coquettishness reduces Pegeen almost to a minor character, and deprives the play of an essential tragic dimension.

Others who seem to strike a note are Maggie Cronin's Widow Quin and Seamus Fox's Shawn Keogh, adequate but somehow inconsequential. The pub men and mountain girls fail to add sufficient local colour.

Music, composed by Debra Salem and delivered by a group of six seated immediately above the acting area, is problematic. It is more or less constant throughout, and hardly seems integrated into the whole. At times it distracts from the dialogue, while concentration on the latter can reduce it to an irritating tumtytum tum in the background. It is not obviously worth its keep.

Stuart Marshall's set is effective and easy on the eye, but the costumes by Anne Whittaker seemed somehow tailored, patches and all, and accordingly artificial.

The director's disciplined know how does much to harmonise the disparate elements under his baton, but cannot achieve more than a curate's egg outcome.