If the Pogues had penned a seasonal play about Dublin, it might have gone a little something like this. Conor McPherson’s rich, whisky-sodden riff on love, despair and belated self-knowledge brings a touch of the hard stuff to a soft season. But it’s exhilarating: a cold dark afternoon of the soul which forgives old sinners and hints at joy in the morning.
It’s Christmas Eve, and John, a hard-drinking middle aged undertaker whose only friend and partner is in hospital and whose family haven’t spoken to him for years is visited by ghosts from his past.
First up is Rory Keenan’s aimless Mark, trapped with a girlfriend he doesn’t quite love. He’s young enough to be John’s estranged son and he’s a pale youthful reminder of the awful irreconcilability of love and self-destruction: something that almost finished John but which, late in time, he has made his peace with. Next is Pauline Hutton’s Mary: John’s daughter, bearing news that her mother is dying.
McPherson’s short play is excellent: tough on love and the causes of love; profoundly sympathetic and damning about the denizens of the drunk tank. Gary Lydon captures John’s hard-won wisdom, his pub eloquence, and the shoots of generosity and love which show in his masculine friendships but which he drowned in booze during family life.
Meanwhile, Abbey Wright’s production is good on the detail and very nearly rises to the cathartic heights. In a season where theatre wears fake boobs, here’s a little realist epiphany which will still be with you after you pack up the tinsel and stars.