Bleeding Poets - The New Theatre

There's quite a lot to be said for those long, secret, drunken afternoons. Where tongues are loosened and friendships bolstered and the sun is something rarely seen. Bleeding Poets, Danny Reardon's 'macabre comedy' is based on such a premise - On a fantastical November day in 1847, there is a seemingly chance encounter between three poets, in the Bleeding Horse on Camden St.

The rogue Jesuit Corkonian, Francis Sylvester Mahony (Arthur Riordan), has made his way to the bar with a bag full of poetry stolen from the Vatican, to pitch an idea to the Dublin poet James Clarence Mangan (Mark O' Regan). The verbose Mahony believes that they can rake in some easy cash by translating the poems from Latin; however Mangan, chronically dependent on alcohol and laudanum, is more interested in first getting a drop of the cure to see the day through. Into this mix bursts (literally) the Yankee inbreeder, Edgar Allen Poe (Michael James Ford). Poe has travelled across the broad Atlantic, pistol in hand, to attempt to assassinate Charles Dickens - however has stopped along the way to seek out his 'brother in misery', Mangan.

After waving his gun about, and demanding the door locked – Poe (who seems closer to Philip Marlowe than sweet Lenore) settles down, and the three poets' cups are kept filled by the baffled and nonchalant local barmaid Mary Malone (Lisa Lambe). Ringing true to those ageless afternoons, there isn't much in terms of plot – just the fast paced rapport between three poetic minds elevated on brandy and opium.

Likewise, the set is a simple enough affair, a small bar, and scattering of rugged tables and stools, strewn with jugs and cups for the brandy and porter – the walls plastered with pages of handwritten script. O'Regan's Mangan slumps in a dishevelled heap, speaking only when necessary, and then as if the weight of the world is upon him. Poe switches between boisterous obnoxiousness and deranged anguish – imagine Yosemite Sam suffering from manic depression – while Riordan's gabby, genteel Mahony incessantly chatters like an idling engine, stopping only for brief refuellings.

In the midst of this verbal maelstrom is the star of the play, Lambe, who acts as an anchor – both in terms of character, where Malone is the only one quick to stop the poets' heads from being too high in the clouds; but also as an actor, she manages to be the only constant and identifiable person on stage.

What Bleeding Poets does well is it makes poetry very corporal and tangible. The score, the lighting and the coreography are used brilliantly to allow Ford's rendition of Poe's 'The Bells' to be as frightening and savage as no doubt it originally was in the poet's mind. Likewise the eloquence and rhythm of Mahony's 'Shandon Bells' and the melancholy of Mangan's 'The Passing Bell' are vividly captured.

However, the play suffers ultimately from the temperamental nature of the energy it tried to capture. While the first act is enjoyable, it is during the second that the banter begins to slow, and the obvious lack of any real plot becomes apparent. The result is a play that suddenly doesn't know which direction to head in, and bizarrely seems to head off in several at once. The interpretations of the poems begin to seem forced, and at times just don't fit into what is going on. We have Mahony suddenly regaling us with a story of the platonic love he shared for a young scholar; Mangan erupting from his inner-city waiflike shell, to serenade us with a rendition of 'Siberia' in a robust, operatic tenor; while Malone treats us to poetry in the pop-vocal style of Shakira. Add to the mix Jennifer O' Dea as Mangan's love interest Margaret Stacpoole and Poe's spasmodic suicidal tendencies, and you're left with a bunch of essentially useless, limp strands.

Personally, as I am not a regular used of opiates, what to me may seem like wanton aimlessness may in fact be some kind of theatrical genius – however, it's unfortunately just not very entertaining. Standing at an hour and forty-five minutes, Bleeding Poets simply doesn't have enough substance to carry it through, despite admirable performances from the cast, and no matter how interesting an idea it may seem...much like many of those long, secret, drunken afternoons; as the time steadily passes and brings thoughts of tomorrow - reality creeps in and sadly, and cruelly, strips away the magic.

Fool For Love - The Peacock

Written by: Sam Shepard

Directed by: Annie Ryan

Starring: Don Wycherley, Catherine Walsh, John Kavanagh and Andrew Bennett.

www.theabbeytheatre.ie

****

Here we have another play revolving around the ideas of stark opposites and inescapable fate. But while Blood Brothers roared and soared – Fool For Love sneers and cusses. The 1983 Sam Shepard play is the latest in a line from the prolific writer, actor and director to appear in The Peacock – this time under the direction of The Corn Exchange’s Annie Ryan.
Set in the early 80s and staged in a run down motel room, somewhere in the Mojave Desert; Fool For Love is a gritty showdown between Eddie, a cowboy, and May, his one-time sweetheart.
The set design ensures the atmosphere is almost palatable – sitting in my seat before the performance I listed carefully to the strains of Johnny Cash playing lowly behind the murmur of the crowd. Misshapen, battered and dusty Venetian blinds throw a long, slanted shadow across a porridge-lump bed complete with worn woolen blankets; two maligned and maimed bedside lamps jut from the wall…I can’t see the toilet bowl but I just know its porcelain is cracked and stained a permanent smoky yellow. There’s a cheap wooden door, and I wonder is it there to open out onto a prettier world, or to keep what’s inside locked up.
Eddie (Don Wycherley) and May (Catherine Walsh) undoubtedly think the same thing, the dank room serves as bleeding ground, where the two wrestle, both verbally and literally, and struggle to make sense, amends or ends of their relationship. Eddie struts with a self-assured, tequila-loosed cockiness, which at time flares to hotheadedness; while May seems torn between the futility of it all, and her obvious, undeniable feelings for him. We are represented with a wild west that we aren’t used to seeing. One of small bickering and real heartache. The motel room becomes scene to a kind of shootout of shrewdness and manipulation– where every shared memory or past utterance is heaved up and into an ever-growing arsenal.
It did take a short moment to grow accustomed to the south-west-meets-deep-south twang of both the central characters, however accentual niggles simply melt when confronted the superbly drawn narrative. The plot heats and brews, accompanied by the ever present flavour of the on-looking hobo (an excellent and fearsome John Kavanagh) and May's wide-eyed date Martin (Andrew Bennett) – who finds himself trapped between the warring pair.
Wycherly and Bennett provide much of the dark comic element – with Wycherly exuding a charming, swaggering menace towards what his newly acquainted rival; while the ever innocuous Bennett makes us squirm as he nods lamb-like, blissfully unaware of the grinning wolf in waiting.


Fool For Love is a very physical piece of theatre – both in its content and its performance (Wycherley's lassoing and tumbling must be applauded). A tug of war love affair between two very different people – different not only from one another, but from the stereotypes put upon them. Shepards tale leads us backwards through the story. And a little more of the history between the pair is revealed with each slug of tequila.

The matinee showing I attended was full - and as I made a hasty march to the pub through the cold, biting air afterwards I thought long and hard about what I'd seen. I was by no means immediately won over - but Fool For Love is the kind of play that creeps into your conciousness over the following days, leaving raw red whip marks of thought, and a thirst for more.

Blood Brothers - The Gaiety Theatre

Written by: Willy Russell
Directed by: Bob Tomson & Bill Kenwright
Featuring: Rebecca Storm, Keith Burns, Sean Jones, Drew Ashton, Tracy Spencer Linzi Matthews, Barry Sloane, Leigh Jones, Matt Slack, Amy O'Neill, Phillip Maggs, Karl Geenwood, Lisa Taylor Roberts & Rob Hughes

http://www.gaietytheatre.ie/

*****

Blood Brothers, one of the most successful musicals in history, has meandered its way back for another run in the Gaiety Theatre. Willy Russell's 1980s, multi-award winning play tells the story of the Liverpudlian Johnstone twins - seperated at birth, and raised on opposite sides of the tracks - one going on to become a well spoken graduate, the other headed for factory work and prison. Both tragically destined to meet their end together.

Rebecca Storm again plays the part of Mrs Johnstone, the maternal mother of the children. Scraping to make ends meet in the early 60s, with an army of already hungry mouths and Mr Johnston skipped town with a younger model; she finds herself pregnant with the twins around the same time she lands a cleaning job in the plush residence of the upper class Mrs Lyons (Tracy Spencer). The barren Lyons aches for a child of her own, and with a husband that is away on business, savvy cogs begin to turn. Desperation paints a pretty, but terribly twisted picture for both women - one can provide the money, the other the child...from the very beginning the play is saturated with this concept of dualism and opposites - with dilemma and superstition.

The set is beautifully realised - and opens with a literally jaw-dropping light effect where the Liverpool skyline appears like a darkroom picture being gradually developed. Red brick walls and grand grey houses; weighed down washing lines and rich carpets and settees - the conveyance of both working class, and upper class Liverpool are brilliantly achieved.

The young Mickey (Sean Jones) growing up in a crowded council house, unwittingly befriends his affluent brother Eddie (Drew Ashton) and quickly become best friends, and then, cutting their hands in an old childhood pact, blood brothers. The divide between their two lives serves as poignant social commentary, which can be appreciated in Dublin as much as any growing city. Sean Jones pulls off the role of Mickey’s delinquent older brother, while Linzi Matthews is memorable as Linda – the girl that both brothers have an interest in.

Storm’s performance is once again incredibly powerful and mesmerising. And the childhood and teenage antics of the boys certainly distracts us from the rather grim opening, and the inevitable ending. Keith Burns is a constant presence onstage; playing the sharp suited narrator – reminiscent of Bowie during his Tin Machine phase – Burns effectively acts as a conscience to both mothers through the play. His duets with Storm certainly make for some of the most visceral moments in the close to the three-hour show.

Blood Brothers is very difficult to criticise. It offers a vivid, energetic show; an excellent, celebrated score; a plot that is at once enjoyable, and thought provoking; and a stellar cast and set. I’ve been avoiding blurting out the words ‘must’ and ‘see’, but they are somewhat unavoidable...You shouldn't miss this.