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.