From the archives | Fintan O’Toole’s 2010 review of A BEHANDING IN SPOKANE by Martin McDonagh on Broadway

I have referenced Irish Times theater critic Fintan O’Toole’s legendary slam of Martin McDonagh’s 2010 Broadway play A BEHANDING IN SPOKANE (which O’Toole called a “disaster”) enough times, I finally had to go and subscribe to the IT so that I could get access to the review in the digital archives.

Here it is for you.

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Arch McDonagh takes a wrong turn to dead-end Americana

March 20, 2010

Fintan O’Toole

CULTURE SHOCK: For this awful, knowing parody in the Tarantino genre, McDonagh should return to his superior, terrible beauties.

EVEN FOR admirers of Martin McDonagh (present company included), it is almost a relief that, before reaching 40 this month, he has finally hatched a turkey. Ever since the opening night of The Beauty Queen of Leenane in Galway in February 1996, the only thing that has slowed the progress of the Irish theatre’s wunderkind has been the deep drift of bouquets and laurels he has had to wade through. Some of us had begun to wonder whether the legal firm of Lucifer Beelzebub and Mephistopheles didn’t have a contract on file signed in suspiciously garish red ink. This, after all, is a writer who put together a little film so he could learn how to direct ( Six Shooter) and won an Oscar for it.

Given the flamboyance of McDonagh’s career, it is fitting that his new play on Broadway, A Behanding in Spokane, is a prince among turkeys – golden, organic and butter-basted. And the totality of the play’s failure may, in the long run, make it one of the most useful things he has done. Most major playwrights – indeed most serious artists – learn more from their disasters than from their triumphs. In that sense, A Behandingshould be a defining experience for McDonagh. It clarifies – for the viewer and perhaps for himself – the nature of his mercurial, mysterious talent by defining the ground over which it does not travel.

Understanding that the play is, indeed, very bad is not quite as straightforward as it should be. When people are paying $130 (€95) a ticket to get into the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre and greeting the curtain call with standing ovations, it is easy to fall for defensive delusions. But the poverty of the play is masked by Christopher Walken’s mesmerising performance in the central role of Carmichael, who lost a hand in his youth and has spent the rest of his life searching for it. As masks go, Walken would grace the most lavish Venetian carnival. He would be magnetic if he stood on stage reading the assembly instructions for an Ikea flat-pack sofa, and a lot of people would pay $130 to witness the act.

Walken is indeed magnificent here, and he clearly relishes McDonagh’s language and humour. McDonagh’s work always walks a line between the grotesque and the playful, between horror and hilarity. And nobody knows that line as well as Walken does. Every Walken take is a double take. He’s one of the very few actors who can have his tongue in his cheek at the same time as his teeth are in your flesh. He is a refugee from both Samuel Beckett (he has himself got up like the ghostly protagonist of Ohio Impromptu) and a schlock thriller. He is genuinely terrifying and not at all serious. The weird smile that plays around his lips is simultaneously an expression of psychosis and of knowing bonhomie. While he’s on stage (for about half the 90 minutes of the show), you can almost believe that there’s a play going on here.

The downside is that when Walken walks off stage (or rather climbs out the window of the dingy motel room in which all the action unfolds), there’s an almost palpable shock of realisation that the rest is not merciful silence but lame chatter. McDonagh has, among other things, always been a brilliant parodist – of John B Keane and Tom Murphy, of Synge and Beckett, of Pinter and the Brothers Grimm. But here he’s parodying himself: A Behandingfeels like nothing so much as an over-extended skit on McDonagh’s favourite tics – the meta-theatrical game-playing, the grand guignol of stray body parts (in this case a collection of severed hands), the repetitions and reversals of the dialogue, the self-conscious absurdities of plot. A parody of a parody may be the ultimate in post-modern theatre but it also proves in practice how blind an alley all this knowingness can become.

The problem becomes a simple one: A Behanding isn’t funny. The opening five minutes are grimly hilarious, and there are a few good jokes along the way.

But the action is far too slack for a successful farce. (Even the mechanics are extraordinarily lazy: the little grifters that Carmichael ties to the heating pipes are within reach of a phone but it doesn’t occur to them to call the cops.) And it’s far too self-satisfied to be outrageous. Sam Rockwell, who plays the motel receptionist, is a fine actor, but when he’s left to carry the burden of comic invention, it turns out to be an empty basket.

The question of taste also arises here. McDonagh has long been a master of bad taste (not at all the same thing as having no taste at all). But it’s been grounded in character – he gets away with pushing boundaries because he convinces you that this is what the character might actually say. But here there is no characterisation worth talking about. When Carmichael talks repeatedly of “niggers” and “fags”, and one of his captives, the ditzy Marilyn (Zoe Kazan) criticises his racism and homophobia, there’s a sense that McDonagh is not so much having his cake and eating it as licking the icing and then spitting it out. He wants the shock value but not the consequences.

A Behanding is like the can of gasoline that Carmichael places in the room with a lit candle on top – it never ignites. For all the elements of contrived controversy, it is actually rather tame. And this surely says something about McDonagh’s imagination. All games, however fancy, have to be played on solid ground. McDonagh’s brilliant stagecraft, his linguistic cleverness and his gifts as a fabulist have always had a ground beneath them. His versions of the West of Ireland, of the Northern Ireland conflict or of the dark world of childhood imagination may have large elements of parody but they are parodies of something real. That element of reality, however playfully refracted, anchors his humour and invention in genuine human emotions.

A Behanding is anchored only in what has always been the worst of McDonagh’s many sources of influence: Quentin Tarantino. It attempts the same kind of self-referential, movie-saturated, rather arch Americana.

McDonagh turns out to be no good at it. For me, at least, that is a cause for celebration. He is much, much better than Tarantino will ever be. When he remembers that, he may look back on the disaster of A Behanding as the mudslide that blocked a road he should not go down.

If it shows him where he shouldn’t go, it may also point him in the right direction – towards a deeper engagement with theterrible humour of humanity.

Fintan O’Toole’s “worst single line I’ve heard in the theater” comes to Seattle Rep | OUTSIDE MULLINGAR by John Patrick Shanley

It doesn’t take all that much to get on Irish Times theatre critic Fintan O’Toole’s shit list. But to rise to the remote and windy top of that list is no small achievement. For O’Toole has been reviewing Irish theatre at home and abroad for decades. And many, many shows meet with – well, start reading him and you’ll see.

The list of pans and slams is long, so you’d think that singling out an all time worst from the list of candidates would be challenging for O’Toole. Apparently not. While some Irish fans may feel slighted that this elite honor goes out of country, no doubt most will be delighted to hear an American is wearing the laurels.

Despite the odds, John Patrick Shanley has brought home gold with his “Irish play” OUTSIDE MULLINGAR, now on at Seattle Rep. In O’Toole’s annual recap of Irish cultural highs and lows for 2014, he named Shanley’s play as including “perhaps the worst single line I’ve heard in the theater.” We won’t spoil the drama. You’ll have to go and find out which line it was. Though it won’t initially be easy to pick out just one.

The show earns a pass from Seattle Times critic Misha Berson. Sounds hideous.

It’s amazing what a Tony nomination and a famous playwright’s name can do. This nonsensical story, projected onto a culture that is apparently as foreign to Shanley as Timbuktu, is now making the rounds of mediocre American regional theater. And nothing draws an unthinking stateside smile faster than a bad Irish accent on stage. No matter how far from reality the representation of Ireland may be, as long as someone drinks a beer, makes a joke about the rain, and says “shite”, all is well. When this sort of slapstick gets really, really bad it’s pure greenface.

But In Ireland theater is serious business indeed. And in the Irish theatre, fools are not suffered. Rather, fools suffer – usually at the hands of O’Toole.

O’Toole’s original review (see below) says it all.

Remember last year when Seattleites protested cultural misrepresentation in THE MIKADO? Any Irish Americans in touch with their heritage should be up on barricades for this one as well.

OUTSIDE MULLINGAR.  About as authentic as that ludicrously photoshopped image.
OUTSIDE MULLINGAR. About as authentic as that ludicrously photoshopped image.

Culture Shock: ‘Outside Mullingar’, and beyond the edge of awfulness

All the hokum that had been happily discarded became, in Martin McDonagh’s hands, a workable proposition again. It didn’t occur to me that an intelligent American dramatist such as John Patrick Shanley might look at those plays and miss all the layers of mockery and irony and manipulation.

Fintan O’Toole

Feb 22, 2014

When plays are bad, their badness is usually easy to explain. Occasionally, though, there is a play whose woefulness demands a whole new theory. John Patrick Shanley’s faux-Irish drama Outside Mullingar , currently on Broadway, is mystifyingly awful. The obvious explanation, that Shanley can’t write, doesn’t get us very far. He won the Tony Award and the Pulitzer Prize for Doubt , and an Oscar for Moonstruck . Neither is especially to my taste, but they are at worst highly competent and professional. They don’t prepare you for the moments in Outside Mullingar when you find yourself shaking your head in abject, surrendered, uncomprehending disbelief.

After much reflection, my theory about Outside Mullingar is what we might call the McDonagh Effect. Martin McDonagh took the ramshackle old Irish naturalistic play, with its odd mix of kitchen comedy and 19th-century melodrama, and made it look both easy and viable. All the old hokum that had been happily discarded became, in his hands, a workable proposition again. If you were Irish, of course, it was also obvious that his was a postmodern version of Irish hokum, utterly self-aware, drenched in irony, deliberately anachronistic and brilliantly deployed to manipulate an audience’s expectations.

It didn’t occur to me, at least, that an intelligent American dramatist might look at those McDonagh plays and miss all the layers of mockery and irony and manipulation. That it would be possible to think, Great, the Abbey play of the 1940s is up for grabs again – and to think this in all innocence, with no hint of malicious intent. The only way I can explain Outside Mullingar is to assume that poor Shanley was misled in this way. Even this doesn’t explain why nobody, especially the Irish people involved in the production, had a quiet word to put him right.

Outside Mullingar is set, well, outside Mullingar. The time is given in the programme as “recently”: we know this because there are references to Irish boxers winning medals at the Olympics. As the old farmer Tony Reilly (played by Peter Maloney) puts it, in a line that is all too typical, “Sure, we’re good with our fists, no surprise there.” But theatrically, it is set in a different time and place: the Abbey, some time between 1930 and 1959.

If you were to do a random cut-up of the rural social comedies that were the staple diet of that period, you would more than likely end up with most of the following elements: a funeral, cups of tea, a dispute about land, a dying parent, a will, a returned Yank, an ageing virgin son and the headstrong woman he is secretly in love with but has never got around to informing of his feelings. If you shuffled those cards a few times, you’d come up with the bones of Outside Mullingar . To complete the job, you’d have to have mistaken McDonagh’s dark surrealism for Oirish quirkiness and added enough of that to tip the whole thing from mere dullness into embarrassment.

In Outside Mullingar , we begin in Tony’s kitchen after the funeral of his nearest neighbour. We quickly establish three things. Tony is thinking of cutting his son, Anthony (played by Brían F O’Byrne), out of his will and leaving the farm to a Yankee nephew. The Reillys have been in dispute with the neighbour about a right of way. (The term “land-grabbing” is, I’m afraid, inevitable.) And the disputed land has passed to the neighbour’s daughter, the fiery Rosemary Muldoon (played by Debra Messing – Grace from Will & Grace ).

I would normally be careful about revealing how it all works out, but in this case it will hardly surprise readers that the resolution will involve two elements: (a) a deathbed scene of more than usually revolting sentimentality in which Tony makes it all right with Anthony; and (b) Anthony and Rosemary finally getting around to wearing the face off each other.

All of this would be weird in itself, especially as the pastiche of midcentury Irish drama is always slightly off-kilter. Shanley’s ear for Irish speech – he has cousins outside Mullingar – is not well enough tuned to avoid having people “go to church” or “pass on”. Messing’s Rosemary tries so hard at an Irish accent that her voice ends up drowning in the Atlantic. It doesn’t help that her mother is played by Dearbhla Molloy, whose precise characterisation makes you wonder where her daughter came from.

But what makes the whole thing almost unfathomably bad is that Shanley has some vague sense that McDonagh’s plays do something more. Hence we have rain falling outside the cottage window as in the Druid production of The Beauty Queen of Leenane and the casting of O’Byrne from that same production. Rosemary has elements of Slippy Helen from The Cripple of Inishmaan , and her resentment of Anthony goes back to a McDonaghesque childish slight. Worst of all, Anthony’s big revelation is an unintended parody of the way McDonagh inserts oddities and nonsequiturs. He explains that he has stayed away from Rosemary all these years because “I think I’m a bee”. This is not a joke or a metaphor: he thinks he’s a bee. I tried to convince myself that I was an ice-cube so I could melt into the ground in embarrassment.

fotoole@irishtimes.com

OUTSIDE MULLINGAR – “beyond the edge of awfulness” and anything remotely resembling Irish reality | John Patrick Shanley’s “Irish play” makes Fintan O’Toole’s all time worst list with “perhaps the worst single line I’ve heard in the theatre”

If you’ve been following along, you’ll recall that Irish Times theatre and social critic Fintan O’Toole labeled John Patrick Shanley’s “Irish play” OUTSIDE MULLINGAR “mystifyingly awful” and “unfathomably bad” last February. Not inconsequential words from one of the most important living English language critics and the man with the definitive word on Irish culture.

But behold! In O’Toole’s annual look back at the previous year’s cultural highs and lows, he has bestowed a rarely awarded (and fiercely contested) title to Shanley’s work. According to O’Toole, OUTSIDE MULLINGAR includes “perhaps the worst single line I’ve heard in the theatre”.

Now O’Toole sees a lot of plays (many, as you may know, not to his liking), and he kind of had to hedge himself with that “perhaps” – because there are so many competitors vying for the designation and he can’t keep track of them all (maybe there’s an app for that). But still. Making it to the top of such a hallowed heap is no ordinary achievement. For any playwright.

American plays that are “set in Ireland” but actually have no understanding of the place is a kind of evergreen cottage industry in the US and no doubt keeps the interns at Christopher Guest’s office busy filing story ideas for future films.

Meanwhile, Shanley’s play is starting to pump through the mass-produced theatre industrial complex pipeline to many regional theatres that should know better. For example, lo and behold, to our north Seattle Rep has elected to do OUTSIDE MULLINGAR in April.

Last summer’s production of THE MIKADO with an all white cast by Seattle’s Gilbert & Sullivan Society drew hundreds of Asian American protesters onto the streets decrying stereotypes and cultural appropriation in the American theatre. Why wouldn’t Irish Americans similarly rally (or, in their more familiar format, riot) against a work that reduces the Irish to a series of greenface types? Not only is the Ireland of Shanley’s play a simple fantasy world that does not exist – it’s a bad play. A horrible play. A play so preposterously bad – that it almost becomes good in a way.

And the truly weird thing here is that actually existing Irish theatre (plays about Ireland by Irish writers) is some of the very best there is. How do you start with one of the mightiest theatre traditions the world has ever known, a stream of writers stretching back hundreds of years who have redefined live performance, and create a play so bad that it should be vetoed even at the junior high level (not to mention Broadway)?

Shanley can take solace knowing that, if ever done in Ireland, OUTSIDE MULLINGAR would go down in memory as one of the funniest “Irish” plays ever seen on stage.

But for all the wrong reasons.

+++O’Toole’s list below+++

Fintan O’Toole’s cultural highs and lows of 2014

Sat, Dec 27, 2014

What were your cultural highlights of 2014?

Michael Longley’s beautifully fragile evocation of life, death, nature and memory in The Stairwell. Bryan Cranston’s utterly gripping Lyndon Baines Johnson in Richard Schenkkan’s All the Way. Colm Tóibín’s intricate, moment-by-moment plotting of grief in Nora Webster. The wonderfully loopy Leonora Carrington exhibition at Imma.

Catching up with and being caught up in Eimear McBride’s ferocious and fearless A Girl Is a Half-Formed Thing. The unconfined joy of The Gloaming. Mikel Murfi’s deeply moving performance in Ballyturk and Ciaran Hinds’s in The Night Alive. Lorrie Moore’s impeccable and inimitable stories in Bark. The rapturous linguistic landscape of Sebastian Barry’s The Temporary Gentleman. Finally getting to see some kabuki in Tokyo.

And the year’s biggest disappointments?

The Government’s malign neglect of the arts and culture: not a red cent extra in the budget; no action on the sale of the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre; the John McNulty and Imma-board farce; allowing the National Library of Ireland and National Museum of Ireland to approach collapse. And perhaps the worst single line I’ve heard in the theatre: “I think I’m a bee,” in John Patrick Shanley’s faux-Irish drama Outside Mullingar, on Broadway.

What caught you by surprise?

Lisa Dwan’s performance of three short Samuel Beckett plays – Not I, Footfalls, Rockaby was startling in its power, originality and virtuosity. There’s been nothing quite like it before. Also in Beckettland, Adrian Dunbar’s magical-mystery-tour production of Catastrophe at Happy Days Enniskillen International Beckett Festival.

And what will you be glad to see or hear the last of?

Ministerial blather about how much we value culture. Maybe “we” do, but you certainly don’t.

Who or what was 2014’s unsung hero?

Not quite unsung, but unplayed: the great Tony McMahon’s farewell to music leaves a silence in the air.

What’s your top tip for 2015?

The Druid/Mark O’Rowe version of Shakespeare’s Henry plays should be a dangerous walk on a high-wire strung between “these islands”.

2014 in three words?

In spite of . . .

Perhaps the worst “Irish play” ever seen on Broadway. John Patrick Shanley’s OUTSIDE MULLINGAR.

“Mystifyingly awful…unfathomably bad” | Fintan O’Toole demolishes OUTSIDE MULLINGAR, John Patrick Shanley’s new “Irish” play

God bless Fintan O’Toole.

The Irish Times theatre critic hails from another time and place. In the part of the world he calls home (Dublin), theatre is serious business. And reviewers don’t mince words. They don’t try to look on the bright side if a play is awful. They don’t engage in rambling “discussions”, they don’t wax lyrical about how wonderful it is that “at least we’re having the conversation!” in desperate search for something good to say about an awful play (while not actually having the balls to say that it’s awful). They don’t spend 12 paragraphs discoursing on the historical context of a play or the social patterns of Himalayan villages where sweaters like the one worn in the play are woven – and then somehow fail to tell you that the play is awful.

Oh no. In the olde country, theatre critics wade in with flak jackets and artillery from word 1. They get RIGHT TO IT. In Fintan’s world, talking about everything else under the sun but failing to tell the audience that a play is awful (a style which increasingly seems to define American theatre journalism outside the major culture centers) is a dereliction of duty. And you’ll never see him do that.

That’s how it has to be in a theatre culture. The audience is in a hurry, they need to know what’s happening and what’s good. “What is worth my time and money?” the audience asks. Because they go to the theatre a lot, and they don’t have the time to see everything. They only want to see the good stuff. In a world of limited time and money, carefully avoiding the landmines is of paramount importance. Theatre critics see bad shows and take one for the team because that’s their job. Audience members depend on critics to share horror stories and tales of suffering – so that they (the audience) can avoid suffering. Never in a million years are you going to find a Fintan O’Toole review that tiptoes ’round the tulips of a bad play, waxes warmly about the “fascinating historical context!” the play operates in, and fails to disclose that the play is shite. It is not O’Toole’s goal to “encourage a wonderful conversation!” about a bad play by getting as many people as possible to go see it. That’s what boosterism does. Fintan’s job is to give his audience the maximum possible advance warning that a play is not worth their time – so they can avoid it and instead get to one that is.

The audience wants to hear these calls. They depend on them. They want to hear about what is unforgettably good. And of course, they also need to hear about what’s “unfathomably bad”, the coverage of which becomes its own blood sport. On the morning after a big premiere in Dublin, citizens all over the country tune in with a kind of morbid glee (except for those involved in the production – for them the operating emotion is closer to raw terror) to the Irish Times web site to find out what O’Toole has to say about it. Did it measure up? O, the horror!

If you think Ben Brantley has monolithic power – forget about it. O’Toole is also a leading intellectual and dissident activist on the side. Every single person in Ireland knows who Fintan O’Toole is. And what he says matters.

And when an Irish play strays across the Atlantic to New York or (god forbid) opens there first? O’Toole will materialize as if from the cloud to catch it, render judgement, and begone. His legendary pan of Martin McDonagh’s inept 2010 return to Broadway, A BEHANDING IN SPOKANE, may have singlehandedly contributed to a measurable loss of Irish GNP the morning it was published as folks sat at their machines back home reading and rereading (with delight, no doubt) how it all went so very, very wrong for dear Martin. In it O’Toole basically says: “Martin. Look. Sometimes you need a failure this big, this spectacular, this F*CKING APOCALYPTIC to get you back to founding principles.”

McDonagh hasn’t written another play since.

Anyway, given O’Toole’s eminent position within the Irish theatre criticism wing, and his geographical proximity to New York (he’s teaching at Princeton this year), it was not a question of if but WHEN the Irish Times would deploy their stateside sleeper cell theatre crit hit team to lay waste what is quite possibly one of the most irresistible and fruitful targets he has ever had the pleasure of locking on: the clear and present danger (to sane theatre-going) of John Patrick Shanley’s ludicrously bad, completely incomprehensible, historically oblivious “Irish” play, OUTSIDE MULLINGAR.

One thing you can be sure about: Irish eyes are smiling back home…

Thank you, Fintan.

Warning: There is not a single line of feel good boosterism in this review.
Warning: There is not a single line of feel good boosterism in this review.

Archive of review:

Culture Shock: ‘Outside Mullingar’, and beyond the edge of awfulness

All the hokum that had been happily discarded became, in Martin McDonagh’s hands, a workable proposition again. It didn’t occur to me that an intelligent American dramatist such as John Patrick Shanley might look at those plays and miss all the layers of mockery and irony and manipulation.

Fintan O’Toole

Feb 22, 2014

When plays are bad, their badness is usually easy to explain. Occasionally, though, there is a play whose woefulness demands a whole new theory. John Patrick Shanley’s faux-Irish drama Outside Mullingar , currently on Broadway, is mystifyingly awful. The obvious explanation, that Shanley can’t write, doesn’t get us very far. He won the Tony Award and the Pulitzer Prize for Doubt , and an Oscar for Moonstruck . Neither is especially to my taste, but they are at worst highly competent and professional. They don’t prepare you for the moments in Outside Mullingar when you find yourself shaking your head in abject, surrendered, uncomprehending disbelief.

After much reflection, my theory about Outside Mullingar is what we might call the McDonagh Effect. Martin McDonagh took the ramshackle old Irish naturalistic play, with its odd mix of kitchen comedy and 19th-century melodrama, and made it look both easy and viable. All the old hokum that had been happily discarded became, in his hands, a workable proposition again. If you were Irish, of course, it was also obvious that his was a postmodern version of Irish hokum, utterly self-aware, drenched in irony, deliberately anachronistic and brilliantly deployed to manipulate an audience’s expectations.

It didn’t occur to me, at least, that an intelligent American dramatist might look at those McDonagh plays and miss all the layers of mockery and irony and manipulation. That it would be possible to think, Great, the Abbey play of the 1940s is up for grabs again – and to think this in all innocence, with no hint of malicious intent. The only way I can explain Outside Mullingar is to assume that poor Shanley was misled in this way. Even this doesn’t explain why nobody, especially the Irish people involved in the production, had a quiet word to put him right.

Outside Mullingar is set, well, outside Mullingar. The time is given in the programme as “recently”: we know this because there are references to Irish boxers winning medals at the Olympics. As the old farmer Tony Reilly (played by Peter Maloney) puts it, in a line that is all too typical, “Sure, we’re good with our fists, no surprise there.” But theatrically, it is set in a different time and place: the Abbey, some time between 1930 and 1959.

If you were to do a random cut-up of the rural social comedies that were the staple diet of that period, you would more than likely end up with most of the following elements: a funeral, cups of tea, a dispute about land, a dying parent, a will, a returned Yank, an ageing virgin son and the headstrong woman he is secretly in love with but has never got around to informing of his feelings. If you shuffled those cards a few times, you’d come up with the bones of Outside Mullingar . To complete the job, you’d have to have mistaken McDonagh’s dark surrealism for Oirish quirkiness and added enough of that to tip the whole thing from mere dullness into embarrassment.

In Outside Mullingar , we begin in Tony’s kitchen after the funeral of his nearest neighbour. We quickly establish three things. Tony is thinking of cutting his son, Anthony (played by Brían F O’Byrne), out of his will and leaving the farm to a Yankee nephew. The Reillys have been in dispute with the neighbour about a right of way. (The term “land-grabbing” is, I’m afraid, inevitable.) And the disputed land has passed to the neighbour’s daughter, the fiery Rosemary Muldoon (played by Debra Messing – Grace from Will & Grace ).

I would normally be careful about revealing how it all works out, but in this case it will hardly surprise readers that the resolution will involve two elements: (a) a deathbed scene of more than usually revolting sentimentality in which Tony makes it all right with Anthony; and (b) Anthony and Rosemary finally getting around to wearing the face off each other.

All of this would be weird in itself, especially as the pastiche of midcentury Irish drama is always slightly off-kilter. Shanley’s ear for Irish speech – he has cousins outside Mullingar – is not well enough tuned to avoid having people “go to church” or “pass on”. Messing’s Rosemary tries so hard at an Irish accent that her voice ends up drowning in the Atlantic. It doesn’t help that her mother is played by Dearbhla Molloy, whose precise characterisation makes you wonder where her daughter came from.

But what makes the whole thing almost unfathomably bad is that Shanley has some vague sense that McDonagh’s plays do something more. Hence we have rain falling outside the cottage window as in the Druid production of The Beauty Queen of Leenane and the casting of O’Byrne from that same production. Rosemary has elements of Slippy Helen from The Cripple of Inishmaan , and her resentment of Anthony goes back to a McDonaghesque childish slight. Worst of all, Anthony’s big revelation is an unintended parody of the way McDonagh inserts oddities and nonsequiturs. He explains that he has stayed away from Rosemary all these years because “I think I’m a bee”. This is not a joke or a metaphor: he thinks he’s a bee. I tried to convince myself that I was an ice-cube so I could melt into the ground in embarrassment.

fotoole@irishtimes.com

Ireland’s leading theatre critic takes center stage in new popular protest movement against bank bailout

Ireland has long been the kind of place where theatre can be and often is about much more than entertainment or diversion.

In this tiny North Atlantic country so central to the English language theatre tradition, the dramatic art form has functioned as chief social and critical channel of discourse. And that’s part of the reason why it’s so good.

Theatre has stood in for nation, liberation, rebellion. When issues could not be discussed elsewhere, they found their way to the stage.

And people have often not liked what they saw up there. The riots around the opening of Synge’s PLAYBOY in 1907, while more complicated than the standard explanation, are the classic example of popular uproar caused by theatre.

Of course, once you’ve had a good riot you need a dozen plays to reinterpret and relive it.

The cycle reinforces, and today there is a relatively healthy sub genre in Irish theatre academia around theatre riots.

After a long and unique history that has produced scores – hundreds – of dramatic writers, Ireland is still the kind of place where an important new play will receive headline coverage (and endless back room criticism) of the kind usually reserved for sports stars or celebrities.

And for the last few decades, on the morning after a world premiere by an Irish writer, when it came to decoding the importance and stature of the latest work, the Irish reading public has relied on one critic above all others to say what it means: Fintan O’Toole.

O’Toole is a critic in the old style – manically smart and wide-ranging, passionate about his likes and dislikes, and savage with the pen and keyboard when something doesn’t measure up. In person he speaks at top speed and always has a lot to say.

If you’re an actor, and you had the good (mis)fortune to be in the show under review, you carefully, slowly turn (or load) the page with O’Toole’s response, wondering if you were about to be praised, ignored, or dismissed.

If you’re the playwright, you might do well to put on a helmet and seat belt first. And maybe smoke a couple hundred cigarettes to prepare yourself.

Across the land, as a new O’Toole review hits the screen, a chorus of wails, laughs, snorts or cackles (depending on your relationship to the production) can be heard. Theatre practioners stare archly at each other on next meeting, not even needing to verbalize what everyone is thinking: “Jaysus, did you see what Fintan said!” Complaining about O’Toole’s reviews is second in popularity only to complaining about the weather.

But in a country where theatre and criticism thereof have played such a central role in the national discourse, it should come as no surprise to find a theatre critic now leading the latest popular uprising against the crushing financial burden the Republic’s government assumed in 2008 when it accepted all responsibility for the huge debts of Anglo Irish Bank and Irish Nationwide.

Rebel leaders tap into popular cultural types. In the US an underdog iconoclast decrying excesses by the elites is more likely to be a laconic cowboy type or pickup truck-driving everyman, harkening back to basic values. In Poland, it was natural that Walesa, a shipyard electrician, would build popular support against the Soviets.

In Ireland the public’s outrage and desires are best channeled by a hyper literate theatre critic.

And that is just what is happening on ourcountry.ie.

Four years after the Free State essentially ceased to exist as a functioning financial entity, popular protest against the siphoning away of 3 billion Euros a year (scheduled to continue until 2023) to pay for real estate debts incurred by a criminal (and now exiled) billionaire uber class is FINALLY reaching critical mass.

O’Toole is in the middle of it. From his perch at the Irish Times, he has ceaselessly railed against the inbred and corrupt system that still resists any real reform or accountability. In such an economically divided society with so many powerful people with so much to lose, it’s kind of a miracle this bomb thrower has not found himself disappeared in the night, and that could still happen a la Veronica Guerin.

Maybe partly thanks to O’Toole’s high volume hectoring, the extreme public apathy of the last few years seems to be yielding to action at last. And as it would be incomprehensible for the ruling class to change anything until they absolutely have to, it seems likely that Ireland is going to soon see some popular protests on the streets.

Which is good news.

Because in Ireland, when riots break out, good theatre cannot be far behind.

And vice versa…

O'Toole is one of the sponsors of the new site ourcountry.ie.
O’Toole is one of the sponsors of the new site ourcountry.ie.