O’Reilly Theatre, Ulster Bank Dublin
Theatre Festival 2011
Sept 30-Oct 16
My review of
Rough Magic’s Peer Gynt by Henrik Ibsen coming up just as soon as I lose my
wife to an outhouse door ...
“O falling star, how we relate.
We fall, we shine, we obliterate”
-
Peer Gynt
“My Peer can ride a buck,
That’s the truth”
-
Aase
When you’re
talking Henrik Ibsen’s Peer Gynt you
know you’re talking an epic display of poetry and fantasy in deliberate
disregard of the naturalist drama; a true theatrical powerhouse. As a director,
it must be like fairy-dust on your fingertips to have the opportunity to approach
this fantastical whirlwind of imagined beings and scenarios. After all, what is
a finer subject for an artist than that of imagination?
Rough Magic have
prepared for this particular outing, working from a new adaptation by Arthur
O’Riordan (Improbable Frequency) and
score by musical ensemble Tarab, a jazz outfit bridging Mediterranean and Irish
influences. I’ll always have one scepticism with Peer Gynt though: how can it appeal to human sensibilities beyond
its pageantry surface?
The reputations
of Peer and his mother are caught in social ruin because his father, once a
highly regarded farmer, left them in large debt. No matter, Peer would rather
chase reindeer on the wind of his imagination. His mother attempts to slap these
fancies out of him, angry that he failed in his opportunity with
Ingrid, the daughter of the richest farmer. With Ingrid’s wedding imminent, and
rumour that she still holds a torch for him, Peer crashes the festivities.
Greeted with mockery by the wedding guests, he finds kindness in the eyes of
Solveig, a girl new to the village and with whom he’d like to dance with. His
reputation is his undoing. Instead he spends the night with Ingrid, before
being banished to wander the mountains.
Lynne Parker’s
production thunders with pure theatrical might. The action plays out in John
Comiskey and Alan Farquharson’s majestic set, a palace interior with Ibsen’s
forest visible outside the windows. O’Riordan’s rhyming verse, its metre wonderfully
contagious even days afterwards, twists and throws quips, occasionally with the
slam of a rap. Tarab’s brooding plucks of a cello suspects a dark mystery, later
accompanied by Irish flutes and tribal drums to heighten proceedings. Rory
Nolan gives a pillaring performance as Peer and is in excellent company. Peter
Daly and Fergal McElherron, sharp and nimble, bounce off Nolan’s monologues so
that contemplation retains melody. McElherron is also chilling as the dark
passenger onboard the boat who wishes to dissect Peer’s corpse in order to
learn how dreams are manifested. A particular highlight for me going in, still
haunted by the heartbreaking Berlin Love
Tour, was Hillary O’Shaughnessy, hilarious here as power bride Ingrid. In
counterbalance to O’Shaughnessy’s exuberating confidence is sweet songbird
Sarah Greene, angelic and funny. Add Will O’Connell (wit-abundant), Karen
Ardiff and Arthur O’Riordan (both of whom deliver the Irish idioms of
O’Riordan’s text brilliantly) to the mix and the talent here is marvellous.
Peer Gynt has always been vague in its
intersection of where reality and imagination meet. Parker’s interpretation
suggests a mental health issue, with Nolan dressed in patient scrubs and Greene
and O’Shaughnessy appearing occasionally as nurses. Early on it is evident that
the strongest relationship here is that between Peer and his mother, performed
charmingly by Nolan and Ardiff. When Peer literally rides with his dying mother
to the gates of St Peter it evokes a beautiful intermingling of reality and
fiction that anyone who was read bedtime stories by a parent will no doubt
relate to.
From here on
though it’s spectacle all the way. Peer’s slave-trading enterprises in Morocco,
being received as a prophet in Egypt, and scheming with intercontinental
partners in the mad house all pursue an extreme empirical satire which doesn’t
feel particularly resonant, personally or culturally. Furthermore, the story of
Gynt and the type of man he wishes to be seems to be drowned out. By the time O’Shaughnessy’s
sphinx is wheeled out (one of the most bizarre things I have ever seen), the
pageantry gets tiring.
Also vague is
the ending to Ibsen’s epic, which a director may choose to interpret as the death
of Peer’s life or a rebirth of it. Parker gives her performers black umbrellas,
borrowed from the earlier scene of a peasant’s funeral, once held in mourning
but now swung in sweet waltz with the music. Even though Peer’s turns
inside out, he walks on, a patriot of his own glorious artifice.
What did
everybody else think?
No comments:
Post a Comment