Project Arts Centre,
Dublin
Jan 12-14
My review of 565+ coming up just as soon as I
give Sam Shepherd a thumbs up …
Úna McKevitt’s collaborators, or “compatriots”, as they have
been deemed several times, are an interesting bunch. 2009’s Victor and Gord saw the theatre maker put
her sister Áine onstage along with neighbour and friend Vickey. As the two
shared stories of their inseparable childhoods and distanced adulthoods, undeniable
on one hand was their charm and courage as non-actors, and McKevitt’s aesthetic
achievement of crafting theatre text from human bodies and experiences on the
other. She would go on to push this method
further, incorporating four more individuals into Victor and Gord, and its
success has been a testament to both the director’s fondness for ‘reading’
people and the battles fought by her compatriots on the grounds of reality outside
the metaphorical remove of the theatre.
Marie charts her depression as beginning with her husband who
suffered from alcoholism, and the stress it put on their household. Having to
make a choice between him or her family, she got a barring order. He later died
from liver failure. On the suggestions of a counsellor, she tried out activities
to put her mind at ease, ranging from unsuccessful group counselling (she
claims she was the best talker but not the best listener) to surfing under the tutelage
of an eighteen-year-old sand haired, blue eyed beau. Someone then proposed the theatre. She went to
a production of Jane Eyre (one of her
favourite books) and found solace: “That’s when it started”. She’s since seen
over 565 shows.
O’Rourke’s presence is warm, charming, and inherently theatrical. Discussing her childhood she recalls tuning into the classical music played on a local radio station and seeing her first play: a community production of the Passion. “What do I need to get myself up there?”, she remembers thinking to herself. The fact that she trips on lines is forgiven and affirms her wonderful humanity. McKevitt herself is positioned nearby, throwing a line prompt when required. When O’Rourke fails to notice a button falling unplanned from her jacket, a minor mishap, McKevitt picks it up, acting simultaneously as stage-hand and family.
It was O’Rourke’s calamitous attempts at arriving in time for
the curtain that set me giggling (particularly an episode involving a car crash
and Hedda Gabbler). It is beautiful though
how the act of theatre-going becomes intrinsic to her identity, combing references
to plays into her story. It was a moment during her recall of the stage
production of Roddy Doyle’s The Woman Who
Walked Into Doors that we saw that on this particular night, despite her
footnote at the beginning forewarning otherwise, Marie did emotionally return
to the pain of the past. And that was devastating.
565+ features as
part of the First Fortnight Festival: a mental health arts festival aiming to
end cultural prejudice toward those suffering from mental illness. In one
moment, Marie describes being surrounded by the domestic frustrations of her
house. From the steps at the top of the seating rig she shares her tendency to sit
on the stairs, away from the bedroom and the kitchen, feeling neither high nor
low. When some of her ten-year-old students knocked on the door one day asking
if she needed help cleaning the house, the audience share her immense
gratefulness.
Marie’s story sheds light on another aspect of the human
psyche. Her accreditation of the healing power of the theatre can suggest
something about the essence of spectatorship, the ability of the art form to affect
our mental state inside and outside its presence. The show structurally poses several
questions. Are we to take McKevitt’s theatre as some extreme form of naturalism
or does it turn the tables on realism all together? What are the consequences
of a theatre devoid of metaphorical presentation? Is there a limit in terms of sources
for theatrical text?
Most importantly: what happens to an art form fascinated with
death (narratively obsessed with conflict, temporal in existence) when it is
occupied with fighting compatriots, full of wonderful and surviving life?
What did everybody else think?
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