Cicero

Writer and Director: Connor Tomlinson

Company: snoozedays

Accessed online at: www.snoozedays.com/cicero

Cicero is brought to us by Snoozedays, a Cardiff based experimental theatre company that have responded to the pandemic and the difficulties it has created for young up and coming creatives by putting together this 50 minute production.

Cicero opens with two lights shining down on a dark, spare stage. A man, who we later learn is called Mark, climbs out of a box and dresses himself. Soon, he heads to the right to meet up with his two mates Titus and Rufus. All young men who should be full of life, Mark is barefoot, unclean and largely silent. The use of sound at the beginning has alerted us to something being not quite right and this is a feeling that is picked up and carried throughout the production. When Titus goes to get the drinks, it becomes clear that Rufus is tiring of Mark’s behaviour. As he says later “he’s fucking lost it”. It has become harder and harder for others to put up with Mark, with nearly every offer of help and conversation Titus makes being rebuffed, and someone called Quinn not wanting to be around him anymore. This fourth man pops up later in the production and turns out to be a pivotal puzzle piece in the understanding of what has happened to Mark.

Against this backdrop of broken and splintered relationships we get to peak into Mark’s mind. At one moment he is lying on the ground in the foetal position while others circle him, hitting, taking, leaving. Then we see something different. In his head people worship the ground he walks on. His body, muscular from running, is bathed in the light of camera flashes, suggesting attention and adoration. He is David, posed and captured in marble, he is alive with movement and above everyone else. Here it makes perfect sense for others to pick up after him. He runs and runs. In his mind there is a feeling of constant movement which contrasts greatly with his daily life. However, he is running in circles. Physically and figuratively going nowhere.

It is difficult to go further in depth without giving spoilers but Cicero deals with the challenges of being a young man, of relationships, loss and knowing how to be, in an innovative and sensitive way, cutting through the masks we wear to the person beneath. The soundscape at first is a little disconcerting. If it is possible for sound to represent metal, darkness and confusion then it does. Every new movement of light and twist of sound is perfectly timed. The feeling of the play is matched by is utilitarian set design and the black and neutral tones worn by the actors. In contrast to this lack of colour are occasional flashes of images that are scattered throughout the 50 minutes before coming together at the end. This was only possible with the advantages of being able to combine film with live performance.

Cicero’s denouement brings everything together in an ending that is cathartic and meaningful, without being over emotional. New, vital and different, Cicero is a lockdown treat that makes one look forward to snoozedays next production.

Quinn – Zak Peterffy

Rufus – Dylan Matthews

Titus – Lucas Edwards

Mark – Rhys Edmunds

Producer – Connor Tomlinson and Peter Stuppner      

Camera Assistant – Oliver Mitchell

Cinematographer – Vicki Hill and Emma Pasini

Editor and Script Assistant – Anna Korecka

Lighting Designer – Piper Stormes

Lighting Technician – Abigail Simkin

Sound Producer – Adam Benfold

Sound Technician – Tobias Warwick Insoll

Continuity

Finborough Theatre

Writer: Gerry Moynihan

Actor: Paul Kennedy

Finborough Theatre has offered up an absolute gem of a play in Continuity. It tells the story of Pádraig in a one man show that takes us though a year in his life. Beginning on St Patrick’s Day in a pub in Derry, the drink is flowing and the mood is high when Pádraig is called on to sing. He picks a song that talks about a past when Ireland was united and had its own laws. His voice is masculine and wistful as it travels across the floor to a young woman from Barcelona. Working in Derry for a year at the local University, her name is Jorja, and he is instantly smitten. His two friends – comrades – though, have different plans for the night. They are part of the continuity IRA. Holding up ‘the cause’ no matter how many people have moved in a new direction. Alongside them is Pádraig, and he is one of the best. A bomb maker with a father who is lionised in the movement, he has pedigree and dedication. As a believer he will take whatever risks he deems necessary in the pursuit of a united Ireland. Continuity poses the question of whether they will break the cycle of violence and confrontation, or continue to be a part of it.

There is a very powerful scene about twenty minutes in. It opens a window into the complicated relationship between the three friends: Pádraig, Joe and Eamon, and the conflicts in their beliefs and methodology. The three of them are bound by family, history, local community and friendship. They have their father’s histories within them, marking them like a shadow. When it is time to ‘discipline’ a 15 year old idiot drug dealer, Pádraig no longer feels this is the right path forward. Joe however is enjoying himself. As he takes thebat over and over again to the boy’s leg, Pádraig argues they should be focusing on the state and not on petty acts of revenge and violence. With a moment of clarity, he sees that Joe likes things just the way there are. He enjoys the power he wields, the role he plays, being the man of law and order patrolling the community; getting away with whatever he deems necessary with Eamon always by his side. Something has changed and Pádraig feels conflicted. Is love turning him soft and making him lose sight of the cause? Why is he no longer enjoying this like Joe is? To Joe and Eamon, he is looking increasingly compromised. This is heightened by the fact that his sister has recently joined the PSNI. Unlike her brother she believes in the peace process and has decided to take a different path to the rest of her family.

After this the plot speeds up and feels like a train heading unrelentingly to its final destination, despite the twists and turns on the way. The women in Pádraig’s life tangle him up and trigger a test of loyalty. ‘The “noble” cause’ is bound up in family feuds, small town conflicts, sins and absolution. When Pádraig has the chance to go to Barcelona with Jorja, he makes a decision that will have explosive results.

Paul Kennedy is exceptional as Pádraig. He commands the stage and the audience’s attention at all times. Kennedy fills this role so completely that one simply cannot imagine someone else in the role. Moynihan’s script is tightly wound, not an action out of place, and delivers a heart thumping finale that reverberates long after the close of the play. Within the first few minutes the audience have a good grip of the character thanks to the skilful writing which is on full display. There are moments that are humorous, tender, and moments that feel like they will break under too much pressure. Continuity is delivered with verve, force and nuance. The recording isn’t perfect and I recommend watching on the largest screen you have. From what I could see lighting and sound were used to great effect, ratcheting up tension at appropriate moments and making the stage feel as if it is palpitating in time with Pádraig’s racing heartbeat. The discussion of Irish nationalism, republicanism and re-unification, is perhaps more timely now that when it was first performed in 2017. Continuity is one of the finest plays to come out of the recent uploading of theatre online and hopefully its re-release will take it to a larger audience.

Definitely one not to be missed.

Director: Shane Dempsey
Design: May Jennifer Davies
Lighting: Steven Owen
Sound: Anna Clock
Movement: Steffany George
Photograph: Gary Wolf

Dramatic Exchanges

Dramatic Exchanges is Dan Rosenthal’s follow up to his 2013 The National Theatre Story, which traced the history of the National Theatre (NT) from its protracted, painful inception, through the era of each artistic director to the present day. Whereas The National Theatre Story provided a comprehensive and excellently researched history, Dramatic Exchanges provides the life, anger, drama and character that went alongside it.

Rosenthal’s research has uncovered a staggering range of letters, telegrams and emails and it makes one thankful for the archiving of correspondence that kept each letter for posterity. Will a book like this be possible in the future? How often are the contents of our often-rushed emails and whatsapp messages carefully thought over heartfelt glimpses into our feelings? Rosenthal whittled down over 12,000 letters to 800. Maybe there is something about the theatre that encourages letter writing. For actors, so used to speaking others’ words, does it give them the chance to put in place their own thoughts and ideas?

The first thing to say about this book is how attractive it is. Peppered with behind the scenes photos and telegrams it is a book to be cared for like the letters inside obviously have been. The prologue and first chapter give a glimpse into the pain and difficulty of the years dedicated to trying to establish a national theatre. Although championed by the literary greats setting up a theatre proved to be a very difficult task. George Bernard Shaw angrily compared the Irish and British attitudes to theatre and came away confused as to why “the English nation … has just enthusiastically given a huge sum of money to buy the Crystal Palace for the sake of the cup finals, but absolutely refuses to endow a national theatre”. It is quite funny to be reading a letter and then to check the names and realise it was written by Hardy, Yeats, Shaw and so on. It is an early indication that Dramatic Exchanges will be packed full of famous names and previously untold stories.

Laurence Olivier was the first artistic director of the NT, a role that he took on with mixed feelings. “At the moment it looks like the most tiresome, awkward, embarrassing, forever-compromise, never-right, thankless fucking post that anyone could possibly be fool enough to take on the idea and it fills me with dread.” Olivier was a prolific letter writer and used a wonderful mix of high and low language peppered with the very explicit. There is a particular pleasure in revelling in turns of phrase that are hardly ever heard any more.

The book is divided in ‘acts’ and after the early years the book is divided by artistic director – the Olivier years, the Hytner years and so on. If you want to skip ahead to find out about your favourite plays, actors and scandals this makes it easier to do. A very comprehensive index also helps. If choosing to read chronologically Rosenthal’s selections take you on a tumultuous journey through the years to the present day.

Letters give the reader an insight into the real thoughts and feelings of the letter writer at that time. They were not written for public consumption and as such are full of emotion. The arguing between different directors in particular can be vicious at times as each one tries to defend and enhance their own theatre space. Actors write to say how disappointed they are in not getting parts they were promised, bad press is ripped apart and blame apportioned. Here we see the private side to public battles. It is striking how often actors simply present themselves to the theatre asking for work or suggesting they play a certain role (even Sean Connery fresh from his success as James Bond) and how often they write asking for a second audition or another chance (even the now greats like Eileen Atkins). This is something that is enjoyable and fascinating for anyone with an interest in theatre history.

There are also some bright and pleasant exchanges too. For example, there was a lovely series of exchanges between Peter Hall and Sheila Hancock in 1985 as she became the first woman to direct at the NT, with her production of Sheridan’s The Critic. “Dear Peter, At one point in our recent meeting, you asked: “What would you like to do?”. I answered, as I always do when asked that, with a weak shrug. My new year’s resolution is no more weak shrugs, so here it goes…”. And soon – Arts Council and GLC permitting – she is working in the National as director and actor.

This is a beautiful collection to sit on any bookshelf and the theatre lover will find much to delight in. I’m probably not the only one drawn to the Olivier years. To go back to the birth of the NT with one of the nation’s greatest ever actors. And of course, before the advent of social media there are so many stories that have been buried in the archives for decades and are only now seeing the light of day. The general reader may want to start by finding their favourite actors or plays and reading up on those before approaching the book as a whole. Although this is an exceptional record of theatre correspondence it is debateable how much it will appeal to the general or casual reader.

For anyone with an interest in celebrity, the arts and theatre, Dramatic Exchanges is a brilliant addition to the bookshelf and after reading one is filled with considerable gratitude for Rosenthal and the archivists who made this book possible.

The King of Cats

Writer: Oisin Robbins. Performer: Aron Hegarty. Run time: 14.30 mins.

 

“rumours of my death have been greatly overblown”

This fiery, brilliant, opening line sets the tone for King of Cats, a monologue that is delivered at full force from beginning to end. It is clear that the speaker is full of anger and his words are like spitting bullets. His first words are angry, furious poetry, delivered at speed. We soon realise the play is referencing Romeo and Juliet. The speaker is Tybalt, recently awoken after one month in a coma. Bit by bit the story unravels but from the off it is clear that others, friends and enemies alike, didn’t know he had survived, so his opening line is also his reintroduction back into the land of the living.

King of Cats takes a light and shines it on a part of Romeo and Juliet that is usually brushed over: the men feuding, fighting, killing and dying. There is an intricate web of revenge between the two houses and a pool of pain that remains even after Romeo has exited the picture. King of Cats is raw and visceral. Tybalt acknowledges he does not have the skills for peace but really, he also doesn’t have the desire for it either. When he talks about killing the rat (a nice Irish reference) his face contorts, teeth bared, rat like, manipulating his face to express his anger, distaste and thinking. Throughout he is drinking from a can and taking pain medication and over time we also start to see the passion, love and regret that lies beneath his words. This doesn’t however, dim the fire in his eyes. He calls himself the prince of cats, the man with nine lives, a title he ‘redeemed from mockery’, but will he settle with this or will he take the crown to become the king of cats, the great rat catcher.

His near-death experience only inflamed his anger and desire to seek vengeance. Tybalt is taking a certain amount of joy in his anger and bile, in preparing his revenge “dear Ben [Benvolio]. You’re a snitch yet I’m the one that got stitches”. He refuses Benvolio’s olive branch and plans to extend their feuding. They make use of voice notes and texts rather than letters, so act quickly on their feelings. This is fresher for Tybalt, newly awake. He can’t bear that he was beaten and one wonders if he is angry also at the world moving on around him while he lay in his hospital bed.

Several times see movement in the kitchen behind him. The two people, presumably his parents, are pottering about clearing up after dinner, under the bright glow of 100W bulbs. This helps to show how normal life continues, and did continue during Tybalt’s absence. In contrast he is sat outside alone in the dark. Some light from the kitchen filters through. There is a slight orange glow, which along with the light from his cigarette and his phone is the only light that hits him. One wonders if his parents inside know how Tybalt intends to spend his coming days?

This is a brilliant piece of lockdown theatre. The delivery is always on point and Hegarty fills the character with life. One couldn’t imagine anyone else taking on this role. This is enabled by the intricate story telling from Robbins. King of Cats is full of twists, turns, intrigue and drama, with echoes of the gangland stories we read in the papers and watch on TV. A 5* powerful tour de force piece of storytelling.

The Moving Bridge

Writer: Ann Matthews. Performer: Amy O’Dwyer. Archive documentary footage: Leslie Crowe. Run time: 11.28 mins.

 

“I was five years old when my heart was broken for the first time.”

The Moving Bridge has taken a slightly different approach to the monologue format. Archive footage of inner city Dublin, primarily in the 1940s and 1950s, dominate the recording. It is interspersed with Annie, our narrator, sitting at a table, in the same black, white and grey colour scheme as the footage. In a voice over she is telling the story of how her father would go away for work throughout her early life and she would see him off and await his return.

Emigration is a big issue in Ireland, and for someone from the outside it is striking how many Irish people move abroad, travel, how national newspapers include features about how great it is to emigrate to Canada and so on. Over time I have seen quite a few plays that feature the theme of emigration but surprisingly this might be the first one I have seen from the point of view of a child who stays behind and waits. This in itself makes The Moving Bridge a worthwhile watch. The boats taking the men away to find work were “crammed end to end with people all leaning out as if they were trying to get back”. Although this is a very personal experience of emigration it tells a much wider story. Of the boat loads of men who travelled over to England and Scotland for labouring jobs, piecemeal work, anything that would put food on the table. Of families kept together by money sent home, letters and the anticipation of return.

The archive footage heavily features images of Spencer Dock Bridge and the cluster of north inner city streets close by that would map Annie’s fathers path into and out of her life. The city is very present here and acts as another presence in the play. When the camera moves to Annie, she is sat at a table with the camera facing her and a mug in hand. She finds it difficult to look straight ahead. Opposite her is another mug but instead of a person is the camera. This is a very personal story which may account for her difficulty in looking directly at the camera, but she could also be talking to her father as she traces the story of their life together, from beginning to end.

The Moving Bridge is a love story between a daughter and her father mapped out by the cluster of city streets that held them together.

 

A Lost Tale of Biafra

“… a neverland, it could not stand.”

Writer: Justin Butcher. Director: Amaka Okafor. Performer: Ben Okafor. Run time: 15.39 mins.

The scene is intensely peaceful. A man in a pink shirt, summer hat and sunglasses is smoking and sipping from a whisky glass while looking over his large, lush garden. Past his garden fence are hills and fields, green and fresh, trees and the brightest blue sky. It couldn’t be a more perfect day for relaxing in the garden. This is built upon as the man wanders through to his music studio bursting with instruments and the potential for creation and then a kitchen, warm and busy. Accompanied by his grandchild at times the man moves with a leisurely pace and seems at peace with the world.

As the camera moves a voiceover tells is the man’s story. His, is of home, family, memories and the ravages that war wreaks upon them. It couldn’t contrast more with the place in which he now finds himself. His is the story of “three dreadful years of Biafra – famine and war”. When he was a boy the Nigerian civil war began and it didn’t take long until the conflict encroached on his village. Shells, machetes flashing, bloodshed, a community torn apart and neighbours turning to deadly enemies. It sounds terrifying, immediate and personal. At appropriate moments in the narrative the camera pauses on a series of photographs: his father, young handsome man with soft eyes and then a photo of his mother on her wedding day, full of hope and beauty. There is also a family scene. With the browns and greys of old photographs it highlights the importance of family and how this story is not just his, but that of his whole family.

The family fled the ethnic cleansing that had arrived at their door, not knowing if they would ever be able to return. During their first night sheltering at a cousin’s house the father had a dream that caused his body to shake and scream. His house was covered by tarpaulin, standing amid a wasteland of slaughter and ruin. Three figures were waiting for him, one of whom had eyes that burnt like fire. This figure will come back to him and play a pivotal role not just in the father’s life but also in the life of the house. This touch of magic and symbolism moves the narrative to create something different and unexpected. It is a long three years before the family can begin to return. Our speaker first. Now seventeen he a young man who has seen too much and is now “haunted, robbed, hardened”. Over time he removes the vines and creepers that cover the house in a bid to prepare the house for his father, who is the last to return home. Upon seeing the house, the father falls to his knees and prays. The next day a visitor arrives and resurrects the fathers dream and blurs the line between the spiritual and the corporeal.

A Lost Tale of Biafra turns the horrendous into poetry, making the painful events described more alive and urgent. This house obviously has a strong hold on the imagination of our speaker and it shows how family bonds and memories can be captured by places of emotional importance. As the story comes to an end there is another image. This time a painting of the man, before moving back to the family photo, reflecting the closing of this chapter of family history. This is one of the few monologues that does not mention the pandemic. It is the right note to end the Fight Back series on. Despite the heavy nature of the story it shows how with time, and a little faith, we can return to our lives and nature will continue to grow and nurture.

Typing Ben Okafor’s name into youtube brings up many music videos but also a short video interview where he tells the story of the Biafran war breaking out when he was twelve. This also shows that the photos used in the A Lost Tale of Biafra are his own family. The horror and darkness of the story is drawn from his memory. It can be viewed here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pc2jnWWs9O8

A Lost Tale of Biafra is an intense, touching story of family, faith, war, home and nature told in beautifully poetic spoken and visual language.

The One Tree

 

Writer: Tara Maria Lovett. Performer: Pat Nolan. Run time: 15.02 mins.

 

“The tree started speaking to me the night I got locked on account of the virus.”

The colour palette is subdued, a man is sat alone, head a little down. He looks serious, contemplative and perhaps sad. It is several moments before he begins to speak and we think the tone has been set, but The One Tree is not so predictable. One night, drunk, life impinged upon by the virus, he walks to a crossroads, where a hawthorn tree (female, of course) begins to speak to him. This is not just any tree (although the fact it talks and calls humans’ eejits is an early indication of this). The only one of its kind, it is known across the county. Standing tall at the centre of a four-point crossroads hawthorn trees in Ireland for growing of their own accord. They were not planted by human hands and they are often regarded with fear and superstition. Associated with death and sex, many people avoid hawthorn trees, however Jamesy finds himself in a full-blown conversation with this one. He quickly remembers that this tree has been important throughout his life.

It was under this tree that he first shifted a girl. Her name was Gracie. Sweet with black hair and a kind smile they kissed and fumbled as innocent fifteen year olds. Over time they fell in love and she thought the world of him. The tree tells him she would have married him; insisting on this over and over again. He loved her too but he dithered and they drifted apart. The tree however understands the patterns and cycles of life and death better than he does. Can he learn something from her? After all, Unlike Jamesy the tree knows exactly what it wants: “all you eejits to be gone”. The tree is sparky and spikey, snapping out its frustration. It feels that the “virus is the earth spitting in your face”; that humanity is at the same kind of crossroads.

Shortly after their encounter Jamesy, still thinking of the girl he lost, has to say goodbye to someone else. He has been living with his elderly mammy, looking after her, until she is admitted to hospital where she dies. He goes to collect her personal items but is prevented from seeing her in person. The funeral is subdued. As he says “a virus funeral is none at all” and in Ireland in particular there is something deeply sad and lonely about a sparsely attended funeral with mourners forced to stay away. As one life ends something good starts to blossom. Gracie Riley, from all those years ago, hair still pitch black, takes his hand. The tree, the one tree, knew what Jamesy really wanted and needed even when he did not.

After the funeral, the tree never spoke again. He pilgrimaged to see her often. Now hand in hand with Gracie. He would pick white blossoms for her hair and they would kiss like teenagers again. The longing for the tree to talk to him again doesn’t leave him, but no matter how much he wanted her to, she would not speak to him again. There is a strain of magical realism in Irish literature and theatre and it comes to life perfectly here. The One Tree is touching and poignant, shifting from light hearted to tender and honest. It suggests that the natural world can heal; both people and itself. Maybe this period of isolation, of lockdown, is needed for the environment to have the peace and time to return to itself and heal. This is a beautiful piece full of tenderness that could be expanded into a one hour play.

 

For information about the hawthorn tree see Dr Marion McGarry’s rte article: https://www.rte.ie/brainstorm/2020/0506/1136776-hawthorn-tree-ireland-folklore/.

 

The Jar

Writer: Myrn Devaney. Performer: Lauren Farrell. Run time: 13.16 mins.

 

“I don’t care if he sees me like this. Better he does.”

A young woman in blue pj’s, her hair undone, is trying to trap a spider. There isn’t anyone else to catch it for her. Eventually she catches it under a jar and they begin a conversation. She doesn’t want to kill it but doesn’t know what else to do with it. So why not have a chat in the meantime? The spider is a blot on her landscape. The living room is large and fancy, artfully decorated it screams togetherness. Which one quickly realises is how our narrator usually is and likes to appear to the world at large. So what has happened?

It is not usual for her to look ‘undone’, to not be wearing makeup, hair styled, clothes stylish and on point. Is it the lockdown that has caused her to stop caring so much about her looks? She would never let ‘him’ see her ‘au naturel’. It is first thing in the morning and she is drinking leftovers out of a champagne glass so it looks like something has shifted in her life. It turns out this is one of the few monologues where the speaker is inside for a different reason; a break up. They were together eight years, he was safe, stable Sam, the perfect match to her: career woman, doctor, professional. He was the one she had decided on. So it came as something as a shock when he suggested a break. How could he feel confident that she wouldn’t want someone else in the years to come, to try something new and see if she had missed out. No. it would be far better to take a break. He wanted her to go off and maybe see someone else. If this sounds like walking into a dead end, they you’d be right. If Friends has taught us anything, it is that a break is never a good idea. A girls holiday in Majorca led to some unsavoury events and now she is home alone and hiding from the world.

One gets the impression that this is the first time she has ‘lost’. That something in her life has broken down and is imperfect. This is reflected in her appearance and in the sneaky thing she does near the end that even though it made sense still surprised. Can the spider help her out of this situation?

As the layers of makeup and effort to be presentable have been peeled away she has become a little sharp, maybe even vindictive at times, but also more real. There is a surprising amount going on in The Jar and it benefits from a second watch (this is one of the few benefits of theatre on screen). Although Farrell is far too young to be playing the character, she and Devaney pull it off in this sharp and layered production shot through with comedy.

Backwards and Forwards

Writer: David Halpin. Performer: Jed Murray. Run time: 11.48 mins.

 

“I need to tell you something, and you need to take me serious”

Well. We are living in strange times. Central Dublin is empty, everyone is inside watching TV even though there is no rugby on, it’s near impossible to get a pint, and oh, yeah, the wardrobe behind the chair, it’s actually a time machine.

It takes a few minutes for this fact to be established. Our narrator is talking to someone on face time and he is clearly nervous. Not just because of the time machine, but because he fears that he will not be listened to. After several weeks in lockdown he is a bit rusty but his mannerism and demeanour give the impression that he is often not listened to. This adds to his endearing, likeable nature. Over the course of the conversation, of which we can only hear his side, we find out that the time machine can only make one journey. So he has a choice, forwards or back. The choice is more than that though. He would like to use this discovery to help mankind. Maybe to find a vaccine. Or to go back and warn people about what is coming. Will his friend know what to do, if he even believes him, and what world changing (and Sunday World front page) decision will he make?

Our narrator, despite his fidgety behaviour, acts as though turning one’s wardrobe into a time machine is completely normal; albeit a little different to the lockdown hobbies others have been taking up. In the circumstances maybe it is. The world seems to have turned upside down and he has found a vehicle that allows him to face the fear and horror of what is happening. His desire to help may also be a desire to do something. To not just sit at home and wait the situation out. Here Halpin’s script gets to grips with the anxiety, fear and frustration of the moment.

We do not hear the person he is talking to, only the responses, so we have to fill in the gaps from his reactions. This technique works particularly well and adds to the humour of Backwards and Forwards. This is reinforced by the narrators strong Dublin accent (“I don’t bleedin’ know”) and his colloquial responses when he is questioned, and when he becomes exasperated with his companion’s slow acceptance in his invention. Halpin’s script and Murray’s acting capture the strange times we are living in while wrapping it up in a dose of absurdism and comedy.

Hug

Writer: Ali Hardiman. Performer: Madi O’Carroll. Run time: 13.31 mins.

 

The first thing that strikes you about this monologue is the way that Cliona is dressed. Green shower cap, a blue boiler or hazmat type suit, goggles on her head and too big blue gloves offset by pink lipstick. She is creating a video diary inspired by Matt Damon’s film The Martian. The intention is that this will be left behind for future generations, to record for posterity what it was like to live through a global pandemic. It quickly becomes more than this. As she talks into the camera her video diary becomes more personal; delving into her childhood, friends, family and living situation. Like all diaries this one starts to show different strands of her life come together, pieces click into place and certain things become more visible.

Cliona met her best friend aged five in the junior infants class when there were both placed on the red table. For her it was love at first sight. Their friendship continued over the years, certainly long enough for them to see the film together at the cinema. Jack is her safe harbour but she doesn’t see what is right in front of her. He can’t keep seeing her so much as he is about to get married and start a family. This doesn’t dislodge Cliona’s self-delusion though. He is still her number one and she thinks that she can still be his. 29 days ago, he was the last person she hugged. At the time they didn’t know that lockdown was coming. He was good at hugs and it appears that she hasn’t had many throughout her life. She reflects that her mother’s hugs were very hesitant, scared, like she was afraid of breaking. There is dysfunction in her childhood. ‘One sister deceased, one sister a bitch, one brother always making their parents cry, an aunt who disappeared upstairs with strange men.’

The over-riding tone though is one of comedy. Cliona turns the painful into humour. Some people will feel sympathy, maybe like her, but many will find her difficult to take to despite the desire to paint a lighter tone. The mix of discomfort, comedy and emotional discovery have been features of previous Hardiman plays (e.g. actor in Fizzy Drinks With Two Straws, writer and actor in Disconnected) and it is a mix that works particularly well. When the moments of comedy break out of her dysfunction we get quite an insight into who she is. In the end, she decides that after this period of isolation is over, she will hug people more. It is a sweet moment that offers the hope of a less lonely road ahead.