Theatre - Kate Kellaway marvels at the art of making a limited man interesting in Dublin Carol
Who could have predicted that Conor McPherson's The Weir, set in an Irish bar filled with voluble failures and a strange, bereaved young woman, would become one of the most critically acclaimed plays in London? It was a hit on Broadway, too, and is still playing - in a slightly stale way - in London's West End. Ian Rickson, the director of the Royal Court theatre in London, must be hoping that history will repeat itself with McPherson's new play, Dublin Carol. He has every reason to hope. Dublin Carol is an extraordinary play about an ordinary man. John (Brian Cox) is a pasty undertaker and alcoholic whose ravaged appearance makes one marvel that he supervises coffins rather than occupies one himself. But John is alive and talking. And how he talks! The evening is swollen with his speech. He swills his words, pausing only to wash them down with whisky from a china mug. Gradually one loses count of his drinks. And the talk is like the drink: a compulsion that, in the first act, keeps self-knowledge at bay.
This is a brilliantly penetrating portrait of a man who has all his life been afraid of judgement, sure that he will be found wanting. Since the play opened, some critics have not judged him well, have not been able to tolerate his company. Others have complained that Dublin Carol is insufficiently dramatic, or moaned that it is like being harangued in a pub by an Irish drunk. I find this strange. I agree that it would be no fun at all to be in a pub with John if he actually existed - any more than it would be nice to be at a house party with King Lear. But this is theatre, not life. And on stage, John becomes something else entirely.
The art of making a limited man interesting is one at which Harold Pinter, more than any other contemporary playwright, excels. And at times, McPherson reminds me of an Irish Pinter - that is, Pinter without the silences. He uses repetition in a Pinteresque way, although he tends less towards the sinister. Poignancy is McPherson's forte. A pitiless scrutiny of John's trainers, worn with an undertaker's suit, spells out his character: sad, grey, suffering. John tries to make himself agreeable to young Mark (Andrew Scott), an assistant undertaker. Mark is youthful and inexperienced, but kind. Scott makes much of his small part. He has a worried, receptive face that breaks out into nice, but uncomfortable, smiles. John's speech is full of weird changes of gear and he seems unable to talk about his own family. When he first mentions his alcoholism, it is as if he were drawing a vigorous cartoon; as if the bold lines of his story might save him. But soon, a pitiable self-importance creeps in. The events of his life are really so threadbare. He boasts that he was lent pyjamas by his employer - this is told as if it were a miracle of charity, as though his employer had taught him to sleepwalk on water.
John's talk is rather like his action with teabags (he does occasionally drink tea, too). He bends over the sideboard like a lame old woman and moves the teabags out of the mugs of hot water by jerking at their strings as if they were kites that might otherwise hit the ground. It is a tiny but telling gesture - exaggeratedly careful. John comments on his own drunken story: "It was an extremely bad situation," he says, his voice suddenly high, strained and pompous. It is as if a headmaster had overtaken his spirit. Brian Cox attends to every detail of his performance with astonishing skill. He is, I am reminded, one of the best actors we have.
In the second act, John's daughter Mary (a vivid Bronagh Gallagher) shows up. She brings news that her mother - John's estranged wife - is dying of cancer. Before her mother can be buried, Mary needs to exhume her past: love, hate and anger. She wants her dad to visit her mum in hospital before she dies. She wants him to be the undertaker. Mary is tense. She does not take off her coat or put down her bag. She is a frowning passenger who can't move on.
Dublin Carol is the play that was to have opened the new Royal Court. If all goes according to plan, it still will. But until the new theatre is ready, it has had to make its home at the Old Vic. I loved finding Rae Smith's set and seats tucked away at the back of the theatre like a disreputable secret. John's offices in Dublin feebly salute the season with thin tinsel, a cheap Christmas tree, heavy rain and piped carols. Rickson, who directs immaculately, deserves to be toasted (with water, preferably).
"Dublin Carol" plays at the Old Vic in London until 12 February, and opens at the Royal Court on 17 February
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