Review: Misterman

 

Misterman (at the National Theatre until 28 May) starts sweetly enough. Cillian Murphy (star of Solar, 28 Days Later) rattles manically round a disused warehouse which is decked out with strip lighting, bare bulbs, junk. Doris Day sings “Everybody Loves a Lover,” creamily soft, like a pat of butter. There’s a bit of physical comedy: he can’t turn the tape off!

OK, maybe this man-child is just a little too exuberant. Whoa - and really sloppy with his props. Violent, even. Things get thrown about the place; later, as Misterman Thomas Magill reenacts conversations with his fellow townsfolk, there’s an unhinged carelessness to the way he pours tea, which splashes over furniture and floor.

Writer Enda Walsh takes your Irish dinky pastoral and smashes it to bits. The smithereens mosaic into something altogether harder and harsher. In your face, Ballykissangel.

This garage-space is full of reel-to-reel tapes (Beckett fans will note the debt to Krapp’s Last Tape), which Thomas uses to play the other half of conversations and the FX of daily life, and especially a barking dog, recorded in his hometown of Innisfree. He cues in the sounds and voices, corrects himself (sometimes the tape corrects him). The show that Thomas is putting on is clearly a long time in rehearsal. We gradually understand that he will be rehearsing these scenes, which all relate to a single day, for a long time to come. The debris filling the garage could be the jumble in his own head: areas (like the cluster of crucifixes) light up as though neural pathways have been activated.

The populace of Innisfree (Murphy broadens his accents and acting style to do “types”) are a banal and self-interested lot, who struggle to talk of anything beyond the commonplace. With that special Irish ear for the surreally comic in the everyday, Walsh has them make statements like, “there’s a great honesty to the milk of magnesia".

Murphy’s voice has the piping squeak of a breaking one; his clothes are ill-fitting and filthy. The film star jawline and head have sprouted hair - just those charged blue eyes laser right to the back of the stalls. He’s tested to his limits in impersonating the town’s inhabitants, and miming encounters with them. He has fights with invisible assailants, or uses props for people: unnervingly his “Mammy,” whose back he’s massaging with Vick’s, is a table. His is a performance that burns with zeal.

Thomas, who is “touched” (but not necessarily by the divine), senses that there is something beyond all this. He has visions, walks with angels, feels God’s immanence. He’s God’s conduit and recording angel, with a tape deck slung round his neck. One neighbour shows “immodesty". Another is “indecent". “Fuck you and your fucking words,” says one, to Thomas. But his own language is as restricted as theirs: it’s a schoolboy catechism that he spouts, and a pollyanna Garden of Eden he seeks, where apples “pop into life".

From Genesis we hurtle to Revelations, and from recording to avenging angel. His brutal encounter with the Roger the dog - the tale could have been rewritten as The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Daytime - prefigures a still more savage act of retribution. The soundscape collapses in on itself - Doris Day’s buttered tones surface again, then are supplanted by a mangled Toploader (“Dancing in the Moonlight”) at the local community centre dance.

Here Thomas straps on a pair of wings, spits bile at the townsfolk/us, and confesses his dark deeds from the gantry. Murphy takes his lunacy up a notch.

Misterman’s not easy listening, or watching. There are periods where an andante lyricism stalls to largo. At others it’s a little like being repeatedly lashed with rosary beads. The play’s perhaps too fixed on inter-textual chat with Beckett and Yeats to speak very clearly to us. It also places enormous stress on Cillian Murphy, the lone performer; a lesser man would have lost us. 

 

Cillian Murphy in Misterman. Credit: Catherine Ashmore
Iain Cameron
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Meet Scotland's 300-year-old snow patch, the Sphinx

Snow patch watchers expect it to melt away by the weekend. 

This weekend, Scotland's most resilient snow patch, dubbed Sphinx, is expected to melt away. The news has been met with a surprising outpouring of emotion and nationwide coverage. Even The Financial Times covered the story with the headline "The end is nigh for Britain's last snow". The story has also gone international, featuring in radio reports as far away as New Zealand.

So what is it about Sphinx that has captured the public’s imagination?  Some have suggested it could be symbolic. The Sphinx represents how we all feel, helpless and doomed to a fate determined by leaders like Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un. 

Regular contributors to the Facebook page “Snow Patches in Scotland”  have their own, more prosaic theories. One tells me that the British are “generally a bit obsessed with weather and climate”, while another says snow-patches are "more interesting than anything Trump/May/Boris or Vladimir have to say”.

Those more interested in patches of snow than the existential consequences of international relations could be dismissed as having seriously skewed priorities, but there's more to the story of Sphinx than lies on the surface. 

For a start it's thought to be 300 years old, covering a small square of the Cairngorms for centuries with just six brief interruptions. Last time the Sphinx disappeared was 11 years ago. Though it may melt away this weekend, it is expected to be back by winter. 

Iain Cameron, the man who set up the Facebook page "Snow Patches in Scotland" and someone who has recorded and measured snow patches since he was a young boy, says that Sphinx has shrunk to the size of a large dinner table and he expects it will have melted entirely by this Saturday.

It came close to disappearing in 2011 as well, he adds. In October of that year, Sphinx at around its current size and only a heavy snowstorm revived it.

"They tend to keep the same shape and form every year," Cameron tells me. "It might sound weird to say, but it’s like seeing an elderly relative or an old friend. You’re slightly disappointed if it’s not in as good a condition."

But why has Sphinx survived for so long? The patch of land that Sphinx lies above faces towards the North East, meaning it is sheltered from the elements by large natural formations called Corries and avoids the bulk of what sunlight northern Scotland has to offer. 

It also sits on a bid of soil rather than boulder-fields, unlike the snow patches on Britain's highest mountain Ben Nevis. Boulder-fields allow air through them, but the soil does not, meaning the Sphinx melts only from the top.

Cameron is hesistant to attribute the increased rate of Sphinx's melting to climate change. He says meterologists can decide the causes based on the data which he and his fellow anoraks (as he calls them) collect. 

That data shows that over the past 11 years since Sphinx last melted it has changed size each year, not following any discernable pattern. “There is no rhyme or reason because of the vagaries of the Scottish climate," says Cameron.

One thing that has changed is Sphinx's title is no longer quite so secure. There is another snow patch in near Ben Nevis vying for the position of the last in Scotland. Cameron says that it is 50:50 as to which one will go first.