The Weir review

Leitrim is Ireland’s most sparsely populated county. Back in the day, it was devastated by famine and emigration, as witnessed by the sight of tumbledown stone dwellings, still standing on reedy bogland or down rough, unsurfaced tracks. Faceless modern bungalows have sprung up in random profusion and, here and there, in the middle of nowhere, a neon sign, reading simply ‘Bar’, indicates a watering hole, a gathering place for the scattered community.

It was here that the teenaged Conor McPherson spent many holidays with his grandfather, who lived alone in a small house beside the Shannon river. He heard fireside stories of fairy forts and mythical thorn bushes, ghostly apparitions and violent encounters, some real, others imagined or embellished. These tales, and the manner of their telling, remained with him and fed directly into this, his first commissioned play for London’s Royal Court in 1997.

Since then, The Weir has been performed on many stages all over the world, but few productions could be more compelling than Caitríona McLaughlin’s latest for the national theatre of Ireland.  At the time of its London premiere, McPherson famously remarked that the play was “just people talking”, a description that is only partially accurate. It is, indeed, about people talking; it’s the “just” that is so far from the truth.

In an isolated bar owned by Brendan (Sean Fox), a motley assortment of drinkers congregates every night for company and conversation, to fill the silence in their lives. On this night, however, their well-worn ritual is disrupted by the presence of Valerie (Jolly Abraham), an attractive woman from Dublin, who has moved into an abandoned house owned by local fixer Finbar (Peter Coonan). Her arrival prompts them to scrub up a bit and indulge in a spot of competitive yarn-spinning.

Personal enmities surface as long-remembered tales of supernatural hauntings, family feuds and child abuse grow in intensity. But it is Valerie’s sharing of a personal experience that unleashes a torrent of awkward responses and touchingly unsuspected emotions.

Sarah Bacon’s design splits the staging between a parked car, rusting in the misty darkness outside, and the stuffy bar room, reeking with the smell of stale beer and burning turf. The plaintive sounds of fiddle and bodhran pierce the night air as Brendan Coyle’s garage mechanic Jack saunters in and helps himself to a pint of the black stuff.

Coyle’s performance, in tandem with that of Marty Rea as Jim, his drinking partner and sidekick, is nothing short of breathtaking. Together they give a masterclass in ownership of a character. Deft, minutely observed mannerisms and wordless exchanges speak of camaraderie and mutual dependence, of a bleak, philosophical acceptance of their lot in life, and the circumstances that have brought them to this.