Disco Pigs, the 20th anniversary revival now playing at the Irish Repertory Theater, and Ballyturk, making its US premiere at St. Anne's Warehouse, are my second and third Enda Walsh experiences. (Well, fourth, if you count the Tony award-winning book to the musical Once.) The first being last season's Arlington, which I truly, truly disliked. It had so much promise for me, someone who is a fan of dystopian, speculative stories, and yet, it was an incomprehensible bore.
Fool me once, shame on you.
And yet, I was somehow excited for Disco Pigs, thanks to a glowing response from a friend who saw the same production in London. But as it got closer to showtime, I had a little trepidation about understanding it. You see, Disco Pigs is written in a mix of Cork dialect and the secret language the two characters, Pig and Runt, have created for themselves.
I had nothing to worry about, ultimately. I found that so long as I focused on the language, I had no problem following anything, much like I do when I see Shakespeare plays. However, it did bring back (bad) memories of the misguided stage production of A Clockwork Orange, especially since Colin Campbell as Pig barked 90% of his lines. But both Campbell and Evanna Lynch gave great performances, and the movement/choreography and use of sound and lighting in the production is terrific. It's a manic piece that does not let up for 75 frantic minutes.
75 minutes that could've, and should've been, 20.
The first problem is that the show is mostly narration. We're being talked at for an hour and fifteen minutes. I hate narration. To me, it's a cop out. Find a way to tell your audience what you need to say without the exposition.
Except, Disco Pigs is basically all exposition. We're told that these 17 year olds have been inseparable since they were born, have become so close that they've created their own language, and have somehow become delinquents and all-around awful people. And of course, Pig falls in love with Runt, who doesn't know how to deal with his feelings. We get brief scenes of them drinking and causing mayhem, of them dancing, and watching TV. But that's it. That's the play. Walsh never makes it quite clear as to what their home or economic situations are, or what led them to be well, complete assholes. And I felt nothing for either one of the characters. Maybe this play played better in Ireland in 1998, maybe it does reflect the politic unrest at the time, and I understand this play is now considered a masterpiece in Ireland but in New York City in 2018, the characters were merely obnoxious.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
Which brings us to Ballyturk.
Ballyturk dumps us into a warehouse-like setting where two men are living. They have created a place called Ballyturk, and act out situations involving the characters they've invented. These stories are long, drawn out, and rambling; I found myself zoning out almost automatically. And then I realized, it didn't matter. Nothing in these long passages was necessary to retain in order to "get" the play overall.
That is, if there was anything to "get." Because again, we get no context. No exposition. These two men (nameless, only credited as 1 and 2 in the program) have apparently been living in this environment for years. One of them doesn't even know what a fly is, or how many legs a bunny rabbit has. But why? What are they doing there? Who put them there? Are they part of some experiment? When is this happening? Is this in our future (like Arlington)? Context, Enda, context, context!
And then suddenly the back wall of the set falls away and from the distance appears a third character, played by a woman in this production. This made me perk up in my chair. I thought, "okay, this has become a new play now." Yes, she perks the proceedings up a bit but after long ruminations about life and death, I realized this was just more of the same. She (also unnamed, only credited as 3) eventually offers the two men an ultimatum: one must leave the room and eventually head to his death.
Why does this happen? Who the hell knows? At this point I'm not sure Enda Walsh even knows. After three full length plays, he's too frustrating for me. I don't get any closure from his works. He's been compared to Beckett a lot, and I suppose it's only because they are both Irish (I much prefer Beckett) but I think of him more as a disciple of Pinter.
I'm not much of a fan of Pinter.
Fool me three times, I should stop seeing Enda Walsh plays.
Fool me once, shame on you.
And yet, I was somehow excited for Disco Pigs, thanks to a glowing response from a friend who saw the same production in London. But as it got closer to showtime, I had a little trepidation about understanding it. You see, Disco Pigs is written in a mix of Cork dialect and the secret language the two characters, Pig and Runt, have created for themselves.
I had nothing to worry about, ultimately. I found that so long as I focused on the language, I had no problem following anything, much like I do when I see Shakespeare plays. However, it did bring back (bad) memories of the misguided stage production of A Clockwork Orange, especially since Colin Campbell as Pig barked 90% of his lines. But both Campbell and Evanna Lynch gave great performances, and the movement/choreography and use of sound and lighting in the production is terrific. It's a manic piece that does not let up for 75 frantic minutes.
75 minutes that could've, and should've been, 20.
The first problem is that the show is mostly narration. We're being talked at for an hour and fifteen minutes. I hate narration. To me, it's a cop out. Find a way to tell your audience what you need to say without the exposition.
Except, Disco Pigs is basically all exposition. We're told that these 17 year olds have been inseparable since they were born, have become so close that they've created their own language, and have somehow become delinquents and all-around awful people. And of course, Pig falls in love with Runt, who doesn't know how to deal with his feelings. We get brief scenes of them drinking and causing mayhem, of them dancing, and watching TV. But that's it. That's the play. Walsh never makes it quite clear as to what their home or economic situations are, or what led them to be well, complete assholes. And I felt nothing for either one of the characters. Maybe this play played better in Ireland in 1998, maybe it does reflect the politic unrest at the time, and I understand this play is now considered a masterpiece in Ireland but in New York City in 2018, the characters were merely obnoxious.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
Which brings us to Ballyturk.
Ballyturk dumps us into a warehouse-like setting where two men are living. They have created a place called Ballyturk, and act out situations involving the characters they've invented. These stories are long, drawn out, and rambling; I found myself zoning out almost automatically. And then I realized, it didn't matter. Nothing in these long passages was necessary to retain in order to "get" the play overall.
That is, if there was anything to "get." Because again, we get no context. No exposition. These two men (nameless, only credited as 1 and 2 in the program) have apparently been living in this environment for years. One of them doesn't even know what a fly is, or how many legs a bunny rabbit has. But why? What are they doing there? Who put them there? Are they part of some experiment? When is this happening? Is this in our future (like Arlington)? Context, Enda, context, context!
And then suddenly the back wall of the set falls away and from the distance appears a third character, played by a woman in this production. This made me perk up in my chair. I thought, "okay, this has become a new play now." Yes, she perks the proceedings up a bit but after long ruminations about life and death, I realized this was just more of the same. She (also unnamed, only credited as 3) eventually offers the two men an ultimatum: one must leave the room and eventually head to his death.
Why does this happen? Who the hell knows? At this point I'm not sure Enda Walsh even knows. After three full length plays, he's too frustrating for me. I don't get any closure from his works. He's been compared to Beckett a lot, and I suppose it's only because they are both Irish (I much prefer Beckett) but I think of him more as a disciple of Pinter.
I'm not much of a fan of Pinter.
Fool me three times, I should stop seeing Enda Walsh plays.
Comments
Post a Comment