Murder For Two – 90 minutes of absolute musical theatre mayhem and mastery (Bruiser Theatre at The MAC until Sunday 11 May)

Buckle in for Murder for Two, a non-stop roller coaster ride over 90 minutes as Officer Marcus Moscowicz arrives on the scene of the murder of novelist Arthur Whitney.

Bruiser Theatre Company has a long history of performing fast-talking, fast-moving, physical theatre. But they’ve somewhat outshone themselves with this two-handed, multi-roled whodunit with four-handed piano playing, dancing and a big disco number.

Stuart Marshall’s vaudeville theatre set sits on the MAC stage, with coloured string hinting at a detective board mapping out the suspects and the clues. While the set is more elaborate than some of Bruiser’s previous work, its doors, coat stand, and convenient baby grand piano, are very well used.

While Rob Gathercole (playing the officer who hopes this tragedy might be his step up to becoming a detective) snoops around the apartment, Will Arundell swaps between the victim’s wife, party guests, and even some nine-year-old choristers who lurk in a back room. Will a firm grasp of investigative protocol be enough to solve the case? Will the author’s wife ever get to return to the stage and perform her big number? Will the cast make it through two-show Saturdays? Can the crew get the set and lights in and out of five different theatres in five days after the run at the MAC? All will be revealed in good time.

Joe Kinosian and Kellen Blair’s script is full of slapstick back-and-forth wordplay. On top of that, the actors have to switch accents, posture, hats and props as they bring to life a growing list of people loitering in the flat, many of whom have a pleasing habit of bursting into song. The talented pair, accompany themselves and each other on the piano, producing a crazy, camp, and very entertaining night at the theatre. If just left to the performers, the quick fire routines could be routine. But combined with so many synchronised lighting and sound effect cues, it’s quite a feat to pull off such a well-crafted and solid performance.

It’s a riot, and Lisa May’s direction never lets the energy lag. Gathercole and Arundell have built up incredible stamina during rehearsals and are as nimble on their feet as with their fingers. In what feels like a musically-infused Agatha Christie mystery transplanted to 1950s small-town America, anachronisms abound, with a mobile phone replacing a traditional landline, and a crowd-pleasing mention of Larne! Name another show that could rhyme diarrhoea with IKEA and Mamma Mia. There are plenty of knowing meta nods to musical theatre, numerous subplots, and a pleasing moment of improv involving an audience member who helps with one scene.

In the past, I’ve been unmoved by some shows with elaborate physical theatre. Being clever and well-executed is not an end in itself. But Murder for Two is in a different league. Bruiser’s interpretation of this play left me as giddy as the rest of the audience with its 90 minutes of absolute mayhem rewarded with a satisfying finish.

Murder for Two runs at The MAC (co-producers with Bruiser) until 11 May before touring through Lisburn (Wednesday 14), Letterkenny (Thursday 15), Newtownabbey (Friday 16), Armagh (Saturday 17) and Derry (Sunday 18) ... tour details on the Bruiser website. There’s no excuse not to see it.

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Our New Girl – can anyone take back control in a fraught household with evil overtones and questionable parenting (Lyric Theatre until Sunday 4 May)

The first character on stage is a young boy. The view of the trees out the sloped window in the kitchen suggests that it’s late at night. Silently Daniel gathers the apparatus required to disfigure himself. It’s a chilling start to a house occupied by traumatised people.

One of the joys of Nancy Harris’s incredibly dark play Our New Girl is that the badge of ‘most evil character’ is constantly on the move. (As is the badge of ‘would most like to strangle’.) After a long gap, Hazel is pregnant with her second child. A corporate lawyer, she was on her way to becoming a partner. But she now fills her days importing and failing to distribute bottles of Sicilian olive oil.

Her husband Richard reckons she isn’t coping. But he’s not often home to help. Instead, the talented plastic surgeon with a messiah complex performs cosmetic work in London to subsidise his jetting around war zones and natural disasters to help address other people’s injuries and concerns. His attention is diverted from what’s happening at home.

Into this mix comes Annie, an agency nanny from a rural background in Sligo. Her arrival is unexpected – “I do not need a nanny” – but after a bumpy start, the ‘new girl’ begins to bring a semblance of order to the precarious household.

It’s been a good week in Northern Ireland theatre for kitchen sets. Maree Kearns’s sleek cupboards and marbled island unit (with an overhanging breakfast bar that Daniel can hide under to eavesdrop on adult conversations) beautifully serves the drama. Sarah Jane Shiels uses a neat camera flash technique to blind the audience during the rapid scene changes. Garth McConaghie’s distressed sound effects add to the creepiness. It’s not often that such unsettling theatre reaches stages in Belfast: the only comparable examples that come to mind are Tinderbox’s staging of Jimmy McAleavey’s Unhome in 2014 and Martin McDonagh’s nightmare-inducing The Pillowman (Prime Cut in 2024, and Decadent Theatre in 2015).

Everyone is on edge. The only time director Rhiann Jeffrey allows the characters to dial back their intensity is in advance of another pivotal point when someone will snap and the most villainous league will gain a new top player. Some of these recurring instant mood shifts worked better than others on opening night, but the cast’s tremendous sense of timing during the dialogue in other scenes that are less fractious (but never happy) suggest that this will easily bed in during the run.

In the programme notes, the Lyric’s Executive Producer Jimmy Fay comments that “there’s something sinister at the heart of this sanctuary”. Secrets, neglect, violence, and exploitation. The child shoots with a Nerf gun. His father shoots with an expensive camera, capturing the disfiguration of his overseas patients. The nanny has more baggage than would fit in her suitcase.

Lisa Dwyer Hogg is captivating as the fraught and sometime forlorn Hazel. Jeanne Nicole Ní Áinle reveals Annie to be firm and organised before ulterior motives emerge. Adrenaline junkie Richard is played by Mark Huberman. His vocation means he’s often absent from the stage, but when he’s there he reeks superiority and his ability to gaslight Hazel is terrifying. On opening night Canice Doran stole scenes with his portrayal of troubled Daniel. He’s fine actor who captures the boldness of his character and doesn’t flinch when the kitchen gets heated. (The role of Daniel is shared with Milo Payne.)

Harris demands that the audience constantly reevaluate their judgement – and it’s impossible not to choose sides and harshly judge these characters – of Hazel, Richard, Anne and Daniel. Is Hazel a trophy wife? Is she highly strung or depressed or both? Is Richard exploiting his patients to stroke his own ego? Are either of them good parents? How much of Daniel’s poor behaviour is shaped by the nurture provided in his agitated home, and how much is down to his human nature? Is Annie ever a neutral influence as nanny?

Without flagging up any major spoilers, the ending leaves me wondering what happens next. David Ireland would have left a pool of blood seeping into the parquet floor. Harris, in contrast, is happy to give a hint that one character may begin to wrestle back control of their situation. Jeffrey has fashioned ominous and brooding performances from a cast who don’t hold back from exploiting the overwhelming sense of menace that runs through Harris’s script. Our New Girl continues its run of horror on stage at the Lyric Theatre until Sunday 4 May.

Photo credit: Carrie Davenport

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Thursdays With Elvis – tackling misandry and religious hypocrisy with some tunes from the era of the King (GBL Productions at Grand Opera House until Saturday 12 April)

Lana is a working-class single mum in Belfast with a teenage daughter (the never seen and only occasionally heard Miss Maddie). Universal Credit doesn’t really cover all her bills. Her mum is an alcoholic and her dad walked out years ago and fled to Scotland. Her best friend is church-going but not terribly good living. The significant men in her life have all been found wanting. She clings onto her Dad’s love of Elvis as a comfort blanket when all around her looks bleak and uncertain. Can she care for, stand by, and provide for any or all of her loved ones?

Martin Lynch’s new play Thursdays With Elvis watches Lana as she gets ready for a series of regular Thursday nights out with her posh-sounding friend Miriam. Is there light at the end of the dark tunnel which feels like it is slowly consuming her spirit and energy? Oh, and is that really The King who keeps popping up in her kitchen?

The play’s ethos is that men are bastards, parents are flaky, religious people are lying hypocrites, and working-class mums long to drink Prosecco, dress up in primary colours, and want to sing their hearts out one night a week. Some or all of those can be true, and any or all of these are valid topics to explore in a play.

The mainstay of the play is a series of long monologues, directed by Charlotte Westenra and delivered by an intense and engaging Orla Gormley in Ciarán Bagnall’s impressive two-storey set with its resourceful pastel-coloured window blocks. The missing roof gives Lana’s home a feel of a castle, and his ingenious design allows Miriam (Caroline Curran) to pop up from ever more unexpected shadows to great comic effect with memories, one-liners and added context around Lana’s story. A spot of kicking the wall has the audience in stitches during one moment of acted out passion.

Lynch has written plenty of great material – probably too much given the elongated first half – that lands well with the Grand Opera House audiences. The playwright moves into unanticipated territory for Lynch with skits about periods, vibrators, outdoor quickies, and whether Miriam finds satisfaction during her bedroom encounters. While a three-handed play will have minimal opportunity for conversation, it’s never quite clear why Lana is talking at such length to the audience. It’s a common dramatic device, but usually there’s some event that gives the audience a purpose for listening, or the character a reason to enter confessional mode. Gormley’s strong performance distracts us from dwelling too long on the missing reason, but the uncertainly lingers.

The second act is more assured than the first which sometimes resorts to dialogue like “this song also reminded me of him” to shoehorn in the next musical number. Lana loses her accent when singing – who doesn’t?! – but is well up for mellow numbers and belting out hits standing in heels on top of the kitchen table.

There are a number of not unsurpassable stumbling blocks that threaten to hold Thursdays With Elvis back. The title implies that there will be a lot of Elvis references, but the set list includes as many tracks by Aretha Franklin, the Ronettes, Etta James and Tina Turner as Presley numbers. Norman Bowman has the gyrating pelvis and the threads to look like Elvis – costume designer extraordinaire Diana Ennis has kitted him out with amazing outfits – but by the end of the songs he sounds more like the Memphis legend than the less punchy beginnings. More generally, quite a few songs begin in unfriendly keys that hold back the fine-voiced Gormley and Bowman.

A succession of quick changes between Ennis’ dazzling costumes becomes a fun part of the show. Though Lana’s Temu app must have remarkably good clothes for ridiculously bargain prices given her stretched household budget.

Lana is sweary from the start, though much of it feels like it’s just been added for effect to underscore her working-class roots and garner laughs, with later scenes managing to stand on their own feet with much more occasional cursing (and feel more effective for it). The programme notes indicate that writing about single mums is very personal to Lynch. Lampooning religion feels like another bugbear. A second gag about the closeness of Mary Magdalene and Jesus feels gratuitously offensive when the first milder version had already made the point a few minutes before and got a laugh. Earlier in the play, the Hare Krishna mantra is mocked for a cheap giggle possibly better suited to a playground. More positively, Miriam’s recollection of calling truth to power in a meeting with her church elders builds into a very solid scene.

For me, despite great performances, a funny script, a brilliant set, and fabulous costumes, the ambition of delivering more than the sum of its parts was never achieved. Expect to see a sharper, shorter restaging in the near future: the potential is there. Thursdays With Elvis continues its run at the Grand Opera House on Saturday 12 April.

Photo credit: Ciarán Bagnall

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Myra’s Story – a sobering tale of alcoholism and homelessness that sees past stereotypes to paint the backstory of someone who might otherwise only be a statistic (Grand Opera House until Saturday 5 April)

When someone who is homeless asks you for some change, aside from the compassion or coldness you may immediately display, does your mind ever turn to question their back story and the circumstances that have led to them living in this way?

That’s the challenge at the heart of Myra’s Story, a tragicomedy by Derry playwright Brian Foster that examines the life of Myra McLaughlin. Fíonna Hewitt-Twamley shuffles on to the stage dressed in tatty clothes and holding a bag that seems to contain her few worldly possessions. Foul-mouthed Myra turned 48 yesterday, and while she’s feeling the worse for wear after a birthday binge that’s emptied her pockets of passerby donations, there wasn’t really much to celebrate.

As a teenager, the death of her mother resulted in the loss of her father to drink and her entry into the care system. Her teenage marriage to Tommy brought some blessings but also ended with much pain. We laugh at her recollection of their wedding night, but later we’ll cry when their wee family is knocked for six by yet more loss. Myra has been hurting for decades, but there’s no let up. Big Bridie, Jimmy the Tadpole, Tina the Tat, and Norris the Gnome certainly add colour to her life, but it seems like nothing can prevent her slide into alcoholism.

The set consists of a simple black drape and a wooden bench. Hewitt-Twamley delivers a two-hour monologue, dissected by an interval. Her vocal range enables her to switch between female and male characters, ranging from Tommy’s deep lyrical Derryisms to Bridie’s high-pitched delivery. It’s a vivid performance that holds your attention.

Most of Myra’s recollections centre around the early 1970s. Tommy relates his experience on a trip home to a civil rights march on what would become known as Bloody Sunday. The seriousness of life is broken up by surreal moments like a Russian Vodka bottle coming to life. There are lots of opportunities for laughs, and also a few for tears.

Myra’s Story is never worthy. It doesn’t demand judgement (other than the audience perhaps becoming self-critical of their own actions, inactions and prejudices). It doesn’t go out of its way to shock or stereotype. It’s honest about some of the circumstances that line up like dominos that can push someone into homelessness. Foster’s taut script and Hewitt-Twamley’s expert performance create vulnerable characters that experience many different types of poverty. Myra is humanised, and as audiences walk out of the theatre, they will have to decide whether to turn up their compassion or revert to coldness.

The show’s run continues at the Grand Opera House until Saturday 5 April. There is an opportunity to donate to a local homeless charity at the end of the performance.

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Chicago – high-kicking tale of courtroom theatre foreshadowing modern sharing of deliberate falsehoods (Grand Opera House until Saturday 22 March)

Only one inmate awaiting trial can be the cause célèbre. It’s a tussle to get column inches. The prison’s bribable matron Mama swaps cash for favours while the imaginative defense attorney Billy Flynn trades big fees for ever more outlandish courtroom theatre (full of unchallenged claims) in the pursuit of acquittal in the name of justice.

Set in the 1920s, Chicago is a satire on the corrupt criminal justice system that sold newspapers on the back of eye-catching storylines about women accused of homicide. But the drama, with defense arguments full of unchallenged claims and much style over substance, quickly resonates with modern times, particularly politics, with lyrics like: “Whatever happened to fair dealing? / And pure ethics / And nice manners? / ... Whatever happened to old values? / And fine morals?” And that’s before the final scene adds a line about “a lot of people have lost faith in America and what it stands for”!

So many of the show’s tunes are well known and hummable, and there is a surfeit of iconic set pieces – Cell Block Tango, When You’re Good To Mama, Me and My Baby, and When Velma Takes The Stand – many of which show off the ensemble’s pleasing lines and mastery of the expressive choreography.

High-kicking Djalenga Scott plays Velma (a cast highlight from the 2022 tour’s visit to Belfast) who has been getting all the headlines for her alleged part in a double homicide. But new inmate Roxie (Janette Manrara who joined the cast earlier this month) wrestles back the narrative with unproven embellishments sprinkled on top of her magpie tendency to borrow other people’s good ideas. With desperation eventually overcoming jealousy, the pair’s ‘sister act’ makes a great finale, but it’s the Nowadays duet between Velma/Scott and Mama (Brenda Edwards) that raises the roof.

Kevin Clifton gives a commanding performance as lawyer Billy Flynn, narrating the almost pantomime presentation of ‘Justice’, and showcasing his fine baritone voice – particularly in a sparkling Razzle Dazzle – although he doesn’t get a lot of opportunity to dance. That said, Clifton ‘ventriloquist dummy’ routine with Manrara during We Both Reached For The Gun – his ‘alternative truth’ approach to reshaping Roxie’s press coverage demonstrates both performers’ talents.

This touring production enjoys an almost monochrome colour palette with vaudeville numbers performed in front of ten-strong live jazz band and musical maestro who get their moment in the spotlight during the entr’acte that opens the second act. (An audience member near me was also bidding for a moment in the limelight – perhaps an usher’s torch – with his tuneful but audible and unwelcome singing along with all the big female solo numbers.)

“The whole world’s gone low-brow. Things ain’t what they used to be.”

This classy production of Chicago continues its sold out run in the Grand Opera House until Saturday 22 March.

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The Velveteen Rabbit – a vivid reality check whether you’re in the nursery or ageing towards obsolescence! (Replay Theatre Company and Lyric Theatre as part of Belfast Children’s Festival until Sunday 30 March) #BCF25

Really great theatre happens when lots of different creative influences combine to conjure up something beyond what the audience are expecting. And that’s the case with Replay Theatre Company’s new co-production of The Velveteen Rabbit with the Lyric Theatre.

‘Vivid’ barely begins to describe Diana Ennis’ wardrobe of costumes. A monotone angular robot with advanced features, a musical jack-in-a-box, a bright orange space hopper, a once-lush horse that is falling apart, the eponymous bunny, and the furriest bass player you’ve ever seen.

This phalanx of toys marches out into the Wee Man’s nursery. While they can chat with each other by the power of ‘nursery magic’, to the small child, they’re his inanimate and often abandoned playthings until he imbues them with life and love. The wonderfully outrageous costumes neatly constrain each character’s range of movement.

Darren Franklin may feel like he’s being held hostage on the Lyric’s main stage. Last Sunday night he was singing in the concert premiere of Belfast Ensemble/Conor Mitchell’s The Necklace. And for the next fortnight he spends up to two shows a day performing inside a box. Jack is the narrator of the piece, a nursery veteran who nervously sits on a shelf until his button is pushed and he explodes into life after a rendition of Pop Goes The Weasel.

Rosie Barry’s Robbo thinks it’s top dog in the nursery with an American accent, battery powered special effects, and the ability to shout “Emergency” at regular intervals to demand attention. Tara Wilkes plays the high-as-a-kite Wee Man, an eight-year-old who bursts into rooms, flips from joy to tantrums and tears in an instant, and is allegedly less rough on toys than his unseen sister.

Into this mayhem comes a Christmas present in the shape of a plush rabbit. At first, unexciting and naive, the Velveteen Rabbit (Jack Watson) soon becomes a favoured source of comfort and imaginative play. Jack and Robbo school him in the core principle that leads to longevity in the nursery: it’s better to be forgotten and gather dust on a shelf that be sent to the D.U.M.P.

Jan Carson’s debut stage script throws in the pleasing Kells/County Antrim vernacular that will be familiar to readers of her literary works. The occasional use of careful double entendres, together with the Christmas setting of the first scene, almost demand that this show returns to a festive December stage. References to wooden spoons and Leisure World appeal to the 40-year-olds and upwards in the stalls without ever becoming sickening nostalgia or a head-scratching impediment for younger theatre goers.

Applying Carson’s trademark magic realism to this already enchanted nursery world sees the appearance of real frolicking bunnies (Allison Harding and Reuben Browne with slightly more realistic costumes) who can talk to the Velveteen Rabbit. Then the nursery magic fairy appears, and talented Barry gets an 11 o’clock number that offers the Rabbit an escape from his trajectory towards landfill.

Director Janice Kernoghan-Reid weaves together the darkness and light to produce a show that could reach both younger and older audiences. Franklin’s sardonic delivery matches Carson’s witty script, while Barry avoids Robbo become a pale imitation of Buzz Lightyear. Watson’s Velveteen Rabbit shifts from a foolish innocence to a cocky assurance – you might say, he develops ‘notions’ – as the months roll on from Christmas, through spring and into summer. In later scenes, Ennis’ alternative ‘well loved’ head for the character shows how time spent with the Wee Man has worn him out.

Kudos to musical director Garth McConaghie and choreographer Eileen McCrory for drilling the cast in what has turned out to be an all singing, all dancing, multi-instrumental live and confidently performed extravaganza. Watch out of the tap dance break, and the crowd-pleasing megamix to finish the show. And applause should be deservedly directed at the backstage team helping everyone in and out of their elaborate costumes.

The cast perform Duke Special’s original music and catchy songs live throughout the show, with a keyboard neatly tucked inside Jack’s box, and a keytar hung around the neck of Robbo. Allison Harding’s character acting as a very serious space hopper (and later a real bunny) steals almost every song as she moves between xylophone, saxophone and drum rolls on a child-size electronic drum kit in the corner of Diana Ellis’ bright nursery. (And watch out for a recorder being played more sweetly that any of us ever managed in school!)

Replay Theatre Company’s commitment to accessibility means that ever show is live captioned. (A number of performances are also BSL/ISL signed and audio described. Every performance is described as ‘relaxed’.) The attention to detail in formatting of the surtitles brings out the rhythm and repetition with the lyrics, and gives the vocals extra clarity and heft.

At first glance, this adaptation of Margery Williams’ children’s book – which as a child (and an adult) I’d never been introduced to or read – tells the story of a stuffed toy’s desire to be real and loved by its owner. Realised on stage through the talent of Jan Carson, Duke Special, Janice Kernoghan-Reid and the cast, it’s also a tale about coming to terms with growing old and obsolete, heading towards the scrapheap of your career, and dealing with your value to others being undermined.

Replay Theatre Company and the Lyric Theatre’s The Velveteen Rabbit is part of the 2025 Belfast Children’s Festival and continues its run until Sunday 30 March.

Photo credit: Carrie Davenport

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The Necklace: a new musical in concert (The Belfast Ensemble at the Lyric Theatre)

New music from Conor Mitchell and The Belfast Ensemble never disappoints, and tonight’s concert première of The Necklace was no exception.

It’s a musical based on Guy de Maupassant’s tale of Parisian couple whose social mobility is not on an upward trajectory. As a clerk in the Department of Finance, Gustav receives an invitation to the Minister’s ball. The pair fork out their savings so Camille can wear a new dress. She wows the other guests. However, a borrowed necklace turns their fortunes and health into sharp decline and the couple pay a heavy price for vanity.

Much like the original performance of the work that would become Propaganda – another European tale from the pen of Mitchell – this early version of The Necklace feels very complete and demands a full production. Melodies soar, the lyrics drive the emotion, and the book is full of humour.

While Camile (powerfully voiced by Christina Bennington) and Gustav (Charlie McCullagh) are struggling to make ends meet – cabbage soup is constantly on their menu for dinner –their maid Colette (performed brilliantly by Brigid Shine with open-mouthed shock, flirting and amazing presence) and her beau Alain (Darren Franklin) are about to step into an elevator to financial success.

Ciara Mackey brings her soulful voice to the role of narrator, while Nigel Richards plays the underdeveloped menacing character of Vernier. Chanice Alexander-Burnett and Tom O’Kelly get some of the wittiest songs (Façade/charade and You can’t rush art) playing the Minister’s wife and a jeweller respectively. Camille’s best friend from school days is Jean Forestier, a widow with a biting tongue whose main song Christ has been good to me aptly sums up her situation (and foreshadows what could be around the corner for her friend). The remaining cast member is Mark Dugdale.

The ten cast members double as the ensemble in some of the numbers and relish the overlapping vocals that Mitchell injects into key moments of the story. Behind them on the main Lyric stage, a 21-strong orchestra play under the baton of the composer.

Before the performance begins, a quick lesson from Mitchell about the importance of ‘cadence’, gives the audience some insight into how to read the characters’ individual motifs match the sounds to the story. (His impromptu theory class reminds me that on top of all his other work, Mitchell needs to contribute to a podcast series about musical theatre and opera, boiled down to 5–10-minute digestible morsels.)

The Necklace is a work of great promise. A musical with hummable tunes and a story filled with angst, consequences and regret. The musicians and singers brought it to life in our imaginations this evening. Hopefully in a year or two’s time there will be a full production where we’ll see Camille chatting to the Minister’s wife on the side of the beautiful ball, and we’ll see how her standard of accommodation visually degrades during the story.

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Moonlight Dream: A Baby’s Cosmic Odyssey – snuggly, sensory, and slightly soporific dreamy dance (Maiden Voyage Dance at Belfast Children’s Festival) #BCF25

As I sit at the back of the Crescent Arts Centre’s Cube Theatre for an early afternoon performance of Moonlight Dream, there are almost two stories being told in parallel in front of me. On the silvery grey circular dance floor, a child is wriggling around, as if in a cot attempting to get to sleep. Soon she’ll be joined by a couple of woodland creatures (technically a fox and a bear) who will gently help her along the journey to a restful and dream-filled sleep lit by the moon and accented by stars.

But around the circumference of the circular dance floor, there are also unchoreographed interactions between the youngest audience members, with babies alternately gurgling as if in conversation, infants becoming restless, toddlers stretching out, and others completely rapt by the performers’ movement and by the live music coming from Ursula Burns perched on a riser to one side of the stage playing a blinged up harp (whose resplendent LED strip lighting could become a permanent feature.

Almost everyone – children and parents – seems to be drawn into the calming atmosphere. Dressed in pale linen, Andrea Madore cuddles into the glowing orbs dotted around the stage. Later as her character begins to dream, the orbs will be stacked up as snowmen and then become stepping stones, a way for her to reach up to the moon. Her animal friends (Janie Doherty and Sandy Cuthbert) bring some of the show’s props closer to the audience, giving eye contact to every child. The show was choregraphed by Georgia Tegou with set design and lighting by Ciarán Bagnall. Úna Hickey created the costumes.

Gentle noodling on the harp as the show begins soon develops into more recognisable song structures. As we reach the penultimate scene, lyrics are added and Burns is simultaneously playing harp with her right hand, tapping out a riff on piano with her left, and leading us in song as we journey towards the show’s conclusion. With glorious reverb and echo effects, the aural experience really complements the dance.

At the conclusion of the 30-minute performance, parents and wains are invited to ditch their outdoor shoes and move onto the dance floor for some playtime. Hoops and flat stepping stones appear, and soon there’s a hushed joy as the audience enjoy exploring the space a few of them had spent the last 30 minutes straining to invade. The dancers stay in costume and join in the play. Surprisingly, it doesn’t become loud or raucous. The soporific vibe of the dance has lulled everyone – adults included – into a zen-like state of calm. Parents don’t look stressed. Children look content. A Moonlight Dream has been established during daytime.

The final performances on Sunday 9 March have already sold out. But hopefully Maiden Voyage Dance will be rewarded with sweet dreams and international dates to showcase this gorgeous snuggle of a show. And don’t forget to check out the remaining shows for young and old in this year’s Belfast Children’s Festival which runs until 15 March (brochure).

Photo credit: Ciarán Bagnall

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Under the Lights – an energetic and sobering play brought to life by a chameleon actor (c21 Theatre Company touring until 1 March)

Josh and Okie are not natural wannabe rugby players. Josh is good at arm-wrestling, while Okie is a young bookmaker, taking bets on Josh’s lunchtime bouts. But the pair of video gamers turn out to be good additions to the school junior squad. And soon they’re experiencing the rough and tumble – one former bruises, the latter threatens to permanently damage your health – as the Medallion rugby team progress through the early rounds towards the semifinal of the schools’ competition. Along the way, they also learn that while some coaches exercise an abundance of caution (Mr Walsh) and put player safety first, others (like Billy) have a more laissez-faire attitude with serious consequences.

The set is minimal. Green grass and foreshortened rugby posts are a visual reminder of the game at the heart of this one-man play by writer Maria Connolly. Paul Hinchcliffe’s lighting conjures up the tones of harsh stadium lighting. But the real focus is on John Travers who not so much engages with the audience as engrosses them with his word-perfect delivery of the vibrant script. He rarely stands still, leaping up and running around wearing a red and white sports strip and stripy socks.

Contorting his body and his accents around just short of twenty characters, at times the dialogue spews out of Travers’ mouth like a high-pressure hose. There’s no room for stumbling, but Travers is as surefooted as his main character Josh is wired and pumped.

The coach’s rhetorical question “How much of you want it?” emphasises the need to win, ideally at all costs. “It’s only a wee knock” dismisses the possibility of concussion and 23 days away from the pitch. The one act play highlights the very real dangers of poorly regulated contact sport and the need for teachers and coaches to value players over results.

Connolly’s script is packed with punchy one-liners and even risks playing with poetry in pivotal scenes to fruitfully add rhythm and urgency to the unfolding drama. Eat. School. Train. Sleep. Character Josh and actor Travers are up for the challenge.

The ending is both abrupt and ambiguous. Deliberately so. Without giving too many spoilers, we join a blacked out Josh as his brain tries to piece together what’s happened. No certainty is offered about the ultimate prognosis. What is for sure is that players, parents, coaches and supporters are unlikely to sit through the play without being challenged to call out unacceptable risk-taking and safety procedures going unheeded.

Directed by Stephen Kelly, Under the Lights is an energetic and sobering play, given form by Maria Connolly and brought to life on stage by a chameleon in the shape of John Travers.

The final performance of this short tour is in Island Arts Centre on Saturday 1 March. Hopefully the show will not be allowed to rest but will be welcomed into sports clubs and schools.

Photo credit: Neil Harrison

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The Monkey – a brilliantly gory comedy with horror origins and a wind-up monkey that dispatches a large proportion of the cast (in UK and Ireland cinemas from 21 February)

More than a day after watching a screening of The Monkey, I still break out into a grin when I think back to the film. Often puerile, entirely gratuitous, and very funny. And no, this isn’t the (excellent) Robbie Williams film Monkey Man. It’s a new release, out in the UK and Ireland on Friday. The BBFC warning at the beginning mentions “strong gore”. But boy oh boy, it’s brutal, bloody, and intensely comic gore.

The premise is that twin brothers Hal and Bill – both played by Christian Convery in childhood and then Theo James as adults – inherit from their father a wind-up monkey that plays a drum. But turning the key to see what happens inevitably concludes with yet another funeral in a litany of gruesome deaths. The awkward celebrant at one of the first memorial service (played by Nicco Del Rio) deserves his own spin off. Tatiana Maslany makes an on-screen impact that’s greater than the script must have suggested in her small role as the twin’s mum.

Osgood Perkins’ screenplay is based on Stephen King’s short story, but rather than making a worthy movie full of fear, it dials the absurd up to eleven and has fun with the serious business of pruning the cast. (Perkins’ own parents died of Aids and on one of the September 11 passenger planes, so he has a personal connection to the trauma of death.)

As someone who can’t abide the tension being ratcheted up with angry strings and jump scares, The Monkey is a horror film that I can stomach. But other than nods to the genre – like a spot of teen bullying and some self-denial for the benefit of others – this isn’t really horror.

Yes, in the first few minutes someone’s intestines will fly across the screen like a string of sausages, but the context is always one of escapism and fantasy. Though let’s not dwell on the scene with the hornets: that will make you itch and shiver.

The joyous blood-spattered action calms down halfway through with a big jump forward in time. Suddenly there’s an evil lair with lots of televisions meaninglessly stacked up. Suddenly there’s exposition to slow down the pace of decapitation and accidental loss. The Monkey sags for nearly twenty minutes before stabilising its blood pressure for a wallpaper-splattering finale.

I’ve honestly never laughed out loud at such gore at 11 o’clock in the morning. And I feel a little guilty for doing so. The Monkey’s attempts to philosophise about the inevitability and unpredictability of death fool no one. The film is far from perfect. It’s blokey and would struggle to pass the Bechdel Test. Yet The Monkey’s low-budget gift is its success at being shallow and pleasantly trivial.

The Monkey is being screened in Queen’s Film Theatre, Omniplex cinemas, Movie House cinemas, Cineworld and the Odeon from Friday 21 February.

 

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The Gap Year – a trio of women take time out and learn to let go and choose change over stagnation (Lyric Theatre until Sunday 2 March)

The times, they are a-changin’ for three women in their sixties. Kate has just said goodbye to her husband who dropped dead in the bread aisle of the local supermarket. Oonagh’s still vexed about her man walking out twenty years ago to be with Flora the florist, and now he has the temerity to want to get married again. And Roisin has been the one caring for everyone else in her family for decades but now realises that she doesn’t have long left before her health close in on her freedom.

The trio head off on a holiday for a spot of collective me-time ... that turns into a year-long pilgrimage around every county in Ireland. It’s a story about facing up to loss, making choices, and opening your arms wide to whatever life throws at you.

Carol Moore’s fearsome performance anchors this restaging of The Gap Year. Her Kate can be a sullen, stubborn, withdrawn and crabby curmudgeon. But when she lowers her guard, the widow can catch herself on and her empathy bursts through.

Oonagh is the first of the three to truly let her hair down – much to the audience’s delight – and Marion O’Dwyer allows that moment to gradually reform her character’s sense of victimhood and take control of her life’s narrative.

Libby Smyth plays Roisin who at first acts as the buffer between the feistier Kate and Oonagh before Smyth brings her character’s vulnerability to the fore with a health condition that can no longer be hidden or ignored.

It’s great to see Moore, O’Dwyer and Smyth back in the roles they played when The Gap Year first graced the Lyric Theatre’s main stage back in 2022. And it’s a script that had been workshopped through the Lyric’s New Work programme prior to Covid.

Few plays are written – never mind staged – that revolve around the lives of older women. Willy Russell’s Shirley Valentine doesn’t even count: its protagonist was only 42 when she jetted off to Greece.

While the three travellers are back, the other three multi-roled parts have been recast. They provide the colour for the three women’s visits to different towns and counties.

Stroke survivor Pat may not have many words to share, his slow and deliberate interactions are another poignant reminder that there are so many gaps the kind of stories that theatre normally depicts.

It’s hard not to connect with this script from Clare McMahon which integrates so many different ways in which changes of identity can be pivotal in people’s lives. We all know about failure, hope for success, have loved and also lost.

Shaun Blaney brings comedy to so many scenes as a diffident campsite activity coordinator (who utters one of the most memorable lines: “we’re all in the queue [for death]”), a savvy campervan salesman who meets his match in Kate (and allows a huge prop – though a good bit more compact than the first run – to be wheeled around the stage), and lothario Fionntan in Dingle who has the audience in almost as much of a flutter as Oonagh. But it’s his portrayal of Ethan in a Dublin club – in some ways quite unconvincing, yet verbally totally packed with emotion – and his sharing of a coming out story with Carol that opens the door for the play’s conclusion.

Playwright Clare McMahon takes on the remaining female characters for this run herself. There’s a nurse who is equally full of kindness and sadness. A new mum who is at the end of her tether with a toddler. A fervent nun who has known huge sadness and loss but hasn’t learned that her pious answer may not fit everyone else’s experience. And a drunk girl whose tear-stained conversation in the women’s toilet provides Kate with another nudge towards self-reflection.

Stuart Marshall’s two-level set brings out the richness of Irish countryside, and Rosie McClelland’s sharp costumes match the earthy hues and the provide a sense of the passing seasons. As well as crafting a motif that acts as a theme tune for the play, Garth McConaghie’s soundscape plays with reverberation (the funeral mass and visit to New Grange particularly atmospheric) and the off-stage sound of wildlife and flushing toilets.

The long first half is rewarded with a much brisker second act. Streamlined storytelling often applies the mantra of ‘start late, leave early’ and many scenes in The Gap Year practice the former but might benefit from dropping the last line or two of dialogue and not reinforcing what the audience have already learned. Given the inescapable sense of loss that surrounds the story, director Benjamin Gould serves up lots of moments of levity – not least fulsome osculation – and keeps everyone in character as they push elements of the set off into the wings. But the tears are never far away from the next heart-wrenching act of kindness or moment of human frailty.

Having seen and reviewed the play back in 2022, I do miss the original cast. It’s a sign of the quality of what they achieved that their stamp on the colourful characters is hard to erase. But there’s much to admire in Doran, Blaney and McMahon’s reinterpretation of the mannerisms and energy that knits together the people and the situations that the travelling troika need to encounter to make it back home.

You can catch The Gap Year at the Lyric Theatre until Sunday 2 March.

Photo credit: Ciaran Bagnall

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Guy Mitchell’s Dog’s Dead – Pass It On … a child’s quite innocent understanding of growing up in 1970’s Ballybeen estate (Lyric Theatre until Sunday 2 February)

At the start of Guy Mitchell’s Dog’s Dead – Pass It On, a wiry figure bounces onto the stage, giving a goofy wave to the audience. Sammy’s a real chatterbox, and he’s got lots of stories to share about his perspectives on living in the Ballybeen housing estate in Dundonald.

We hear about life through a ten-year old’s eyes, sometimes accurately picking up the vibe of what’s happening, sometimes seeing serious matters (like the men walking around the estate looking for people to play baseball) through the naïve eyes of a youngster who’s at risk of growing up too fast.

Over the course of two hours, we hear how Sammy discovers death, paramilitaries, hormones – he’s at that age when the hairless thing between his legs is of growing interest – as well as an actual snake, Blondie, homophobia, sectarianism … and yes, the circumstances around the death of Guy Mitchelldog.

It’s a gymnastic performance that oozes nervous energy as Kealan McAllister hunkers down, jumps around, and manages to race around the stage while still delivering lines in a calm voice. Just over two and a half years ago, McAllister was on the same stage as part of the Lyric Drama Studio’s great production of Blue Stockings. Now he’s getting a well-deserved break and owning this one man show.

McAllister brings to life an enormous cast of local characters, including his best mate Space Bucket who provides a left-field angle to events (a lad too young to even know about smoking weed but still sounds part mellow part confused).

We laugh a lot. But we laugh along with Sammy rather than at him, and while ‘the Been’ and loyalism provide much to tickle us, Sam Robinson’s script never asks us to be judgemental.

Several things raise the performance beyond cheap laughs. The juvenile characterisation is never broken: the nose-picking is childish but brilliant. Trevor Gill’s direction allows wee Sammy to look puzzled, pause and then change the subject when he comes across something he can’t quite explain: like his description of what adults would recognise as the sounds of domestic abuse and likely sexual assault leaking out of an upstairs flat.

From just a few minutes into the play, the audience instinctively join in with song snippets and answering questions that aren’t allowed to remain rhetorical, enthusiastically engaging with the lone performer and showing a lot of love. And McAllister then milks this generous spirit into a frenzy as he related a tales of dromedary turds, animal liberation, and sectarian crisps.

McAllister’s piano skills add live music to proceedings when he’s visiting his Granny Maggie’s house and bashes out some Elton John on the ivories: I’d a great aunt who also defied the laws of physics and geometry by squeezing an upright piano into a front room when her front door and hallway clearly wouldn’t allow it.

There’s no shortage of Troubles’ drama. But little has been written from the perspective of a child of such a tender ago who hasn’t yet grown up: most is framed as retrospective.

Dundonald and Ballybeen are no strangers to comedy and theatre. The Dundonald Liberation Army are bringing Lockdown DLA back to The MAC this June. That’s a sitcom with a couple of man children trapped in a flat, whereas Robinson’s play gives voice to an actual child roaming around the whole estate delivering what is almost a one boy stand-up comedy routine.

While Tony Macaulay’s books (three of which have been converted into musicals) tell of his upbringing in the Upper Shankill/West Belfast, Sam Robinson’s is a wise man who came from the East. Essays could be written comparing Macaulay’s clean-cut approach with Robinson’s very earthy recollections. And it’s also interesting to contrast the style and patter of Leesa Harker’s loyalist Maggie (whose ‘trilogy’ in four parts is still running in The MAC) with the cussing and as yet sexually immature Sammy.

Guy Mitchell’s Dog’s Dead – Pass It On is full of snatters, innocence and misadventure. Sam Robinson is a fine writer and the forthcoming teenage tales of Sammy are much anticipated. It’s a Cock & Hens Productions in association with Bright Umbrella. The run finishes on Sunday 2 February in the Lyric Theatre and at the time of writing there are a just a handful of single seats left. Don’t let them go to waste.

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Bring Them Down – shepherding in a grisly addition to the cinematic ovine oeuvre (Queen’s Film Theatre from Friday 7 February)

It’s all kicking off on the farm. Though truth be told, there’s been a lot of death and killing on hill over the years. Bring Them Down sees Michael (played by Christopher Abbott) is carrying on the tradition of sheep farming, living with his ailing father (a chair-bound Colm Meaney). A fatal incident from Michael’s past just compounds the vexed reaction to a locked gate and begins to stir up ever-increasing conflict as Gary (Paul Ready) and his son Jack (Barry Keoghan) at the neighbouring farm – financially and maritally on its last legs – take extreme action.

Sheep are rustled and butchered. Vehicles are driven recklessly. Pen knives are wielded. Guns are toted. And blood – animal and human – flows. Ultimately it will become a tussle between the maimed and the angry.

More horrific than horror, this is a clash that has no justice, only retribution.

“How did we get here?” asks Gary’s wife Caroline (Nora-Jane Noone). It’s a good question.

Cinemagoers watch as director Chris Andrews follows the effect of the deadly dominoes toppling over from the perspective of Michael, before switching (with no notice) to replay events from young Jack’s viewpoint on the other farm. The storytelling technique is a little jarring, though it does help space the gore out quite evenly across the 105 minute movie. It’s a film that would benefit from the final 30 seconds being cut: would have been better to go out with a bang as the ending feels like a total cop out given Michael’s injury and state of mind.

Hannah Peel’s percussive score is excellent, layering sinister sounds under the violent visuals. Nick Cooke makes the west of Ireland landscape look particularly brooding with his sterling cinematography. Keoghan is playing a but younger – and Noone a bit older – than is credible, but the drama quickly overcomes casting insecurities as the blood begins to be spilt.

Shepherding seems to attract screenwriters and directors like flies around a rotting carcass: Icelandic films Rams (dealing with sibling sheep farmers who maintain a frosty relationship) and Lamb (a frosty relationship between María and Ingvar who birth a lambchild), not to mention God’s Own Country (with its queer goings-on in the Yorkshire dales).

However, Bring Them Down is the most grisly addition to this ovine oeuvre. For the price of a few jars of mint sauce, it’s available to watch in the comfort of the blood red seats in Queen’s Film Theatre from Friday 7 February (with a Baby Pictures screening that morning for strong-stomached parents of little ones aged 12 months and under).

 

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Hard Truths – an explosive performance from Marianne Jean-Baptiste in Mike Leigh’s new film (Queen’s Film Theatre from Friday 31 January)

Pansy lives in a constant state of agitation. No one and no thing pleases her. The pigeons in the garden threaten to invade her over-cleaned abode. Her immediate family are a burden. Her sister doesn’t appreciate her. And shop assistants get the (wonderfully) sharp edge of her angry tongue for just existing never mind slighting her. Pansy is also in a constant state of fatigue, coping less and less well with her life.

The dialogue in Mike Leigh’s new film Hard Truths is very theatrical, at first feeling somewhat overwritten and longwinded for on-screen delivery. But a growing appreciation of Pansy’s condition makes her lengthy interventions more natural.

“Why are you so angry?” … “Why can’t you enjoy life?”

Marianne Jean-Baptiste delivers an explosive performance playing Pansy with a constant frown. Curtley (David Webber) is her long-suffering and almost-silent husband who escapes to work as a plumber. Meanwhile her son Moses (Tuwaine Barrett) can either be found playing video games in bed or aimlessly wandering the streets of London.

Director and screenwriter Leigh contrasts the darkness of Pansy’s household with the joy and laughter of her sister’s. Bubbly Chantelle (Michele Austin) runs a hair salon and is single mum to two vivacious daughters Aleisha (Sophia Brown) and Kayla (Ani Nelson). Life doesn’t run smoothly for these three, but they move through life with much lighter spirits.

“I’m not well, Curtley. I’m a sick woman” Pansy exclaims in desperation. Health practitioners fear her appearance, though one locum GP (“a mouse with glasses” played in a brief scene rather pleasingly by Ruby Bentall) has the measure of her exasperating patient. But no one has yet been able to get close enough to diagnose the clinical depression that is clear for the film’s audience to see.

If there’s a weakness with the tableau that Leigh has constructed, it’s that savvy sister Chantelle’s job should make her adept at judging people, but takes so long to pick up on the root of Pansy’s unhappiness. Though Chantelle’s underlying compassion, persistence and patience with her overbearing sister are triumphs of the film’s character development process.

While latter scenes contain moments that could melt your heart – the care of Chantelle’s daughters towards cousin Moses, along with his reaction to an unheard stranger’s conversation – the film is allowed to end with Pansy’s elephant no longer hiding under the carpet yet still not properly addressed. There’s hope, but no firm resolution.

Hard Truths is being screened in Queen’s Film Theatre from Friday 31 January.

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