The Foreign Press Association Presents...
Like a resolute sunbeam that creeps through a slit in the blinds, Mario Fratti’s character is distinguishable through the guise of his two plays ‘Suicide Club’ (2001) and ‘Three Sisters and a Priest’ (2008). He is unpredictable, challenging and
comically sardonic.
Many of Fratti’s plays draw inspiration from real life occurrences. ‘Suicide Club’ was conceived during Fratti’s pursuit of a woman- or hers of him- when she told him of how someone dear to her had recently died, a claim that he felt reason to believe was an untruth. Thereafter, that imagination which is always at play created a tale of a woman, Dora (Maria Deasy), who has something ineffable missing from her life and attempts to fill the void by joining a consolation circle for mothers who have lost a son through the act of suicide.
Despite her own son, Stefano (Conor Moore), being as caring, duly attentive, and as very much alive as most young men at the age of 20, Dora perpetuates her lie until it comes around to strike her like a blow from a heavyweight. Although lighthearted, Stefano is surprised to realize what falsities his mother is capable of, as Dora in turn discovers just how far Stefano’s own boundaries extend. Appearances are deceptive on every plane of Fratti’s multi-layered narrative. ‘Suicide Club’ is mischievous and hilarious.
The struggle to fulfill oneself is a theme that spills over to the following play. ‘Three Sisters and a Priest’ further represents a condition, ever present in human beings, that strives for a defined purpose in life and tremors in the absence of clarity.
The sisters, Sonia (Carol Tammen), Rita (Deborah Offner) and Tina (Maria Deasy), have lived in obedience to the Catholic Church throughout their lives, remaining inhibited by pious law and charitable within their wealthy position towards the local clergy. They find themselves slipping into perdition after Pope John Paul II makes a public statement: ‘Think of hell as a state of mind, a self-willed exile from God’. They call upon Father Luigi (Mark Ethan Toporek) to clarify the Holy Father’s comment. But as the priest attempts to ‘mop-up’ the mess of confusion he struggles to get a handle from the outset. Although the narrative trips over itself toward the end as the sentiment is labored at, the climactic final moments signal redemption for the play just as it begins to wane.
Fratti’s Nietzschean dialogue demonstrates how people are susceptible to authority through the anxiety of making their own choices, lest they be the wrong ones. ‘Three Sisters’ is an investigation into the apprehensions felt by those who are willing to compromise the fruits of autonomy in exchange for vacuous statements of existence.
Fratti harnesses his intrigue in the crevices of life, where the absurdity of the human condition is apparent. Whether you are in search of divine salvation or immediate gratification, Fratti’s plays will leave you with something to praise- one way or the other.
- Ash Bradford
Adrian Dunbar’s performance is outstanding as he depicts the infamous Irish author and playwright Brendan Behan in ‘Brendan at The Chelsea’.
As the house lights dim and all eyes centre on the stage, we’re transported to New York’s famed Chelsea Hotel in 1964, where Irish author Brendan Behan (Adrian Dunbar) wearily arises from a single bed with a routine hangover. Dunbar- who also directed the play- is mesmerizing from the onset, hitting even the pitch and meter of the real Behan’s narrative deliverance with astonishing precision.
Brendan at The Chelsea centers on a severely ill Behan in the waning months of his short life. At 41 years old Behan is subject to seizures and diabetic comas induced by chronic alcoholism. Perhaps worst of all for Behan, his hands are swollen to such an extent that he can use neither pen nor typewriter. Consequentially, in order to conduct his work he is forced to log a narrative into a tape recorder, which the real Behan painfully resented.
Throughout the performance we see Behan struggling to complete an overdue manuscript for what would turn out to be his final book, Brendan Behan’s New York, procrastinating with whiskey binges and mired by his ailments. A young dancer named Lianne (Samantha Pearl) lives across the hall from him and takes it upon herself to act as his aid, trying to keep him indoors and away from his haunts on the raucous 3rd avenue bar scene. We see Lianne employ saint-like patience with the man, seeing to it that he is fed and taking the medicine he badly needs. Pearl’s performance leveled-out as the play went forward, however her initial arrival on stage I thought to be almost disruptive. Dunbar is so engrossing as the play begins, shuffling around trying to re-hydrate and orientate amid the whiskey haze, pensively delivering the opening monologue about his love for New York when Pearl bounds on stage in misplaced excitement. When she does find her rhythm, the chemistry between Behan and Lianne is convincing, even if it’s not at all clear why she takes it upon herself to oblige his demands and endure his temperament.
Richard Orr plays Behan’s friend George Kleinsinger, a jazz musician who lives in the room above at The Chelsea. Orr complements Dunbar’s performance greatly. In his role he is as relaxed as he is charming, he comfortably lolls on the tide that is Dunbar as Behan and floats along with it rather breaking it.
The set does not change from Behan’s raggedy room at The Chelsea, but time and scenario shift within Behan’s flashbacks as indicated by elegant lighting effects that seamlessly blend with the main line of narrative. Chris Robinson features as various side characters during these phases and serves the purpose very well, but a word could not be said without praise for Pauline Hutton as Beatrice, Behan’s wife. Hutton captures the torment of the woman cornered by the nihilistic and self-destructive inclinations of the man she is trying to save to heart-wrenching effect. Beatrice is tolerant of her husbands’ affairs and her instincts are motherly toward his inebriation. It is as if a part of her will die if her husband is allowed to kill himself. Hutton is the only actor to truly equal Dunbar’s fluidity in character and Beatrice is the only person in the play capable of going toe to toe with the volatile writer, much to her own exhaustion. It’s clear that if she could not save him, nobody ever could.
Janet Behan, author of the play and the great writers’ niece, said she penned the script in response to the question of whether her uncle was a genius or just a drunk. In Brendan at the Chelsea, she does not seek to urgently address that question. Rather, she presents a fairly objective character for judgment, a man who is hilarious and desperate, dismissive yet open, sardonic and profound, all in one hit. Appropriately, aside from the striking way in which Dunbar adopts Behan’s readings, mannerisms and humor, the poetry in his depiction lies in the way he is able to balance the opposing forces of Behan’s character- in some light he is a self-oriented alcoholic ruin, in others a compassionate, jovial man with tenderness at heart. At all times he is compelling.
Brendan Behan saw more tragedy in the submission to social conventions, in the quiet and vacuous suburban life one is supposed to aspire to, than in prematurely burning out through the poison to which he was so obliged. His love of New York, which itself is a character in the play, is representative of this notion. New York was a symbol of liberty, a refuge for the weird and wonderful, those who sought the meaning of their existence arbitrarily, thus creating a community of artists whose cultural significance is resounding to this day.
Behan was desirous of everything at the same time; he wanted a party and a quiet moment too; sex with both men and women; he wanted literary acclaim yet scorned critics and denounced the value of fame; he could not conceive having any obligations yet wanted a son desperately; he claimed to resent Ireland and the majority of his countrymen yet maintained a very proud Gaelic identity. Where Behan’s libertarian endeavor becomes distorted, is in the fact that in his tenacious resolve to have all of life’s options open to him, he built a cage for himself and became bound within it, shackled by a mental and cellular dependence on alcohol. On the open road of life he traveled ten to the dozen and became hopelessly lost. It was as if he spent a lifetime gathering keys only to forget which doors he needed to unlock. The sadness in the tale is that by the end, he had no idea what game he was playing.
The point at which the play picks him up, Behan is a man who is at times smothered simply by the presence of others- for in company he was required, by demand of none other than himself, to ‘perform’. He is steered by his “horror of being ordinary”. It seems his tribulations are a product of resentment for the man free from the disorderly current that flows through his own veins.
By the end of the night we might still argue about whether Behan was genius or just a drunk. But what will not be a point of contention is the quality of Adrian Dunbar and Pauline Hutton’s performances, nor the literary legacy that Brendan Behan left in his wake. Janet Behan’s script is rich with her uncles’ prose and elegant in her connections of them- a must see at The Acorn Theatre on Theatre Row, running until Oct. 6th. Tickets available: http://www.lyrictheatre.co.uk/brendanchelsea/
- Ash Bradford
