In today’s Washington City Paper, I review two new plays being staged in unusual environments. The Welders’ Transmission, by playwright/performer Gwydion Suilebhan, is a thoughtful meditation on the hazards of storytelling, while Deirdre Kinahan’s Wild Sky is a human-scale look back at a pivotal moment in Ireland’s struggle for self-governance. It’s also the first show from Solas Nua in five years. I’m glad they’re back.
Posted in Solas Nua, theatre
Tagged Deirdre Kinahan, Dylan Morrison Myers, Gwydion Suilebhan, Megan Graves, play reviews, Rex Daugherty, Ryan Maxwell, Solas Nua, The Welders, theater, Washington City Paper
Rachel Beauregard does not actually don boxing gloves in SWAMPOODLE that I can recall, but happily she does sing.
So, Swampoodle. A beautiful mess, is what it is. Bring your ear horn.
Also, I saw Keri Hilson play the 930 Club as the headliner of the WPGC Bithday Bash last Thursday night. The bill also included Lloyd and B.o.B., but my hopes for an all-star version of the Eastern Motors song were dashed.
Last Sunday, I saw The Moscows of Nantucket at Theater J. It’s good. More fun that that Fleet Foxes show, certainly. Continue reading
Mission Improbable: Ryan Welsh and Medleine Carr get close
Gentle reader, if you’re anything like me, you’ve often lamented the manifold ways in which the theater consistently fails to evoke the experience of watching a great, droll black-and-white thriller, like The Third Man, let us say, or else an episode of the most delightful TV spy show in the history of televised espionage, The Avengers. Happily, the operatives responsible for Improbable Frequency— a surefooted, fast-talking WWII trenchcoat-and-dagger musical comedy from the reliable Irish-import company Solas Nua — have given bold remedy to this problem. The five-year-old outfit, best known for gritty (if heightened) naturalism, has now made a limber, sexy, generally spectacular first entry into the song-and-dance game, and while the result could only benefit from a two-to-four-song song shearing, the delight it brings to those tuned into its bizarro, ah, wavelength is irreducible.
And who is that? Well, the pun-averse are advised to stay well away. And the fun-averse, obviously! Also, anyone whose ears are easily fatigued by uncommonly dextrous feats of verbal derring-do. Everybody else? Game on, for Queen and Country. Continue reading
Solas Nua’s current production of Enda Walsh’s Disco Pigs runs only 60 minutes, and you’re relieved when it’s over. Not because it’s bad — on the contrary, it’s a work of sparkling, propulsive genius, astutely staged and brilliantly performed.
But know this: Its brilliance is of the combative, exhausting variety. Its pace? Frenetic! Its language? Formidable. Our protagonists/narrators, Pig and Runt, don’t communicate in mere Irish slang, but in their own intimate, infantile, often impenetrable argot, one that recalls the Russian-influenced dialect Anthony Burgess concocted for his novel A Clockwork Orange. (Malcolm MacDowell memorably cooed it while terrorizing London with his “droogs” in Stanley Kubrick’s film adaptation.)