Putting a hearse before the horse
Irish theatre was a staple of the programme at the Tricycle in Kilburn, north London, for much of the Eighties and Nineties, under then artistic director Nicolas Kent – which coincided with fertile times for playwrights of the Emerald Isle. That creative burst has been much less in evidence of late, but even so, one of the bigger hits of last year was Sligo actor Mikel Murfi’s one-man show about a mute old cobbler called Pat Farnon who falls for indomitable football coach Kitsey Rainey.
As a token gesture of theatrical activity while the Trike undergoes a £5.5 million renovation, that monologue – The Man in the Woman’s
Shoes – has returned (the cinema serving as make-do stage). Only for a handful of performances, though: Murfi is primarily showcasing the sequel, I Hear You and Rejoice, which for newcomers to the project (like myself) is putting the hearse before the horse.
We’re at the funeral service for this whirlwind heroine, with a cluster of rustic personalities gathering under the roof of Murfi’s versatile talent to eulogise the departed. Widower Pat is among them (the Lord moving in mysterious ways, and the author in convenient ones – our silent, barely sighted protagonist can blarney with the best of them). If you’re already up to speed with what happened back in 1978, you’ll be better placed to appreciate the alternately uproarious and gooey reminiscences with which this 1985-set commemoration is breathlessly crammed. But I have to confess that for much of the 75 minutes, I felt I was trying to get a handle on a runaway chicken of a yarn, flapping this way and that.
Those who have suffered grief and loss may be able to catch, if they’re quick-eared, nicely turned phrases of touching consolation. And those after a nostalgic-escapist retreat may well relish the fanciful-whimsical incidentals. Sometimes, you can’t see the join between wisdom and gag: “In a lifetime what will you have, six dogs maybe and one or two mattresses?” runs one quirky quasi profundity.
Murfi, hair caked in old-man grey, stiff and formal in braces and black tie, yet pointedly barefoot and agile as required, has a passing resemblance to Steve Martin, and at times seems to be channelling not only Mrs Brown, Father Ted and Dylan Thomas as he shape-shifts but also Martin’s bizarre bereavement romcom of 1984, All of Me. Around me, many laughed wildly, as if at the funniest thing. Miserable sinner that I am, I found much of it deathly, and rejoiced not a lot.
Until July 1. Tickets: 020 7328 1000; tricycletheatre.co.uk