Theatre review of Irish Blood, English Heart – Trafalgar Studios, London
This article titled “Irish Blood, English Heart – review” was written by Michael Billington, for The Guardian on Wednesday 4th May 2011 22.04 UTC
Darren Murphy is clearly a generous man. We go to the theatre expecting one play and he gives us at least three: a psychological study of sibling rivalry, a social portrait of the London Irish and a meditation on the nature of narrative. But, although some would argue that nothing succeeds like excess, I would gladly have settled for half.
At first, we seem to be in familiar theatrical territory. Two brothers converge on the Southwark lock-up where their father, an emigre Irish cab driver, apparently killed himself. Con is the struggling one who followed his dad into the cab trade and whose wife, Peggy, dreams of opening a restaurant. The other brother, Ray, is the success story who has written a bestselling novel and TV film that cannibalises the family history. While Con is anxious to honour the dead dad, Peggy’s main aim is to extract compensation from Ray for appropriating their lives in a piece of fiction.
Behind the play lurks the formidable shadow of Arthur Miller: the fraternal rivalry is straight out of The Price, and lines such as “A man is more than the worst thing he’s ever done” strive to achieve a Milleresque resonance. But I feel Murphy’s real preoccupation is with stories and their ownership. Does one, he implicitly asks, possess the copyright on one’s own life?
A comedian once expressed his bewilderment to me that it was the author, rather than the subject, of a biography who got paid; and it is such a provocative issue that I wish Murphy had explored it in more detail. Instead, he gets carried away with the brothers’ re-enactment of past familial wrongs, and even introduces a totally implausible fourth character to remind us that the dead father was himself a monstrous fantasist.
I will say this for Murphy, however: he gives his actors plenty to chew on and, in Caitriona McLaughlin’s nicely cooked production (which transfers from Southwark’s Union theatre), they clearly relish the emotional feast. Ian Groombridge exudes a nervy anxiety as Con, seeking closure on the disordered narrative of his dad’s life. Howard Teale has the right sheen of success as the brother who has adopted the name of Ray Suede and whose whole career is a form of self-invention. Although Con’s wife is marginalised in the later stages, Carolyn Tomkinson invests her with a fractious energy.
In the end, the play seems to suggest that the Irish capacity for fabrication and storytelling needs an element of formal restraint. Though it is a perfectly valid message, I wish Murphy had followed his own good advice.
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