Terminus

Terminus
By Mark O'Rowe. Abbey Theatre / Amharclann Na Mainistreach / Sydney Theatre Company. Drama Theatre, Sydney Opera House. June 4 to July 9, 2011.

Irish theatre has a reputation for being bleak and black and dark. And Terminus is all of these. There is some comic respite from the macabre experiences that are interwoven by the three storyteller-actors, but not enough to carry one away from the dark, empty, smoky set that conjures the vicious suburban underworld from which their stories emanate. Starkly narrated in the first person, they tell of horrible brutalities and two-faced friends and worm-ridden demons. They take the audience on a dark, horrific, breath-holding journey, broken only now and then by short moments of relief, when those who laugh are almost embarrassed about doing so.

That being said, this is not a play to miss. The writing is incredible. It is in verse, but verse that changes rhythm and rhyme, develops cadences that lift and plunge, alliterations that run on and stop and start again, so that you are almost waiting for the next change of pace and rhyme...

“the explaining of which is a bitch meaning Leigh and I agree and he says ‘See’”.

It is a spoken work of words and rhythms, where the brutality of the stories is almost subsumed by the beauty of the language and the challenging rhythm of its delivery in the hands of three very strong, yet different voices.

There is the clear, deep, throaty voice of Olwen Fouere and the clipped, short phrases of her monologue as she faces a drug dependent mother and a malicious lesbian pimp in her search for a pregnant ex-student caught up in a sordid mess of humanity. There is the almost at times monotonous depth of Declan Conlon’s voice, as he arrogantly tells his tale of brutish malevolence. There is contrast in the clear, vibrancy of Catherine Walker’s lyrical telling of her story – harsh and ghoulish as it is at times – but often uplifting, especially a she fleetingly, but vividly revisits important milestones of her life. Of all the brilliant poetry, those beautifully delivered memory descriptions remain with me longest.

There is little action. Gesture when it does occur is carefully choreographed and skilfully contained. The set, a huge frame with shattered glass that mirrors the performers as they stand and are lit, contains and restrains. Spotlights pinpoint and shimmer dimly through smoke haze. It is easy to believe the squalid scenes that are set and the bizarre happenings that are recounted.

On stage for 100 minutes, much of the time sitting, motionless in the dark – there are not even exit lights – the three consummate performers hold most of the audience spellbound. I say most, because the audience was not wholly appreciative. “Don’t ever mention that to me again,” one commented on leaving. “I agree,’ said someone else who overheard. One couple left, disturbingly. In a play as dark and quiet as this, any movement or noise in the audience is almost magnified. For some, it is a probably a little long and a little too intense. For others the music of the language and the strength of the delivery is mesmerising.

Carol Wimmer

 

Images: Declan Conlon, Catherine Walker and Olwen Fouere. Photographer: Brett Boardman.

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