Dancing at Lughnasa

I approached Epicentre’s Dancing at Lughnasa with trepidation. In the early 1990s I’d seen the extraordinary Abbey Theatre production from Ireland, when it toured here. It had left an indelible theatrical stamp.

Happily this community theatre production of the bittersweet Irish drama has its own joys, in a credible, cohesive interpretation, with rich veins of humanity, pathos and humour, courtesy of director Abi Rayment.

Set amidst semi-rural poverty, there’s plenty of wit and zest for life in Dancing at Lughnasa, though tempered by harsh realities. It’s the story of one final happy united summer harvest season for a family of five single thirty-something sisters, their brother, Father Jack, a Catholic priest who, it becomes evident, has turned pagan while working in Uganda, and the illegitimate seven year old son of Chrissie, one of the sisters.

The action is framed by the narration (in flashback many years later) of the son, Michael, in adulthood, played by Colin Keating, who also plays young Michael, aged 7, at the time of the action.

It is high stakes drama. The exuberant Mundy sisters dance lustily and joyously around their erratic radio, named Marconi, though via the narration, we’re already aware of hovering sadness and hardship looming large.

Though the interpretations of all five sisters were splendid, the joyous earthiness of Helen Scaysbrook ‘s Maggie and the romantic optimism of Rachel Perks’ Chrissie, are highlights. The practical, straight-laced role of Kate dictates that Wendy Morton’s performance is necessarily and appropriately, rather dour. Amy Robertson and Clare McAuley engage in less dominant roles. All five sisters dance with verve and abandon, even the initially reluctant Kate.

Colin Keating narrates very effectively, engaging with the audience as he breaks the fourth wall. Charming Welsh travelling salesman, Gerry Evans, Michael’s father and Chrissie’s unreliable beau, is a likeable, charismatic rogue in the hands of Matt Rossner.

The Irish accents are mostly effective - naturally from the play’s only real Irishman, Colin Keating, and striking the right balance between Irish accent and audience clarity from the women. Only Alan Hanson’s accent missed the mark perceptibly (does he try for an Irish / African hybrid as Father Jack?). Hanson’s shuffling movement also never feels quite natural.

The program doesn’t specify a set designer, but the simple setting of the stage space with furniture and props, linked to Matt Cook’s effective lighting, worked nicely. One quibble for mine, though is the narrator’s plastic swivel chair. While he’s in a different time, this choice jarred aesthetically.

Floor mat symbols, and the harvest and fertility symbolism of the ‘corn dolly’, hoisted above the stage, link with the hypnotic, ritualistic possession of the dancing to stretch the motif established by Jack’s Ugandan paganism closer to home.

Realistically, nothing is likely to challenge my earlier peak personal experience of this powerful, moving Irish drama. Nonetheless, I soon found myself happily surrendering to, and empathising with, another warm, energetic interpretation.

Neil Litchfield

Image: Gerry (Matt Rossner) and Chrissie (Rachel Perks)