Swansong
Violence is always present here, simmering, a constant threat. Under the narrator’s ingratiating grin, under the humour. It runs as a thread beneath this monologue: the tale of the ‘illegitimate’ son of a single mother in 1960s western Ireland.
Austin ‘Occi’ Byrne (Andre De Vanny) tells us his tale as he feeds the swans in a park. His favourite swan he calls Agnes. It may be the most unguarded relationship he has. Occi and his Mammy have been the victims of a rigid, judgemental Catholic Church that can direct and enforce social prejudice and community exclusion. Mammy, with whom Occi has an unbreakable bond – no matter what – has taken to the drink.
And Occi, stunted, taunted, insulted and isolated, has taken on a protective carapace of hair-trigger aggression. Get in first. Attack is his means of… not defence, exactly. More the total vanquishment or annihilation of the foe. He’s proud of that; he has a war cry, ‘Occi, Occi. Occi, oi, oi, oi!’
Such is the result, we figure, of his life experiences – that and a brain injury sustained in a one of his innumerable fights… His dream is to get out of Ireland and to England. He’s saving up for the boat fare. In the meantime, he takes what shitty jobs he can get.
What makes his story the more poignant are the moments when the character armour comes off and, in the most lyrical, beautiful descriptions, he feels truly open, even sensual, and free. Those moments are transitory. It takes so little – a word, like ‘bastard’, or a gesture - to trigger this thin-skinned time bomb, or even killer…
Andre De Vanny is alone on a totally bare stage. Rumpled shirt, trousers, sneakers. He is wiry, whip thin and coiled; he moves restlessly about – he’s wired, ever ready to take offence. Greg Carroll’s direction is close and detailed. The performance is mesmeric. De Vanny maintains the persona of Occi for close to ninety minutes – including a flawless west Ireland working class accent, so flawless indeed that at times his speech is close to babble, the words tumbling over themselves in Occi’s urgent need to tell all.
In his way Occi reminded me of Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver. The same heart-breaking loneliness, the same social ineptitude, the same rage seeking – and finding an object. You cannot say that Swansong is a pleasant night at the theatre – but it is powerful, illuminating and insightful, and sustained by a brilliant performance.
Michael Brindley
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