The Playboy of the Western World at the National Theatre – review

The women are truly in charge of this handsome National Theatre iteration of J M Synge’s The Playboy Of The Western World. It’s not just that the poetic, scattershot Irish classic is staged by Dublin Abbey Theatre’s Caitríona McLaughlin and designed by her visionary collaborator Katie Davenport, her work here painterly and gorgeous. It’s also that the principal female characters are irresistibly driving a play often perceived as male-centric.

Nicola Coughlan as publican’s daughter Pegeen Mike, obsessed with titular playboy Christy Mahon (Éanna Hardwicke, terrific) until she gets his measure followed by her vengeance, is a luscious, complex but frustrated woman trapped in a milieu defined by disappointing men. Meanwhile Widow Quin (Coughlan’s Derry Girls colleague Siobhán McSweeney, delivering equally detailed, goddess-tier work) controls the narrative until she gets out-manoeuvred. The local rural young women, led by Marty Breen’s edgy Sara, fascinated by Christy, this dangerous curiosity who has apparently committed patricide, are a force of nature.

By comparison, the men, as characters, are a pretty weak bunch, though beautifully acted. Lorcan Cranitch brings vivid detail to Pegeen Mike’s drunken father and Marty Rea makes something haunting and affecting out of Shawn, the good-hearted sap who thought he’d marry her.

Hardwicke’s surprisingly fragile Christy is no swaggering charmer, more a bewildered kid who can’t quite believe he’s become the centre of so much attention. Declan Conlon is chillingly effective as the bullying father who has unwittingly helped to shape his son’s bizarre behaviour. Against them, Coughlan, McSweeney et al convincingly combine to create a community of women captivated by whatever they can get when the pickings are slim. To say that these men are punching up is a massive understatement.

Honestly, Synge’s text, delivered with immaculate fidelity to a very specific dialect, is challenging to anybody not au fait with the vernacular of early 20th century County Mayo. Set on the west coast of Ireland, it’s as absurd as it’s sincere, and there are moments of authentic linguistic beauty. Equally though, there are sections of matter-of-fact exposition that verge on the impenetrable, despite the persuasion of the performances. The look of desolation on McSweeney’s face as Christy plants a kiss on the widow’s cheek igniting memories of affection past is so moving, but succeeds more because of the acting than the Synge-ing.

There’s little dramatic conflict until late in the play, but McLaughlin, Davenport and team (James Farncombe’s lighting is particularly powerful) seduce with visuals and concepts. The disconcertingly raked floor, a chair positioned crazily halfway up a wall, splashes of primary colour on random sticks of furniture, and the inclusion of figures from pagan folklore, suggest an out-of-sync world, recognisable yet fantastical. The acting style is heightened throughout: we empathise with these people but aren’t necessarily moved by them. Anna Mullarkey’s musical compositions, led by Erin Hennessey’s exquisite fiddle-playing, prove as effective and evocative as the actual script.

This is a sumptuous production, rich in detail, craft and spectacle. It’s impressive but dramatically inert, ultimately not really proving why Synge’s tale of romantic disappointment and the ludicrousness of putting people on a pedestal, is worthy of a major revival at the present time. Yes, women are at the steering wheel… that’s wonderful and unarguable… but are there not other plays, perhaps by a female writer, more worthy of everybody’s time and the National’s resources than this one?