177. THE NIGHT
ALIVE
Perhaps you'll
see Conor McPherson’s new play, THE NIGHT ALIVE, whose action concludes on
Christmas Eve, as a parable of good versus evil, or perhaps you'll view it as
story about how love and friendship blossom even in the most dire
circumstances, the way a blade of grass can rise through concrete. Or maybe
you’ll find in it a message about God’s existence, and the meaning of heaven.
Whatever else you take away from this thoroughly absorbing comedy-drama, which
premiered at London’s Donmar Warehouse and is now at the Atlantic
Theatre on W. 20th Street, I’d be surprised if—even with an
ending that harder hearts might dismiss as overly sentimental—you weren’t deeply
engrossed for its hour and 45 minutes of impeccable performance from an
Irish company (all of whom were in the original production) under the astute
direction of the playwright himself.
Tommy (Ciarán Hinds) is a greasy,
middle-aged, slob of a layabout who makes whatever little money he can doing handyman-like
odd jobs, like cleaning out people’s sheds. He lives in a large Edwardian house
in Dublin owned by his widowed uncle Maurice (Jim Norton), who lives upstairs, still grieves for the wife he lost when she slipped on the ice three years ago, and keeps
a moralistic lid on Tommy’s comings and goings. Tommy’s high-ceilinged room
(superbly designed by Soutra Gilmour, who also did the spot-on costumes), with
its tall, stained-glass doorway leading into the garden, where Maurice takes pride in growing turnips and potatoes, is a seedy mess. (Entrances and exits are through the onstage door and via the audience left aisle.) Indeed, it's not
unlike Tommy himself, with his skanky hair, Fu Manchu mustache, and cruddy clothes. Dishes are
piled in the sink and the toilet hasn’t been flushed. Tommy’s partner, pal, and
roommate is Doc (Michael McElhatton), seemingly the stupid sidekick, but ultimately
the poetic voice that lifts the play to another plane. Into this cluttered lair of lonely males comes Aimee (Caoilfhionn Dunne), a young hooker with a bloody nose, known for charging £40 for a
hand-job. Tommy has rescued her from a vicious lover
and, since she has nowhere else to go, he gives her a place to sleep for the night. Her
presence in this all-male enclave is the generating force behind what happens in
THE NIGHT ALIVE. 
Tommy and Aimee’s relationship moves forward in uneven steps; in
return for his help, she offers him a sexual favor (he apologizes
for the repetitive strain syndrome in his wrist that prevents him from doing the job
himself). He’s separated from his wife and kids, we learn, while she’s
connected to someone who’s a potential menace; she has a kid as well. Maurice, acting as the play’s
occasional voice of reason, reminds Tommy that, regardless of whatever he has
in mind, and separated or not, he’s still a married man (this is Ireland, of course). The aforesaid menace, in
the form of Kenneth (Brian Gleeson), Aimee's boyfriend, ultimately arrives and the
play lurches forward into unexpected but horrific violence. To say more would
invite spoilers, but the way the play provides resolutions to its characters' problems, for all its
potential sappiness, is perfectly satisfying.
The leading characters are
thoroughly appealing, despite their seamy lives. Tommy, living in squalor and
generally depressed, can be a cheapskate when dealing with the desperate Doc, who
works for him, but as his life evolves his generosity
emerges. Aimee is a lost soul who finds salvation in Tommy’s unlikely person,
although she doesn’t at first know it. The scene where he invites her into his
room and then rushes around cleaning up the place (and flushing the toilet)
is hilarious. Living a hardscrabble life that even has him eating dog biscuits
has not hardened him to the niceties of gentlemanly behavior in a pretty woman's presence. There’s also a special scene where the volume is turned up on Marvin
Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On,” and Doc and Tommy start to dance in sync, with Aimee
joining in. Doc has some sterling comic moments, such as when he explains why
he’s called Doc, instead of his real name, Brian; “cause people don’t have all
day to be sayin’ your name,” he declares, ignoring the idea that “Bri” would do
the job equally as well. Few actors can play an Irish drunk as well as Jim Norton, with his resonant baritone, and McPherson provides him with a great opportunity to show what Maurice is like with a few pints under his belt.
Ciarán
Hinds, who can sometimes seem stuffy, is an absolute delight in his
role, capturing Tommy’s neediness, desperation, and deep-seated
goodness in a richly rewarding portrayal that alone is worth the price of
admission. Add to this Mr. McElhatton’s charmingly hapless yet decent (and
sexually impotent) Doc, whose surprising (and, I have to admit, out of
character) interest in subjects like time travel and black holes opens the play
to metaphysical speculation; Ms. Dunne’s sweet but cautious and vulnerable
Aimee, the least fully expressive character in the play; Mr. Norton’s
imperious, but ingratiatingly rational Maurice, preoccupied
with thoughts of death; and Brian Gleeson’s scarily chatty Kenneth, who uses monster teeth to frighten the bejesus out of Doc, and you
have what's probably the most consistently magnetic ensemble
on the current New York stage. If you’re going to do a play whose dialogue
epitomizes the kind of Irish wit and lyricism you’d hope to hear in a Dublin
pub but would more likely encounter in a play by Synge or O’Casey, you need a
company of artists such as this.
Playwrights are not necessarily the best directors of their plays, but Mr. McPherson is one of the exceptions to that belief. His actors are excellently balanced vocally, their timing is precise, the blocking is always clean and honest, and the characterizations consistent. The excellently staged violent moments were created in London by Paul Burke, who, for some reason is not credited, while one of New York's top go-to guys for staging fight scenes, J. David Brimmer, credited as the "violence consultant," oversaw these bits for the New York production.
The controversial final scene, warmly lit (by Neil Austin) as Tommy, all alone after Aimee has left him, spiffs himself up for a family gathering, is played around a string of Christmas lights that Doc has unwound, turned on, and left spread across the floor. As we listen to Father John Misty’s “Look Out Hollywood, Here I Come” in the background, someone enters while Tommy's in the bathroom. I won't reveal what transpires in the next few moments, but skeptics will be skeptical about it, and sentimentalists will be sentimental. But some skeptics, may also be sentimental. As for me, when I left the theatre minutes later the night, like the play, was alive.
The controversial final scene, warmly lit (by Neil Austin) as Tommy, all alone after Aimee has left him, spiffs himself up for a family gathering, is played around a string of Christmas lights that Doc has unwound, turned on, and left spread across the floor. As we listen to Father John Misty’s “Look Out Hollywood, Here I Come” in the background, someone enters while Tommy's in the bathroom. I won't reveal what transpires in the next few moments, but skeptics will be skeptical about it, and sentimentalists will be sentimental. But some skeptics, may also be sentimental. As for me, when I left the theatre minutes later the night, like the play, was alive.
