Last night I described Enda Walsh’s play as ‘Beckett on acid’. It’s the story of Thomas Magill, a loner in Inisfree, sometime evangelist, who converses with characters from the village (and his dead parents!), all of whom are on tape or created by Thomas in conversations with himself. It’s a stage picture of an extraordinary character rather than a play, but it’s riveting.
Cillian Murphy’s tour de force really is something special. He occupies the vast Lyttleton space (which seems wider and is deeper than it has ever been) with an athleticism that is breathtaking. He runs, throws things and rants. He is accompanied by all manner of sounds and lights with the stage a performer itself (this is virtuoso technical staging). You can’t take your eyes off him, dripping in sweat, inhabiting his character like you rarely see.
I’m not one for monologues, but this is an exception as it doesn’t conform to the static stereotype. It’s a thrillingly dramatic 90 minutes which you’d be mad to miss.
