Molly Sweeney

I don’t read reviews before I go to see something (though you can’t help seeing star ratings and you do get a sense of the consensus – if there is one), but I so wish I had on this occasion. I would presumably have learnt that it doesn’t meet my criteria of ‘play’ and that I was unlikely to like it. I had seen it before c. 19 years ago at the Almeida (why are most revivals at present after 18-19 years? Is there a rule?) but I’ve seen so many Brian Friel plays, most are not monologues and I have such a poor memory.

In my book, monologues are not plays, they are monologues. Even though there are three actors, they don’t interact, so it’s still monologues. Staging them doesn’t make them plays and, in my view, adds little value. Unless they are on the radio (the most suitable medium), you’d just as well read them.

So it wasn’t long into the story of a woman blinded in infancy (here with a very irritating voice) that I realised I’d made a mistake, the mind started wandering and I started regular time checks. She sits on a swing, which sometimes moves, and climbs a tree. Her husband, the most animated, is a bit of a dreamer obsessed with the possibility of a cure. He sits on a box, though he does stand occasionally. The third character is her ophthalmologist. He sits in an armchair, though he also stands up now and again. They don’t acknowledge each other’s presence, let alone interact.

If you’re a literary sort or if you like having your stories told to you or if you like anything that’s stereotypically Irish, you’ll probably enjoy it. Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid.