Theatre in Review: Made by God (Irish Repertory Theatre)It was Jean Kerr, a good Catholic, who once noted that, in the theatre, God is usually a lousy part. I'd like to extend that thought to include the Blessed Virgin Mary. This is a long-held observation on my part, beginning with repeated childhood viewings of films like The Miracle of Our Lady of Fatima and The Song of Bernadette and now reaffirmed by seeing Made by God. The mother of Jesus Christ is a constant presence in Ciara Ní Chuirc's drama, not that she seems entirely happy about it. She's a sullen, skeptical sort -- sharp-tongued, occasionally foul-mouthed, and unimpressed by the prayers of the faithful. "I don't know what they want from me," she muses. "I know that they don't want control of their lives." Despite her onstage exposure, the Virgin Mary is tangential to the main dramatic line of Made by God. She's a kibitzer, filling in narrative blanks and providing background information, a necessary job in this shakily constructed drama. Unfolding in two separate time frames -- the 1980s and 2018 -- it aims to take the measure of social change in Ireland, which, in only a few decades, has evolved from a redoubt of traditional Roman Catholic piety to a markedly progressive nation. It's a fascinating topic but Made by God isn't equipped to deal with it. The play is based on the case of Ann Lovett, a small-town adolescent who, in 1984, died giving birth at a shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Following on the heels of a referendum to the Irish Constitution that guaranteed the rights of unborn children as equal to those of their mothers, the incident became a cause célèbre and a catalyst for debate. It returned to the public conversation in 2018, when the referendum was finally repealed, setting the stage for legal abortion. In Chuirc's play, Michael, a fictionalized version of Richard O'Donnell, Lovett's real-life boyfriend, is interviewed by Eva, an American podcaster who is revisiting the case. The action moves back and forth between the '80s, when Ann and "Mikey" are teenagers in love (until she grows distant and self-destructive), and 2018, when Eva tries to probe Michael about the past without revealing her hidden agenda. Both stories are intriguing, and both are underserved by the script. Chuirc touches on the known facts of the Lovett case, leaving many questions unanswered: Why did Ann withdraw from her devoted boyfriend, refusing to discuss her decision? Who was responsible for the bruises that she reveals without comment? How did she reach the point of giving birth without anyone in her tiny town noticing the obvious changes to her body? (In one awkward scene, Mikey comments briefly on her weight gain, rousing her to a fury and causing the subject to be dropped.) Also left unaddressed is the baby's paternity. Meanwhile, we gradually learn that Eva is a conservative Christian, an employee of an American megachurch who has come to Ireland to lobby against legalizing abortion. She is fascinated by the history of Marian appearances, influenced, oddly, by the devotion of her abusive mother to Our Lady of Guadalupe. This doesn't quite make sense -- megachurches are, by and large, Protestant affairs and Marian devotion is a Roman Catholic practice -- but many things about Eva don't add up. Among other things, despite her stated devotion to Christianity, she has gotten Michael's cooperation under false pretenses, appropriating the details of this tragedy for purposes of her own. She is also clearly a disturbed woman. Indeed, Eva turns out to be a pill-popping nervous wreck, in no small part because of her involvement in another case of a suicidal pregnant teen. Her fruitless search for salvific meaning in these events, fueled by guilt and a toppling faith, causes her to unravel, leading to a bizarre climax staged on the site of Ann's death; it's a drug-induced vision, featuring the Blessed Virgin and a surreal birth, that pushes the play over into total melodrama. Chuirc is talented but she isn't assured enough to fuse this collection of characters and devices into a coherent whole. Olivia Songer's direction suffers from the same uncertainty, especially when grappling with the overwrought climax. Still, there are some fine performances. Ciaran Byrne finds several layers of thoughtfulness in Michael, who is filled with regrets over the road not taken. McKenna Quigley Harrington is a lively, intelligent, and faintly mysterious presence as Ann. Daniel Marconi touchingly evokes Mikey's growing helplessness with Ann. Less effective are Erica Hernandez, who overplays every nuance of Eva's ambivalences and inner conflicts, and Briana Gibson Reeves in the thankless role of the Virgin Mary. Like most productions in the Irish Rep's W. Scott McLucas Studio Theatre, production values are limited, but Lindsay Fiori's grotto set looks like the real thing and Danielle Elegy's lighting has its effective touches, including some subtly spinning floor patterns in a pub scene. Orla Long's costumes are solid, and, in the case of the Virgin Mary's spangly, self-referential T-shirt, inspired. Carsen Joenk's sound design includes some haunting voiceover effects. It's not easy to write a play about such a polarizing topic, and Chuirc makes a decent attempt at seeing many sides of the argument. But her reach exceeds her grasp, and she shortchanges her characters. Ann's story doesn't come alive, Eva's troubled psyche wants deeper exploration, and Michael's life in the ensuing decades is bereft of details. Who are these people, really? --David Barbour 
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