Theatre in Review: Woman and Scarecrow (Irish Repertory Theatre)

	Dale Soules, Stephanie Roth Haberle, Pamela J. Gray. Photo: Carol Rosegg.

Death is the thing with feathers in Marina Carr's 2006 drama, a two-hour-plus, two-act deathwatch featuring a soon-to-be-deceased heroine who has lost none of her lung power, even while teetering on the edge of the grave. Callous as it may seem, after a while one begins to wonder if she really will manage to shuffle off this mortal coil, so many grievances has she to share. Known only as Woman, she is attended by Scarecrow, who is -- what? Her alter ego? Her id? Her soul? (Nobody else in the play recognizes her existence.) The only guidance we are given occurs when Scarecrow, in a scolding tone, says, "I truly believed when I latched on to you before the weaver's throne, I truly believed that you and I would amount to something." Thank goodness, that clears everything up.

Worse for the dying Woman, there's a thing in the wardrobe, helpfully known in the script as The Thing in the Wardrobe. From the tiny glimpses we get, it appears to be an avian creature, some kind of bird of prey with a satanic growl, ready to carry her off to wherever unhappy Irish housewives go when life is done. As Scarecrow, who has stepped into the wardrobe, notes, "That thing will eat you alive. He doesn't care. I've seen him in action. He's in there now, making a bracelet out of infant ankle bones."

It's comments like these that introduce one to the play's furious, take-no-prisoners style. Woman's condition is not diagnosed -- it looks like cancer -- but she insists she is dying of spite, which, she says, "is an honorable emotion," before adding that "bitterness is the aristocracy of spite. Yes, it has a grander ring." She also spars with Scarecrow, saying she "dreamt you were a rattlesnake with your mouth stapled shut and I got up on you and rode you down some boulevard." And much of the play's action, such as it is, consists of Woman and Scarecrow poking around in the wounds of the past and relitigating old feuds with the people Woman once presumed to love. Call it Two Tall Women, and you've got the idea.

Except that Edward Albee got there first and got it right. Admittedly, for a good chunk of its running time, Woman and Scarecrow coasts on its lively, rancorous exchanges. Him, Woman's straying husband -- his latest paramour is parked up the road, waiting -- says, "You have a duty to leave me softly, as I have a duty to watch you go without rancor" -- although the rancor recurs when he discovers a Visa bill for the two thousand euros she has just spent on new shoes. Woman's extremely proper Aunty Ah, who raised her and got little affection for her pains, says, "I will not forgive this willful jaunt to your doom." When Woman asserts that her problem was "I wasn't good to myself. I refused to be happy," Aunty Ah snorts, "Happiness! Everyone thinks they have a God-given right to it. Sure, it's only a recent invention of the Sunday newspapers. It'll wither and pass in time and we'll get back to the way we were."

But, as it gradually sinks in that there will be no real conflict or meaningful dramatic action -- just more railing at the injustice of the universe -- a certain tedium sets in. By the time Scarecrow dictates a scalding last letter intended for Him -- "I want you to wake at three in the morning and think of me packed into the cold, hard clay, and when you think of me down there I want you to realize that you have killed me as surely as if you had taken an ice pick and plunged it in to the hilt" -- I thought, Surely the finale is within sight. Alas, no; even as the life drains out of her, she still has enough vigor to go several more rounds with the other characters.

Ciaran O'Reilly has staged these cankerous proceedings with the muscularity the material requires, but one wishes he had placed a cap on his cast's emoting; the endless raging at the dying of the light ultimately proves fatiguing. Stephanie Roth Haberle throws herself into the role of Woman, and she does especially well by a lengthy speech about the Caravaggio painting "Death of the Virgin," which holds a special meaning for her. Overall, however, she is hamstrung by the fact that for all her speechifying, we don't learn all that much about the character; it's also hard to credit her as someone who is only hours away from death, so energetic is her performance. Pamela J. Gray fares better as the enigmatic Scarecrow, whether engaging in vicious verbal battle with Woman, or sitting, eerily composed, in a corner of the room, looking on as Woman argues with her visitors. Aidan Redmond does his best with the role of Him, who feels free to cheat on Woman but goes to pieces when he learns that she, too, kept lovers on the side. The best work is turned in by Dale Soules as Aunty Ah, her lips pursed in disapproval as she takes revenge on Woman by dropping tantalizing details about Woman's mother -- who she never really knew -- and refusing to tell anything more.

Charlie Corcoran's stark, semi-naturalistic set, depicting Woman's bedroom, is consistently transformed by Michael Gottlieb's lighting, which provides a reliable guide to when the action is unfolding in Woman's head and when we are in quotidian reality. Ryan Rumery's sound design includes unearthly sounds emanating from the wardrobe, excerpts of songs by Demis Roussos, the Greek singer who is Woman's favorite pop star, and a bit of Rusalka, an opera that means a great deal to Woman. Whitney Locher's costumes are right for the characters, but when we finally see The Thing in the Wardrobe, it looks like a cross between the Maltese Falcon and Edward Scissorhands; it's a depressingly literal-minded rendition of a metaphor. Then again, it's a suitable symbol for a play that provokes and plods in equal measure. -- David Barbour