THEATRE REVIEW: Makaronik

Tristan & Isolde meets Isaac Asimov in Dave Duggan's dystopian play

"It's only chaos out there."

So speaks a confused looking girl in bleak surroundings that match the stiltedness of her speech. These are the words of Makaronik, portrayed superbly by Liz Fitzgibbon in Dave Duggan's equally superb play of the same name. Inspired by the words of George Orwell's 1984, the themes of Isaac Asimov's I, Robot and the tone of the legendary tale of Tristan & Isolde, the power of Duggan's pen has passed from page to stage to create a multi-lingual, theatrical experience like few others of recent times.

Set in a degraded data centre, a refuge amidst the virtually insane backdrop of 2084 Belfast, Makaronik depicts a tale of two visitors to the title character: Diarmuid (Cillian O'Gairbhí) and Gráinne (Mary Conroy). Named in a reference to the love triangle between two identically named characters in a mythological Irish prose narrative, the obstacles this Tristan and Isolde face are more than just about love.

Diarmuid and Gráinne are officers in an Imperial Empire where language after language has been outlawed. Languages are seen as “threats to the Empire” at a time where Belfast is not a communal city but a soulless unit. It's a scenario as twisted as macaroni (naturally): individual identities ignored for the sake of replication in the form of neutered "drones". Makaronik is one of these, the last of her kind, assigned to take care of things until Diarmuid and Gráinne arrive to take every last shred of data, and Makaronik herself, back to the centre of the Empire.

Aspects of Irish, English and even Latin merge into the one language that can possibly be spoken in this wreckage: Empirish, a hodgepodge of gibberish as oppressive and restrictive as the setting. Restrictive not by way of communication, but by way of expression. To Makaronik, the data in the centre is her means of "breaking free" - Shakespeare, National Anthems and all other kinds of theatre, literature and music have seen her transcend the boundaries of any drone and emerge as an emotive, educated human being.

Deciding what to do about Makaronik is a problem for Gráinne and Diarmuid, who, while getting by solely on scraps of knowledge picked up from elsewhere, are also fearing for their own safety while pondering if they will ever be allowed to be together, as Tristan and Isolde never were. To Gráinne, completion of their duty will lead them to safety at the centre of the Empire. To Diarmuid, it seems apparent that this little centre will see them enjoy the only true companionship they will ever get. They feel stranded, yet safe. It is an abstract, serious yet passionately intricate situation, made decipherable to the audience by firstly, the acting, and secondly, by twin on stage screens that subtitle the on-going affairs of the three characters.

But nothing fascinates more in Makaronik, at least in my view, than the title character. It's impossible to ignore her android like tendencies: like any Asimov prototype, or, more famously, Star Trek's Data, she appears to absorb every fact that she is exposed to. There is also a servile slant to her character in that, when Gráinne later makes a decision to remain at the data centre, she is confident that Makaronik will look after her: meaning that Makaronik shows no ill will towards the two officers. In that respect her behaviour is more human than that of her colder, more methodical guardians. Quite probably, both Diarmuid's and Grainne's moods have been deadened as much by the feelings they are not allowed to feel as by Makaronik. Her uniqueness drives a wedge between them: she is like a star child, one who can protect and must be protected.

And when Makaronik bursts into tears at the thought of leaving her centre, her superficially robotic facade is shattered and the heart of the play emerges in this mischievous, knowing, enigmatic soul. She is less Data and more Mrs. Spock without the pointed ears. We are absorbed by her absorbance and her remarkable ability to see the world in a way others do not. She is no android, nor is she an alien: she is just alienated in an alien nation, trapped in an empirical hub that she cannot, and surely we could not, adjust to.

FILM REVIEW: Testament Of Youth

The Foyle Film Festival in Derry-Londonderry opens with a torrential tapestry of turbulent events in a World War I setting

The "based on a true story" narrative in films has been tinkered with, tempered with and downright violated with enough times for any experienced viewer to take such films with more than a pinch of salt. To that extent, such films must earn their believability by creating a plausible world of their own, via strong storytelling that captures the essence but more importantly the heart of the factual characters and setting. In that respect, James Kent's first feature film, Testament Of Youth, passes the test with flying colours, attaining its goals through atmospheric authenticity, calm visual expressionism and a lead performance for the ages.

How reliable are one's memories? That's the first question director Kent appears to be asking as he and screenwriter Juliette Towhidi delve into the "Letters From A Lost Generation" that accompany the memoirs of main character Vera Brittain, played here by Swedish actress Alicia Vikander. It's a question central to the torrential tapestry of Testament Of Youth, a series of turbulent events that will shape the physical and memorial ideologies of every single character in the piece.

And when we begin, a shadow is already cast on Vera's fearful face: on Armistice Day, in November 1918. But Vera cannot join in the celebrations; she only wants peace. And she finds refuge in a painting of the Great Flood, a sharply metaphorical image that on one hand recalls loss of life in the First World War, and on the other hand, an alienated girl drowning in a sea of suffocation.

Flash back four years and Vera is emerging from a lake into a series of light-hearted sequences that reflect the idealistic dreaminess in pre-war 1910s Britain. (Britain, Brittain - surely not a coincidence?) The banter between Vera, her cheerful friend Victor (Colin Morgan) and her brother Edward (Taron Egerton) is pleasant and unaffected, sharply countering her slightly controlling father (Dominic West), a man fearful of losing his daughter to the Oxford education she so desires and, later, his son to the war. It's a clever, unforced illustration of freedom of expression vs. the status of the pater familias, and rings true to the time.

It is Vera's future fiancé Roland (Kit Harington), a bit of a poet himself, who convinces Vera's father to let her sit the entrance exam, and the contrasting moods throughout their courtship and Vera's path to university are explored elegantly. Blatant reaction shots are eschewed in favour of free-flowing if sometimes pointed interactivity. Vera tells Roland: "(Your poem) was a little dry, as if you were holding back. I couldn’t find you in it." Criticism hurts, whether the recipient deems it necessary or not, yet Roland takes it as a challenge, a means to improve his poetry - the very gift that the war will rob from him. It's painful to look upon the film in hindsight and recall Vera admitting to Roland, "I've never known where I fit". For later on, neither will he.

The dangers of the real tragedy being superseded by the fake one, that it will be more about a couple's fortunes, or one woman's fortunes, than those of everyone else during the war, are removed by a tight, thoughtful, sure handed approach to in which we experience absolutely everyone's suffering: on both sides. Put Kaiser Wilhelm II's immortally incorrect idiom in context ("You will be home before the leaves have fallen") and everything about the emotions before logic, feelings before consequences ideology of this Testament Of Youth, opportunism without oppression, breaks down and becomes clear.

In all of this, Vera is our focal point: if Alicia Vikander may not be the most experienced or even gifted actor in a parade of stars (Dominic West, Emily Watson, Miranda Richardson), she is pivotal. Vikander is the heart, the fulcrum, the quietly intimate and determinedly deep soul that paints growing, gripping tableaux of terror before our eyes. Moments of relief are few as Vera and Roland lose sight of their dreams, the horrors of war damaging their formerly wistful hearts and minds in different ways: Roland to protect both Vera and his masculinity, Vera to protect others by becoming a nurse. If Roland's damaged head overtakes his heart, Vera's wounded heart overtakes her head. It is a staggering dichotomy with shattering outcomes for both of them, and many more.

By war's end, populations have been pierced and priorities skewed as Vera resembles the broken shell we saw at the start of a journey we have felt every single minute of. As Vera's future colleague and friend Winifred Holtby will tell her: "All of us are surrounded by ghosts. Now we have to learn how to live with them." This defines Testament Of Youth as a sort of lost paradise - a Paradise Lost, perhaps? - for the current, commemorative generation, a burden it shoulders with admirable grace and remarkable skill.

The Foyle Film Festival runs until Sunday November 23 in Derry-Londonderry. Check out www.foylefilmfestival.org for more information.

DANCE REVIEW: Ludo Lusi Lusum

Derry-Londonderry's Echo Echo Dance troupe present an educational and interactive feast of fun for adults and children

In the very centre of Derry-Londonderry on a cold, wet and windy November night, there's a brick building not far away, right on the city wall, where dancing girls will strut their stuff and edify us all.

With apologies to Cecil Frances Alexander, the second half of that sentence may well be the motto of the Echo Echo Dance Ensemble, a collection of nimble and expressive young ladies who are embarking on their second annual Festival Of Dance And Movement.

Opening night sees the first of two performances of Ludo Lusi Lusum, a composition for children and adults directed by Ayesha Mailey and performed by Esther Alleyne, Janie Doherty, Kelly Quigley, Zoe Ramsey and Tonya Sheina. The title of three Latin words translates as "play, imitate, deceive" or "sport, banter, delude", depending on your preference, and this is exactly what we're going to see: a play on words and pictorial expressions through deceptively simple imitation of other forms of life. In other words, impressionist animalistic charades.

The first two thirds of the piece are a panorama of choreography and mimicry, an interactive game of Pictionary for both cast and audience. Ramsey stands out as a part-feline, part-canine werewolf, her whines, pants and growls the response to disciplined, direct orders from two other cast members. She's also called upon to pose as fruits, including a grape and a banana, but takes the dragon fruit posture a little too literally. Cue rather raucous laughter, especially from the children watching.

Soon afterwards, Alleyne's dead bluebottle must somehow be "resurrected" by doctors, nurses and a defibrillator (!) before we are treated to Ramsey's runaway bride owl and her "tour around the world". Locations as varied as Paris, Egypt and Madagascar are all visited, but best remembered are the owl's encounter with a snake charmer in India (which all goes wrong), and, for pop cultural enthusiasts, an ice bucket challenge in Antarctica. It's lively, overactive and haphazard - but it's also quite immersive and extremely educational.

The final third of the piece is, in general, more subtle and graceful, the Echo Echo Ensemble presenting an African-themed slinkathon of venomous moves and viperish poses that transform into a karate cum ninja ballet and later a vibrant circus dance. It would be the ideal conclusion to this patchwork of fantasies, but there's still another visit from the bluebottle (and a fly swatter!) to come.

In a mere half an hour, Mailey and the five participants have produced the sort of show worthy of their continuously improving standing in their cultural city. Here's to more of the same, if not better.

The Echo Echo Festival Of Dance And Movement runs until November 15 2014. For more information, visit www.echoechodance.com.

FESTIVAL REVIEW: Belfast Festival At Queen's

Two events from this year's Belfast Festival are reviewed - a magical concoction of dance, music and poetry, and a bubbly merging of musical backgrounds

NEITHER EITHER, THE MAC THEATRE

Neither. Either. Words of similar sound yet opposite meaning, separated on one hand by a mere consonant, and on the other hand, by their interpretation. An interpretation rich in possibility for artistic expression is brought to life superbly by the inspiration of Seamus Heaney, the choreography of Liz Roche, the music of Neil Martin and four immensely talented dancers at Belfast's MAC Theatre.

The four dancers – Philip Connaughton, Katherine O'Malley, David Ogle and Vasiliki Stasinaki – communicate the beliefs, identities, aspirations and emotions of Roche's piece between themselves and to the watchers through perceptive poise, balletic grace and a compendium of physical and facial poses.

Neil Martin's piano score is efficient, eclectic and emblematic, reflecting and synchronising with the moodiness and movements of the on-stage quartet. The dancers presented theatrical alter egos divided by gender and the colour of their clothing, yet united by the need for connection and understanding. In doing so, they successfully and poignantly project the exploratory themes of Roche's work – of the self, of others, and of bonding.

Fluctuating on-stage emotionalism and intermittent off-stage narration mirror the similarities and differences between the titular words and the characters – subsumed by undeniable differences, yet united by means of expression. From two words and the inspiration of a legendary poet arises a kaleidoscopic spectrum of industrial light and human magic.

(The original version of this review appeared in the Belfast Telegraph on Thursday October 30, 2014. It can be read here.)

TAMIKREST, ELMWOOD HALL

A decidedly and deceptively old school setting greets the eyes of those who take their seats for the arrival of Malian musicians Tamikrest. A large curtain draped over the back of the hall, percussion and guitars of all kinds scattered around the stage, a keyboard and... a gramophone?

But this isn't vaudeville. Rather, it is a hint of the vibrant and virtuous on stage antics that have come from abroad to raise the spirits in Belfast's Elmwood Hall.

Fronted by Ousamane Ag Mossa, Tamikrest are men – and a woman – on a mission. Literally and figuratively, they are a blend, an alliance at a junction of harmonic and melodic messages, on a quest to provide chords of conviction that would delight, resonate with and enlighten onlookers of all persuasions. And, on their first ever visit to Ireland, they certainly achieve that.

A trio of cultures descend upon the Elmwood Hall stage – the Middle Eastern, Western and West African garb will match the tone and feel of the vocals, guitars and percussion respectively throughout the entirety of the evening. Opening with a steady, funky beat that alternately echoes both Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley, this soon ascends into a cocktail of passionate vocals, booming bass lines and very catchy drum beats that primes and powers up everyone in the hall.

It is a winning combination, tunes that reference the past and respect the traditions of the band while highlighting positivity, filling the performers and the crowd with unity and belief. Musical genres switch effortlessly and effervescently, calm contemplative vocals a welcome breather in the midst of up tempo makeovers for country and blues music, and thunderous drums in a sea of soul.

By set's end, the audience no longer need prompting to clap along and dance to this admirable, amiable and highly memorable merging of musical backgrounds.

(The original version of this review appeared in the Belfast Telegraph on Friday October 31, 2014. It can be read here.)

THEATRE REVIEW: Sive

The predictable becomes penetrative and poetic in the Abbey Theatre's compelling production of John B. Keane's play

Sive, originally penned by Co. Kerry playwright John B. Keane in 1959, and brought back to life by Dublin's Abbey Theatre and director Conall "Re-Energize" Morrison, is a masterful theatrical work. It is miraculous in how it could so easily fall into a plethora of clichéd narrative traps, yet doesn't merely sidestep them, but evades them.

The key to Sive's success is not solely in its storyline but in something that I call "moody expressionism": in actuality, the difference between Sive and a prototypical Cinderella meets Romeo & Juliet strand that runs throughout the play is extremely minute. Yet a remarkable, atmospheric set, a strong directorial hand and, most importantly, perfect casting make it unique: the predictable becomes penetrating and poetic in a soundly balanced, deeply nuanced and sometimes blackly comic play. It's not stretching things for me to say that this is the best play I have seen in my years of arts reviewing, and it is likely to remain so.

Róisín O'Neill's winningly fresh-faced title character is an illegitimate teenage schoolgirl living under the roof of her late mother's brother, Mike Glavin (Barry Barnes) and his wife Mena (standout performer Deirdre Molloy). Mike's mother Nanna (Bríd Ní Neachtain) is also resident, but she and Mena are at each other's throats, creating a channel of disturbing rage to go with an already dysfunctional familial setting. The cracks in the rocky wall of this dwelling only scratch the surface of the turbulence within.

The inquisitive, energetic Sive is both pivotal and a human being, a troubled soul and the fulcrum of the disturbance surrounding her. Her function initially appears to be no more than a surrogate child for an aunt who was unable to have a child of her own. But it's worse for Sive than that: said aunt is an unkind, hard-hearted figure who repeatedly seeks to keep Sive in constant fear of her elders. Yet one does not view Mena as a monster, but instead somebody who has been warped, twisted and damaged by her own testing upbringing. Having been forced into an arranged marriage herself, she appears envious of Sive's qualities, and is keen to ensure that the girl does not have the chance to live the life that Mena almost certainly once dreamed of – even if it means denying her an education.

Enter local matchmaker Thomasheen Seán Rua (an unsettlingly funny Simon O'Gorman), whose gruffly humorous facade unconvincingly hides bullish and not-very-bright tendencies. Thomasheen, Mike and Mena plan to marry Sive off to wealthy septuagenarian Seán Dóta (Derry Power), a creepy hybrid of Father Ted’s Bishop Brennan and Fiddler On The Roof's Lazar Wolf.

Seán unsurprisingly makes Sive wince: furthermore, she has a love of her own in Gavin Drea's Liam Scuab, a suitor who Nanna thinks ideal for Sive. But, of course, this cuts no ice with Mena's prejudices and financial needs, while Mike holds a serious grudge against Liam for his cousin’s actions. For Liam’s cousin, Sive's biological father, died before his promised marriage to Sive’s mother could be realised.

It is a richly thematic and symbolic situation. Mena has a "mean" streak. Seán Dóta "dotes" on his betrothed, allegedly. And Sive has quite literally "scythed" a stake between her uncle and her aunt. Mike's marriage, the very thing keeping a roof over his head, is at risk, and Sive's love life is in the hands of a "matchmaker" who has no concern for the consequences of the match! As Thomasheen himself remarks, "What do the likes of us know about love?"

But Sive is as much, if not less, about a Cinderella figure trying to escape with her Prince Charming than an idiosyncratic insight into a frankly messed up community’s desire to assert, reassert, retain and maintain control and tradition. Short-term gain will likely amount to long-term pain for Thomasheen, Mena and even Seán Dóta, yet none of them appear to be aware of this. Only Mike is open to a change of heart, thanks mainly to Nanna's persuasive powers – but with Mena ruling him completely, will he really be able to change anything?

It is a scenario made compelling through stark, self-aware absurdity and irresistible intricacy, and is smoothed over by a pair of singing, meddling tinkers (Muiris Crowley and Frank O'Sullivan) whose tuneful revelations and decisive actions in the second act point towards a tragic outcome for everyone involved. Neither a comforting Kansas nor a colourful Oz rests at the end of the rainbow for Sive's Dorothy: instead, all that awaits is a bitterly black hole.

Sive runs at Belfast's Lyric Theatre until Saturday November 9 and will continue to tour Ireland until Saturday December 13. For more information, click here.