I left Dancing at Lughnasa eager to rave about it – Brian Friel’s use of language is so pure and distinct, his characters so tangible and his family so real – yet found myself repeatedly coming up short. Deep down there is something amiss here; despite the play’s easy charms, sensitive observations and lilting comedy, it is hard to decide what to latch onto. Put simply – I’m not entirely sure what this play is trying to say and I’m not convinced that Friel or the Old Vic are either. 

Part of the problem is the theatre itself, which has adopted a temporary in-the-round formation for the season, which kicked off with the excellent Norman Conquests. Ayckbourn’s trilogy worked so well because the audience demographic and on-stage characters were damn similar and because the round formation concentrated Ayckbourn’s already considerable wit. But the Old Vic stage has done something funny to Friel’s play here. Despite the intimacy afforded by the round, it feels like the Old Vic stage and all the baggage and tradition that comes with it, is pushing Friel’s soft, lyrical piece in slightly the wrong direction.

The Old Vic needs huge, powerful plays on its stage – mesmerising and enchanting ones are not enough. It feels like Friel’s play is constantly struggling to keep up – that despite their best efforts, neither the audience nor company can resist moulding this delicate narrative into a larger, more traditional play. This is partly down to the sheer size of the stage – you need big stuff to fill it – but also due to the particular expectations that this theatre’s distinguished history provokes. The Old Vic’s recent successes have been huge productions, where the play’s weight and theatre’s history have matched up perfectly. There is still room for innovation on this stage - but only with plays that are significant and even loud enough to meet its peculiar demands.

Despite this conflict there is a lot to enjoy and reflect on here.  The play in part explores the clash between the old and the new, the religious and the secular, through the lives of five single sisters living together in 1930s rural Ireland. Sister Chris’ son Michael retells their lives and it is with these reflective monologues that Friel casts his spell; Friel’s respectful and easy relationship with language means that his sublimely crafted narratives feel free and spontaneous. Peter McDonald displays an instinctive sense for the tone of this piece and rather than exploiting Michael’s monologues, allows the quiet passages to shout out for themselves.

These monologues are not only wonderful to listen to – they also create a visually effective framework for the play, as we watch Michael watch his family watch each other. The combination of Michael’s narrative and the intimate round-formation allows the audience to quickly become one of the family; we are at home with this struggling gaggle of sisters and grow seamlessly in tune with their daily lives.

But whilst this narrative nudges the audience in the right direction, it also results in slightly overblown characters. We see the characters as Michael saw them as a little boy - in all the naïve and garish simplicity that youth encourages. Niamh Cusack is wonderful as the resiliently energetic and upbeat aunt Maggie, but she grows less convincing as time passes. It as if the young boy has crystallised the best in this woman and whilst her defiant optimism is an initially attractive trait, it starts to feel unrealistic and even irresponsible as the gloom sets in. In the opposite direction, Michael’s ultimately estranged father comes across as so flippant and camp, that one starts to wonder how on earth their son was ever conceived. Though these inconsistencies might remind us of the subjectivity of a retold past, it also makes it harder to believe in the characters and the decisions they make.

The isolation of these characters also means that no matter how nuanced and contextually aware Friel’s play is, this remains a relatively self-contained piece. The sisters are so removed from society, that although they live in constant fear of the disapproval their actions might provoke, it is hard for the audience to really feel this; we never see society so how are we supposed to fear it? This is a particular problem late in the play, when sister Rose goes missing for three hours and the whole family goes into turmoil: ‘Will we ever be able to lift our heads again?’ Whilst we know these characters well enough to engage with their emotions, we do not know their world enough to understand where these feelings came from.

It seems to me that the wrong things have been amped up here; brother Jack takes on a pivotal role in this production and his return from Uganda deeply affects his devoted sisters. Whenever Jack enters the kitchen, his sisters’ swivelling heads unconsciously track his movements around the room – it is visually striking, but I suspect that Jack’s overwhelming presence is forcing a formality onto this piece that isn’t there. Yes – the returning brother highlights the clash between the older, religious sisters and the younger, less devoted ones. Yes, Jack’s awkwardness in his home emphasises this now secular man’s uneasy position in 1930s Ireland. But this is not a conventional play and Friel’s best moments resist such tidy analysis and easy answers. 

The climaxes come at strange points here, and the only thing that links them is music; the wireless is switched on, the sisters spread open their arms, let their world’s spin and stamp out their anxieties with furious, feral dancing.  It is with these releases that the play and its characters really breathe, pulsate, live. These explosions are the key to the play’s mysteries and although this production is careful, considered and skilled, I wish this company had opened its arms a little wider, spun a little faster and really let the music take control. 

Till 9 May 2009