Blood Wedding, by Lorca

Old Fire Station Theatre, 17th-21st October 2000

Lorca's play of 1928, Blood Wedding, here wedded with Ted Hughes's like-minded translation, should have been a marriage of bittersweet depth. It is set in the harsh Andalucian mountains, where males wandered with their sheep or tilled the scorched and thirsty earth, leaving their womenfolk locked at home to give birth and sew baby gowns. The wedding is the official place where these two spheres meet: a pure young spring watering a virgin flower, so bearing fruit. But here, life's precarious balance topples, when, already threatened by civil war and the dictates of a church-dominated, fascist inspired regime, a young bride's erstwhile lover sweeps her away on her wedding morn, with devastating consequences.

The opening scene of this production spelt instant doom. Sterile, drawn out pauses gave a tuneless, stilted start to what should have been a mournful duet between mother and son. This temporal limp must have kept the prompter (although never needed) on the edge of his seat. Despite the best efforts of a group comfortable in their castings, the centre was a void. Lorca's mother is symbolic of a country torn and tormented by quiet grief, stoically bowed with the loss of her son (her future). However, this mother [Catriona Soutar] exuded the disorientation of a live-plucked chicken, spitting out her bitter words in strangled clucks, her energies leaking irresponsibly to the four winds. Her olive-glossed, youthful hair flopped and puffed irritatingly through her most traumatic lines; her glowing lips were of a tourist Spain. Vainly did her ineffectual son, played convincingly by the enigmatic Jan, drop water on her heatless sparks.

The entrance of Rose Foley [the neighbour], exuding the community's subversive gossip and concern, saved the set from outrageous loss. She was helped by a calm and doting servant [Kirsty Lothian], and by an eminently reliable father. Other characters merged in communal concord, including Leonardo's clueless wife, who watched helplessly as weakened but repressive tradition battled with restless politics. Leonardo's [Paul O'Mahony] overworked, misspent temper was acceptable as the wasted energy of self-destructive youth, defying the code of honour's dictates. Katherine O'Connor, too, took her part energetically as the sulking young bride left frustrated, confused and choiceless between these vying patriarchal dictates.

Despite its failings, the play's evident intensity was often engaging. The set yielded some freshness: its fruits and ribena-hued wines served as visual reminders of the will-to-thrive; and its musical interludes (a welcome relief) as a feisty recollection of their determined intercourse with life. So why spoil these redeeming features by skulking offstage without a passing glance at a faithful audience? Such lack of finish, possibly meant to carry the tale's gloom, suggested instead a quiet acknowledgement of their shortcomings, and reminded us that, in the miscasting of a central character, the director's plan to 'maximise the energy' of this beautiful play was fatally flawed.

Liz Mellings, 20 / 10 / 00