This is “Our Town” going to Ireland. But it is Ireland, 1936; when young men were going off to Spain to fight fascism and the Industrial Revolution was forcing the women they left behind into the cities to find work in factories.
Also, this is a chick flick for stage except that these chicks are steel magnolias in full bloom. They cook, clean, plant, harvest; they sew for a living, one teaches school. They also scold, solace, indict and exonerate; one sings. Mostly, though, they dance; literally, to be sure; but also in a broad, poetic sense.
“Dancing at Lughnasa” refers to remembrance of things past by a man who grew up fatherless in a household run by five women outside Ballybeg, Ireland, 1936; the month, August, the month of Lughnasa.
Lughnasa was a time of celebration rooted in Celtic paganism; paganism, mind you, as practiced in the back hills and condemned by the powerful Catholic Church of Ireland. It was thus, a month of competing passions and bitter contention. However, as recollected by the narrator telling the story, this particular Lughnasa was also a month of energy; marvelous, unpredictable energy and the very stuff of dance.
This is insightful, graceful, merciful drama that sees in the movements of people the movements of dance fueled by primitive forces they know nothing of. It is written by Irish playwright, Brian Friel, who deserves much more attention in this country than he gets. As directed here by Leticia Lopez, it is sensitively laid out, discreetly staged, to the point. Fluff is nowhere to be seen.
As for the cast, maturity in roles that could easily have degenerated into sentimentality is sustained without let up, involving to watch and without exception.
Kevin Lynch is the even-handed, romantic-realist and storyteller who is modeled after Thornton Wilder’s.
Stephanie McBain is the practical, ever grounded, schoolteacher whose wings have been clipped by the grind of everyday life. Lynne Compton is the stocky, songbird who lusts after life. Annie Lareau and Dianne Fadden are the two of all five spinster sisters whose shy, gentle dispositions, ill equip them to meet the unrelenting demands that come their way.
Margaretta Lantz is the narrator’s mother sweet-talked off her feet by an irresistibly charming con artist with the gift of gab and dancing feet of Fred Astaire.
A word about Roy Feiring as Father Jack. He is the narrator’s aging uncle come home from Rowanda after an adult life spent going native. The role calls for Feiring to put across a Catholic missionary who was converted by heathens instead of the other way around and whose mentality is being ravaged by Altzheimer’s. Tough stuff, but articulately performed rather than derived.
This is an engaging night out. One of Historic Everett’s best.
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