March 1, 2020 — The first day of March was cold and blustery in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, after the second-warmest February on record. I was there for the final performance of
A Skull in Connemara by Martin McDonagh at the Players' Ring in the city's historic waterfront.
The Players' Ring is as intimate as a theater can get. In a corner of a 19th Century brick building, the small theater can seat 75 in rows of seats on three sides of the floor-level stage. In playwright McDonagh's typical bleak, dark style, four characters living out their lives in a small Irish village torment one another with suspicion, anger and hurtful comments, at times driving an individual to nearly homicidal rage.
Under Peggi McCarthy's fine direction, Mick Dowd (Roland Goodbody) and Mary Rafferty (Deborah Chick) irritate each other in an evening of conversation and drink. Mary's adult grandson, Mairtin Hanlon (Sven Wiberg) arrives, loud, accusing, impossible to ignore, but not very bright.
We learn Mick's wife died in a car crash seven years ago. Rumors have persisted her death may not have been accidental. Could Mick have had something to do with it? We also learn it's Mick and Mairtin's job to dig up the graves in the small graveyard of the local church every seven years to make room for new burials. Mick's wife, dead seven years, is buried there. Tomorrow is the end of another seven years and they will have to perform their duty once more. See where this is headed?
The theater goes dark temporarily while a small stage crew quickly and expertly converts Mick's living room to a graveyard. They're joined by Mairtin's brother, Thomas (Peter Michaud), a local police officer with visions of making a name for himself by solving once and for all the circumstances surrounding Mick's wife's death, and this is where the evidence might be found. But when her grave is opened, it's empty!
After intermission, the set is restored to Mick's home. On the table are several skulls. Mick and Mairtin, in a drunken frenzy, demolish the skulls with mallets, scattering fragments all over the stage, barely missing the closest members of the audience. Finally, both almost too drunk to stand, Mick hands his car keys to Mairtin to take them on an errand. They both leave, the stage goes dark for several minutes. When the lights come back on, Mick returns alone, his shirt covered in blood. There's a skull on the table that wasn't there before. There's a hole in the top of the skull.
Mick is looking over the devastation when there's a knock on the door and Mary calls to him. This is not what he needs right now, but he lets her in. He attempts to keep his back to her so she can't see the blood, but she spots it. There's another knock. Who could this be? What happened to Mairtin? Whose skull is that? What if Officer Thomas shows up? The audience gasps when tumbling actors, in an outburst of violence, almost collide with patrons in the first rows at stage level.
This is the fourth play I've seen at this charmingly confined, rustic theater surrounded by brick walls. The small space presents unique production challenges, but in each show I've attended, producers, directors and actors have met the challenge and put on plays as good as any you'll see in much larger venues. I hope to return again soon.
