Dancing at Lughnasa Oak Park Festival Theatre
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But sometime in the 19th century, with the rise of Ibsen, Strindberg, and Chekhov (and not coincidentally the advent of electric lighting) artists began creating theater that could only be successfully viewed indoors. Its gaze was no longer comprehensive but linear and bifurcated: the audience watched actors who watched only each other. Rather than participating in a communal event, audiences now played voyeurs, sitting silently in the dark and spying on well-lit people who pretended they were alone with their private troubles. The real world surrounding the production was hidden in darkness and behind curtains. And the smallest tics—all but invisible except in a highly controlled environment—became the primary focus.
Of course, there’s no point in lamenting the shift: the ancient style can at least be suggested through the manipulation of theatrical convention, and the modern gave us Long Day’s Journey Into Night. But woe betide the director who mistakes one for the other. An elaborate orchestration of tiny gestures is sure to die in an amphitheater no matter how well performed.
Friel’s skill lies in dramatizing the the sisters’ paralyzed lives: their petty skirmishes, their efforts to suppress the deep-seated desires that might bring them fulfillment but shatter the tenuous peace in their household. This narrative-free, ensemble-centered aspect of the play lacks life-or-death urgency—it’s Chekhov lite—but rings with poetic truth. Bremner wisely underplays the script’s heavy-handed symbolism, focusing instead on the intricate interplay between the sisters, which her adept cast handle convincingly.
