Irish playwright Brian Friel finished writing Dancing at Lughnasa in 1989. It opened at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin the following year – a semi-autobiographical tale informed by his childhood in County Donegal, which went on to receive international acclaim for its universal themes of memory, loss, family ties and the fragility of contentment.
In director Elizabeth Newman’s take on the classic, the Crucible stage transforms into an immersive vision of rural Ireland in 1936. Front and centre is the Mundy family kitchen, warm and inviting, with an old turf-fired stove chugging away in the background. Washing lines and small hills of hay surrounding the household reflect a sense of dutiful domesticity, while large stones etched with pagan symbols hint at something darker lurking over the back hills of Ballybeg.
The play is introduced by narrator Michael, whose recollections of a fateful summer spent with his mother, Christina, and her four unmarried sisters form the basis of the story. At first, the five sisters bustle away in contented enough fashion, the mundanity of their daily tasks briefly lifted by moments of cheeky humour, gossip and – of course – cathartic dancing whenever the wireless in the corner makes its presence felt.
But beneath the bonhomie and moral obligations lie deep-seated frustrations, along with anxieties about unwelcome winds of change blowing through their small town. The return of Father Jack, once a revered local priest, after 25 years of missionary work in Uganda, sparks concern amongst the parish – especially when he begins to exhibit signs of rejecting his Catholicism in favour of indigenous spiritual practices.
The tension is heightened further by the return of Michael’s father, the unreliable Gerry, who left not long after Christina had their child out of wedlock. Following a quick ballroom sweep around the garden, he rekindles a fragile hope in her that some kind of future together might still be possible.
Socio-economic pressures weigh heavily too. The sisters scrape by on Kate’s schoolteacher’s wage, while Agnes and Rose earn a modest income knitting gloves to sell in town. But as pupil numbers dwindle and a new knitwear factory opens down the road, the household is left in a predicament so fraught that even Maggie’s ever-comforting gallows humour cannot ease it.
The dialogue is most captivating when the five sisters gather round the table, grappling with their trials, tribulations, hopes and dreams. Each play their role brilliantly: Kate, the stern matriarch clinging to tradition yet occasionally revealing a softer, more vulnerable side; poor, lovesick Christina, yearning for a husband with whom she might step out from under the shadow of stigma; effervescent Maggie, whose jokes and riddles mask uncomfortable truths staring them all in the face; and quiet, repressed Agnes, who takes a sideline seat while devoting her energies to protecting the innocent, childlike Rose.
As the first day of Lughnasa approaches, the weight of external pressures causes cracks to appear in the fragile foundations of the sisters’ interdependent lives. Nearly a century after the play’s setting, that same brittleness in personal circumstances and family life still resonates – perhaps helping to explain why it continues to pack such a hefty emotional punch for modern generations.
4/5
Dancing at Lughnasa runs at the Crucible Theatre until 4 Oct. Tickets available here.
