Have A Heart, The New Theatre

The word heart has a number of connotations, something the title of Seamus Moran's new one act play, that he performs as well, takes advantage of. Having a heart is necessary for living if looking at it from a purely functional way, but having a heart, an emotional aspect to it, even breaking your, or others, hearts adds to that side of the debate. The idea of those emotions moving across with the hearts when transplanted into another body is the hook that this work hangs onto, and for the most part, thanks to some nice theatrical and knowing touches, it pulls off.

Two things struck me when walking into the theatre. One was a man's body, covered with a white cloth, laid on a stand, or trolley. Behind him were two white, rough looking sheets hanging the full height of the stage, adding, it seemed, even more height to the intimate auditorium. There was also the warming smell of toast. The rest of the stage looked in disarray, an upturned chair, another righted, with a copy of a Jo Nesbo book on it, perhaps indicating the detective nature of part of the story that was ready to unfold. There were shoes and socks, gloves, a small bedside cabinet, the drawers open and light emanating from them. There was much to take in on this set, that would move and change as the action unfolds. 

Blondie's Heart of Glass gave way to an aural sensory moment, perfectly balanced and brought to life by Denis Clohessy's design, never overpowering, but reaching the sensations in the right way. Ray emerges from this, distant voice overs coming from the mist, but no one seen. Ray speaks his own language, a mixture of words that sound like things, and making up his own, while also struggling at times to find the right word. There was a rhythm to this, a sense of individuality, as Moran delivered with knowing style, the monologue coming thick and fast, drawing us into Ray's world, a sales rep, rushing around, not so keen on marriage as his girlfriend, or fiancee as he corrects himself, is. All of this comes to an end with theatrical movement and lighting effect.

DJ, or D John as he is called by Ray, is about to get the all clear from his consultant following a heart transplant. This is an older man, linked to Ray tentatively as he works in the accounts department of the same company. In a Jekyll and Hyde type moment, Ray's voice emerges and needs DJ's help to tell the woman he loved that he does love her. All of this deftly done, with a knowing nod every now and then. The distinctive speech patterns of Ray is a good switch against DJ's, leaving us in no doubt who is talking.

The idea of the head and heart, the logical and emotional, does come through, as DJ with Ray's helps tries to find his fiance, a problem as Ray has no real memories, only feelings. This blends in to DJ's life, and the few other characters that come along are also played by Moran, a flowery, pink scarf showing one change, a red lining of a jacket demonstrating another. There was a feeling that perhaps it slowed up a little in the middle section, but there is enough movement of the set, also undertaken by Moran, the scattering of papers, adding to a very sensory experience, helped by the voices that come through from above every now and then. There is also the atmospheric lighting, and the use of the large, rough curtain draping from behind, but thankfully picking up pace again and giving us a wonderful theatrical ending.

While this isn't perfect, there is a lot to commend in it, and it does linger in the memory. There is a theatricality, experimental feel at times to it, other times it is a road well travelled, directed well by Liam Halligan. It is an intriguing work that with Moran's amiable Ray keeps us engaged for most of the time, in a piece that we know we have been taken on a journey no matter how bumpy it might appear to be.