Men Like Us @ The Boys' School, Smock Alley

Against the back wall of the auditorium is a wooden platform, with steps leading up to it. On this is a man (Colm O'Brien) bent over, as if bowing, but extremely still, on a pedestal, dressed in a black gown and wide rimmed black hat. On one side stands a white coated woman (Melissa Nolan), beside a large red armchair. The mellow and yearning sound of Kim V Porcelli's cello builds the atmosphere, and adds to it, but never interferes with the piece, ending before the action begins. With large strides and leather soled shoes on wood, with confidence and authority the Director (Ray Yeates) arrives and seats himself down, before asking what turns out to be his assistant a lot of questions about the man and his position before commanding her to make changes to it. She seems fearful of even touching the man, but it all must be done to create a perfect crowd pleasing show. The work itself is dedicated to Vaclav Havel who was imprisoned during the Soviet era, and this sense is brought with stark clarity to the performances, the fear and tension shown by the assistant, even wary of offering suggestions creates the atmosphere of dread on a knifes edge. This work is presented in Irish for the first time, translated by Gabriel Rosenstock, with the English text projected onto the wall, allowing everyone to follow it, Irish speakers or not.

As the scene changes in a well choreographed moment, allowing for tables to be brought on, the protagonist from the first piece becomes the suicidal Croker, the focus of the two bureaucrats Bertrand (Cathal Quinn) and Morvan (Shadaan Felfeli), taking their places at two opposite tables, a desk light on each, while above at the window their subject stands, his back to the audience, while specks of light shoot up the wall and onto the ceiling, creating a starry look. Here the files are red as well and it is all a 'matter of fact' tone, as they help him to decide to jump or not, although it does appear more about them looking over his life through notes and memos and deciding for him, at one point becoming lost in the techno babble and trying to find the verb in the long sentence. Again who is in who's control is a question, and for the two it seems like it is simply another day. Darkness plays a part, with bright light coming on and off, even the light on one desk being dodgy and going off randomly.

After the Interval, The End begins, with Marcus Lamb performing what is a prose piece, a short story. Originally, as programme notes inform us, written in French in 1946, translated into English by Beckett and Richard Seaver, it is about a man put out of a charitable institution where he will not be let back in, given some money, clothes and his marching orders. This striking piece is delivered with charm by Lamb, countering the harshness of his experiences as he gradually decays, trying to remember what has happened and why some things are no longer there, always showing dignity and intelligence, even if some of the descriptions are very direct. But there is loneliness and sadness throughout, someone on the outskirts, finding more abuse than kindness, a word used many times by the character. Despite his circumstances, he could be anyone, an Everyman, so to speak. It is a good, heartfelt and well controlled performance, keeping the comic and even absurd aspects balanced.

The overall tone set at the beginning binds the three together, helped by the wonderful cello accompaniment, deep and brooding, a bit like the works themselves. Light, shade and darkness are at the fore. Detail and simplicity go hand in hand, from Paul Doran's lighting design, to Rowena Cunningham's costumes, conjuring up a wonderfully theatrical, precise and thoughtful evening.