Barebones’ “Ulster American” is a Brutally Entertaining Tragicomedy

A few days ago, my spooky and very prescient social media algorithm sent me a video explaining the distinctions between England, Ireland, Britain, and Great Britain – in other words, how to understand the political geography of the British Isles.  Little did I know that this would be the subject of Barebones Productions’ new show, “Ulster American” (2018) by the Belfast playwright David Ireland.  Most Americans probably don’t think about these distinctions, but they can be, for many people – especially those who live there — life and death matters, as we find out in this brisk, comic, and ultimately tragic drama.

Before we get into the details of what makes this production so compelling, let’s take a moment to recognize what this theater company and its director Patrick Jordan are doing as a formula for success: finding well-written contemporary plays, hiring top acting talent, and staging these productions in an intimate black box setting, which offers audiences an intense, almost cinematic experience.  I should probably not use the term “black box” so loosely, as another key element in the Barebones motif is impeccable set construction, which for the past several years has been overseen by veteran designer Tony Ferrieri, whose ability to create entire worlds on a stage no bigger than a suburban basement is miraculous.  So instead of the usual proscenium-theater experience, in which the dramatic space is always at some distance from the viewer, with Barebones, one feels as if he or she is actually in the dramatic space itself.  This kind of realistic, immersive intensity is like sitting in an IMAX theater.

Without revealing too much of the plot, “Ulster American” is in the tradition of what I like to call living room spectacles, whereby a small group of characters come together in a constricted area– usually around a coffee table and sofa — have drinks, and let their deeply repressed demons surface and cause mayhem.  Mid-century plays such as “Whose Afraid of Virginia Woolf” serve as the archetype of this style.

In this case we have a seemingly minor twist: the characters have divergent ancestral identities: one is American, one is English, and one maintains that she is British even though the others insist that she is Irish.  This tiny crack in homogeneity becomes a tremendous crevasse into which they all fall.

Jay Conway (David Whalen) is a famous American actor so vain that he carries his Oscar statuette around with him in a backpack.  He’s visiting the London apartment of director Leigh Carver (Simon Bradbury) to discuss an upcoming play and meet the playwright Ruth Davenport (Christine Weber), who is from Northern Ireland (or Ulster).  Conway, who identifies as Irish Catholic, discovers that he’s not as comfortable with her playscript as he first thought, and much of the conversation, which is often crude, concerns itself with polarities of opinion.  Over the course of the evening things become comic, then ugly, as often happens when politics, alcohol, ego, and obtuseness combine.

What makes this drama work is the brilliant acting, when it could easily devolve into a mere shouting match.  Director Jordan pushes the dialogue with the kind of intensity pre-war Hollywood used to employ (especially Howard Hawkes pictures): there are virtually no pregnant pauses in the 85-minute runtime.  These are not ruminative souls; they process feelings directly into emotions and shove them at each other so quickly that with less accomplished actors we might not believe their actions.  But in this case, we do.

Mr. Whalen is masterful at manifesting his character’s interiority into physicality (I can imagine him just as impactful in the silent film era).  He telegraphs Jay’s insecurity by constantly catching himself in the little mirror on the wall, like someone at the gym checking his muscles after every set of exercises.  He’s a male bimbo who probably never understood the lines he was delivering in any film, yet he masks this deficiency by trying to project overconfidence in the way he talks, with a false smoothness.

As the director trying to keep everyone happy, Mr. Bradbury’s Leigh is maniacally appeasing.  By assenting to everyone else’s perceived slights, he ends up placating no one and ultimately engenders their conflicts.  Mr. Bradbury has an instinctual comic gift that makes his interpretation of his character joyful to watch.

In perhaps the most difficult of the three roles, Ms. Weber’s Ruth rises to the challenge of defending the vision of her play, and then takes on both men, not just metaphorically.  There is an almost hidden adumbration of what ensues in a corner of the set, not visible to the audience except when they enter the seating area: one of the many art posters hung on the walls celebrates the architectural movement known as “Brutalism.”  You may end up rooting for Ruth as the action unfolds.  There is a darkness to her machinations which seems justified by her performance, and I marveled at her force of will in how she deals with these obstreperous men.

I’d like to also compliment Randy Kovitz for his fight direction (he’s listed in the program so I’m not giving anything away here), as well as Don Wadsworth for his work as the dialect coach.

This is an engrossing show with a narrative arc so severe that in certain moments you might question its plausibility; however, the actors drive this intensity into believability.  And ultimately, it ends in a way you’d never predict.  There is something cathartic about a good ass-kicking which, sometimes, just feels good to watch.

ULSTER AMERICAN continues through October 25^th at the Barebones Black Box Theatre, 1211 Braddock Ave., Braddock: www.barebonesproductions.com