Review: The Small Things

The Small Things by Enda Walsh
B Sharp & Splinter Theatre Company
18 August 2007

As published in The Daily Telegraph

If you are a fan of British drama on the ABC, you will be accustomed to seeing English life portrayed in the small village. Quaint houses, little old people, the local vicar and a scandalous murder on the village green.

The Small Things from Irish* playwright Enda Walsh, is set in one of those English villages and magnifies the existence of two elderly people trying to find meaning in the final stages of life.

The man (Ralph Cotterill) and the woman (Annie Byron) are in a house talking in a series of monologues. They tell stories from their childhood, some sweet and innocent but others filled with violence and horror.

The man sits in an armchair clutching an alarm clock, while the woman sits at her desk polishing trinkets continuously.

The result is a text that seamlessly floats between reality and madness and the performances by these two veteran actors are competent.

It is a production however that misses the mark in so many respects. A wide range of plays have more successfully dealt with the issues of reflection, memory and loneliness.

Take, for example, Ionesco’s The Chairs, which deals with the notion of an older couple with a much more universal impact. This production isn’t helped by a set design that anchors it so firmly in British sensibilities that it makes it even more inaccessible for Australian audiences. This is coupled by a sound design that makes the slow pace of the piece even slower and an incomplete lighting design where actors are often not in the light.

There is enough humour in this piece to keep you going, but the plodding pace and rhythm really makes it a very difficult play to engage with.


Image Credit: Brett Boardman


*It should be pointed out that in my published review I stupidly put Enda Walsh as British... since the days of my study of Shaw, Beckett, Wilde, O'Casey et al I have derided the Brits using Irish Theatre as their own. The even stupider thing was that I knew Walsh was Irish and somehow, between writing and submission he crossed the Irish Sea. Apologies.

** It should also be pointed out that I also just got an email from the playwright concurring with the stupidity with a "don't you have google?". Whack!