Losing a loved one is one of the most terrifying things that happens to us in life, and also one of the most natural. But hearing from them after they pass on? We call that an act of the supernatural. Thus begins the driving force behind Conor McPherson’s “The Weir,” a tightly wound play presented by the Keegan Theatre onstage at the venerable chapel on Church Street. McPherson crafted his chilly 1997 script in the vein of a dark and bitter Irish brew, setting his “cod” in a small tavern in rural Ireland, a likely place for locals to meet and swill whiskey while entertaining tourists and other passersby in the night. It is here McPherson’s working-class gents welcome Valerie, a mysterious Dubliner staying in town for a spell. As the evening wears on, the increasingly inebriated Irishmen take turns recollecting strange events that have happened in the surrounding countryside.
| Onstage |
| ‘The Weir’ |
| Where: The Keegan Theatre, Church Street Theater, 1742 Church St. NW |
| When: 8 p.m. Thursday to Saturday, 3 p.m. Sunday; through March 13 |
| Info: $30 to $35; 703-892-0202, keegantheatre.com |
Everyone loves a good ghost story, and the eerie yarns spun in McPherson’s tale should make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. And while it could be described as a spooky slice of life for the neighboring “culchies,” McPherson’s stories never quite congeal in a satisfying way. Despite the efforts of a game crew under Mark A. Rhea’s sturdy direction, the most haunting elements of “The Weir” are rendered to mostly dull effect.
Over the course of 90 minutes without an intermission, Rhea’s cast weaves together intriguing dynamics among lifelong pub patrons who chide each other one minute and buy pints for his foe the next. The sudden companionship of Susan Marie Rhea’s visitor throws a wrench in their well-established “chemistry,” if one could call it that, sparking the men’s memories — and propensity for competition.
It all plays out on the authentic barfly set, where the tap is so convincingly modeled you may find yourself parched by the end of the night. And despite the occasional wrestling match with the Irish dialect (some actors fare better than others), this is a seasoned cast that quenches your thirst for the dramatic.
Kevin Adams leads the pack with his melancholy man of regrets, sharing a singular moment of sobriety late in the evening that claws at the heart of McPherson’s fiction, while David Jourdan’s quiet retelling of his ominous experience as a gravedigger is both chilling and oddly empathic.
Still, the entire affair could have been even more creeptastic, had McPherson bothered to pen a circular narrative. If nothing else, “The Weir” makes us contemplate the supernatural, if not its enigmatic title. All we’re ultimately privy to is a bunch of hammered blokes finding comfort in swapping spirits — and not just the kind you find in a glass.
