A Whistle in the Dark

WILD IRISH BROS Waller, right, gives his brother, Jack Briggs, the what for.

At first glance, Tom Murphy’s 1961 play cuts a bit too close to the tired stereotype of the brawling, boozing Irishman, but this is no replay of “Paddy walked into a bar.” Michael, eldest son of the Carney clan, immigrates to England to escape his violent family, but is followed by his three brothers, who install themselves as local thugs. When Dada, the clan patriarch, arrives for a visit with his youngest son in tow, it’s a tragedy in the making. In three tight acts, Murphy provides an anatomy of the cult of machismo and its underlying insecurities, spat out in convulsive bits of fractured dialogue and swaggering bravado. And while the headlong rush to tragedy is not exactly unexpected, it’s satisfying in a horrific, now-I-must-pluck-my-eyes-out way.

Christian’s direction evokes the claustrophobic world of the Carneys, foregoing pretty stage pictures and cleanly articulated speeches in an effort to capture the ugliness of the scene. His actors crowd the space, shouting over one another as they claw for dominance. As Harry, the Carney ringleader, Waller is a standout, alternately sly and menacing, a powder keg of resentment set to blow. Most of the cast delivers the same intensity, although Goss’s Michael is a bit vague and Kishline, as Dada, sometimes seems more meandering than domineering. Things go a bit limp in the overlong third act as the characters hash and rehash ancient resentments, but these lapses don’t dampen the haunting portrait of a family gone horribly wrong.—Kay Daly