The Hostage

The denizens of the Dublin boarding house where Behan sets his satire include a prostitute or two, a pair of drag queens in sassy lingerie, a randy but religious social worker and a pious, young, convent-raised housekeeper with no objections to sex on the first date. Into the mix is thrown the titular hostage, a young British soldier captured by the IRA as human collateral: The execution of an Irish boy in Belfast is scheduled for the next morning.

The Hostage, expanded and translated into English by the author in 1958 from his original Gaelic version written the previous year, reads like the missing link between The Threepenny Opera and The Lieutenant of Inishmore. As in Brecht and Weill’s play, characters frequently break the fourth wall in conspiratorial asides or burst into music-hall-style song, while the farcical treatment of the futility of the Irish-English conflict and its confused loyalties resonates with McDonagh’s much-later work.

All of this can be said only in hindsight: To watch Berry’s busy production, its sprawling cast thick with impenetrable Irish accents, is to feel always two steps behind. The revival can’t quite commit to either farce or sentimentality, resulting in a frustrating muddle. Still, it’s not unenjoyable, thanks to such inviting actors as Sara Sevigny, Donna McGough and the very promising Rob Fenton (recently in The History Boys). But you’ll be forgiven if you’re not entirely sure what’s going on at any given moment.

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