Theatre: Country Matters

'A Month in the Country' is less fin-de-siecle, more end-of-summer, writes Colin Murphy

Though it palls, and bemuses, at moments, A Month in the Country is a delight. Brian Friel's 1992 version of Turgenev's 1872 play is steeped in the themes of much of Friel's work: the isolation of rural life, the constraints of class and language, the loneliness of people, the artifice of friendship and the ties of family. Yet it undercuts these with a seam of farce (not always successfully) and a gentle, understated touch. With the constant comings-and-goings and rampant couplings of its characters, it wears its melancholy lightly, with a wry smile, even if the eyes are sad.

It is also a big play, for wide-open spaces. Even in the aircraft hanger of the national theatre, it feels constrained. It seems to take place in a misty half-light, as if characters should appear rather than enter, and scenes should be glimpsed as they flit past. People stumble into each other in the gardens, they rush around the house to hear the gossip, the sound of piano playing echoes through the building.

Jason Byrne is a director known for his ensemble work. Here, he is saddled with a cast of actors who threaten to be larger than their characters. Yet he, and Friel's prose, and the pace of the play, still them. There are some awkward scenes and snaps of clunky dialogue, but these are outweighed by wonderful ensemble playing and simple, but affecting, stagecraft. Most of all, it's the stillness that stands out.

It is a curious piece, a cross between Sheridan and Chekov. There is much darkness and despair in it, and then Herr Schaff (Andrew Bennett), a German visitor straight out of Allo Allo!, bustles on stage claiming to be a "prize-vinning lecher" (he means archer). The puns are terrible, the character oddly incidental. Yet, as summer draws to a close and the characters realise their actions will have consequences beyond this short time in the country, even Herr Schaff finds his place, an unlikely constant amidst emotional upheaval.

Don Wycherley almost needs to have plays written for him: he is a skilled actor with a substantial presence, but a persona so well hewn as to be almost immutable. Yet Jason Byrne puts this predictability to good effect. Wycherley's doctor appears to be an insufferable buffoon; it transpires, he is a sharp observer of the society around him with a keen instinct for self-preservation. Wycherley exploits this to undermine his own persona and delivers a peformance of surprising subtlety and charm.

Laurence Kinlan, a wonderful actor, is not well cast as the young tutor, Aleskey. He thrives on wildness, but here he is overwhelmed by the apparent grandeur around him. Declan Conlon is excellent as Michel, mired in unrequited love for his best friend's wife.

Derbhle Crotty plays Natalya, the woman of this big house. Hers is a character of fluent phrases and speeches, much melancholy, robust passions and repetitive complaints: Crotty knits these together seamlessly, in a compelling performance.

When first staged in Moscow, "the newness of its form baffled audiences and critics", Friel writes in the programme. Then came Chekov, and "the undramatic became the new drama". So A Month in the Country sits on the cusp of that change. Our culture sits there too, as we flit from the undramatic – the 24-hour Big Brother feed – to the hyper-realist dramas of ER and The West Wing. You won't be baffled.