If it is true, as the women in Enda Walsh’s The New Electric Ballroom recite, that “no man is an island,” then why does it seem as if we are too often drowning in a sea of gobshite*?

Walsh, who now resides in London, is a bit of a rogue amongst his playwriting peers, eschewing the theatrical tradition of his native Ireland.  Unlike the plays of Martin McDonagh and Conor McPherson – whose work is more familiar with Americans audiences – there are no pints, no apparitions, and no mention of fleeing Ireland for less claustrophobic (but less green) pastures.  What Enda’s Ballroom achieves is most remarkable.  Initially, what sounds like a typical session of lilted storytelling is in actuality a loquacious plea for silence.  Silence in a land known for its blarney.  

There are three main characters, sisters, who live a holed-up existence in a fishing village working in the local cannery.  Although Walsh’s The Walworth Farce has also been performed at St. Ann’s Warehouse, the venue feels particularly suited for Ballroom, as it lends an authentic industrial appearance to the stage.  Breda and Clara are a generation older than Ada, who is now near the age of forty, and one can surmise that the elder two have played a hand in raising their younger sister.  They shelter her, clouding Ada’s mind with the idea that the world outside of their pink-hued, womblike home is so cruel that it should only be experienced indirectly.

Similar to Farce, in which a father and his two sons reenact threads of the family’s history, Breda and Clara slip into high-heels and twirl about in their neon skirts to recount to Ada their ‘once upon a time’ at the new Electric Ballroom.  They were just two butterfly-bellied adolescents, sojourning to the club to see the hunky band with hopes of love and adventure flitting about their heads. But something happened.  The women at the cannery caught wind.  Then the gossip began, the talk spilling out into the streets.  The words were venomous, forever paralyzing the lives of Breda and Clara – and, in turn, the life of Ada as well.

Despite the weightiness of its message, The New Electric Ballroom is refreshingly bearable.  Produced by the Galway-based Druid Theatre Company, the actors are astonishingly talented, wrangling Walsh’s ferociously clever dialogue with apparent ease.  The performances are poignant, but never saccharine; tragic statements are tailed by witty anecdotes.  Though all of the actors are memorable, at the end of the show it is Mikel Murfi, in the role of Patsy the fish monger, who makes the deepest impression.  He is the only man – and, in fact, the only other character – to visit the stage.  As unwelcome in their home as he may be, Patsy acts as the sisters’ sole antenna reaching into the outside world.  At one moment, he is spontaneously serenading with a soulful ballad, and in the next he is delivering a psychologically-wrenching monologue.  Murfi is equally comfortable in both endeavors.

Watching Walsh’s writing come to life is like sitting next to the class clown in CCD class, all at once ethically ponderous and innocently amusing.  Always well worth the attendance.

*Dublin slang term for ‘nonsensical speech,’ or ‘verbal shit.’

The New Electric Ballroom will be at St. Ann‘s in Brooklyn until November 22nd.