Jim Culleton’s production of Abbie Spallen’s newest play Strandline has all the outward shows of a murder mystery in full tilt. Taking place, for the most part, in a modern gothic mansion during a dark and stormy night, unlikely suspects are expertly grilled by a self-appointed inspector who quickly discovers no one is who they seem. That the players in this arch tale of intrigue are four disaffected women living in an insular village in Northern Ireland offers us the promise of a thriller turned on its head. This disparate gathering of women following the death of a town favourite seems to serve as gateway into dissecting how the calcifying effects of small town life can embitter and stunt even the heartiest soul.

Living as a highly successful and urbane textile artist in the midst of a belittling small town politics, Máirín (Cathy Belton) prepares an all-night memorial service for her husband Tom, who was recently lost at sea. Compelled to join her in her obsequies are the women who, along with Máirín, witnessed his death: Tríona (Samantha Heaney), Máirín’s self-absorbed stepdaughter; Eileen (Fiona Bell), whose husband was until recently Tom’s drinking partner; and Clodagh (Eleanor Methven), Tríona’s mother-in-law and the village’s real estate maven. Adding intermittent colour to the proceedings, along with some crucial plot points, is Sweeney (Conor MacNeill), a thirteen year-old orphan who is wise beyond his years. As the wary group settles in for the night, Máirín tries to tease out from her seemingly unwitting guests the evidence needed to confirm her fears that one of them might have deliberately sent Tom to his death.

All the trappings of a traditional whodunit are delivered up to us with a twist by Culleton’s talented design team. Sabine Dargent’s grey and gaping set suggests a massive bunker built against the wild seaside expanse lying beyond Máirín’s door, while also pointing to the fact that Tom, while alive, may have found life with his eccentric wife a prison. Denis Clohessy’s whirlwind of a sound design sucks the wind out of your lungs, while Paul Keogan’s moody lighting deftly transforms the expanse of Mairin’s workshop throughout. Leonore McDonagh utilizes a subtle but wide-ranging pallet of colours and textures in her costume design to pointedly capture each character’s status and public persona.

Spallen’s atmospheric dialogue is extremely rich and expertly crafted, offering a potent arsenal of zingers that the actors fire off with relish. Unfortunately, this display of verbal acuity isn’t enough to make this a totally compelling evening of theatre. The most frustrating part of Spallen’s new play is its dashed promise to deliver something more than just narrative jolts and role reversals. This lack of depth is further exacerbated by a directorial approach that relies on cliché, such as the laying in of mood music during the revelatory last scene, a choice that exhibits a lack of trust in Spallen’s text and the actors’ talents to convey the import of the reveal.

We are given hints at full-fledged character but, despite what is clearly an impressive handle on language and atmosphere, the play fails to deepen or explore the more complex picture of a stultifying small town existence, where class lines are thinly drawn but crossed at great peril. Perhaps a stronger dramaturgical hand could have assisted in pruning an extraneous first scene and challenging Spallen to flesh out the more potent conflict of small town hierarchies, rather than settling for what ends up being a somewhat unsurprising murder mystery. There is the sneaking suspicion also that a more probing and considered directorial approach to character relationships would have yielded a greater emotional punch than what’s ultimately delivered. Rather than playing against the potential melodrama in Spallen’s text, Culleton instead doubles its resonance by drawing what are at times near caricatured performances from an otherwise fine cast. There is stealthy precision in the way Cathy Belton’s calculating Máirín expertly spars with Eleanor Methven’s prickly Clodagh, like watching two able fencers size each other up before going in for the kill. Likewise, MacNeill, Bell, and Heaney provide tremendous support, making the very most out of their perfunctory roles. But what hooks us initially is not the promise of a mystery solved, but the everyday vendettas that are bubbling just below the surface of each character’s public mask. Unfortunately, these are denied artful expression in favour of a more fanciful and far-fetched conclusion to a story that promises much at the outset, yet fails to deliver in the end.

Jesse Weaver is currently in his final year of doctoral research at University College Cork. His focus is on the shifting role of the playwright in Irish theatre-making during the last fifteen years.