This review is of the original run, in October 2009. For its November 2010 revival at the Abbey Theatre, Declan Conlon replaced Louis Lovett in the cast. 

Corn Exchange productions are almost always impressive and enthralling, foregrounding their immense dedication to physical precision through the stylised Commedia approach that generally proves disarming and engaging. Never before, though, has their work been so moving. A remark of that nature usually connotes a type of trite sentimentalism that has tainted the critical perspective of an exhausted reviewer, and maybe there’s an element of that as the Theatre Festival draws to a close. There may also be an element of specificity in this reviewer’s response given that his previous outing was to The Blue Dragon.

Why is The Blue Dragon relevant? Well, two reasons, actually. The first is technical. Just as Lepage’s show emphasised images of transformation and movement through the deployment of its impressive mechanical set, so does Freefall operate in a pliable stage space, the machinations of which represent the shifts in place and time that represent the past experiences of a dying man remembering moments from his blameless but ineffectual life. There are no complex technologies here, though. The actors move the props and decor around, including two extremely useful gurneys that serve both as the paraphernalia of his hospitalisation following a stroke and also double as dinner tables, desks, and other miscellaneous bits of furniture, all smoothly evoked by precise placement and succinct movement. But where Lepage’s monster set really did nothing more than move us from literal space to literal space so that yet another bit of plot could unfold, the whirling world of Freefall represents the delirium of memory with a more surreal but entirely specific use of each space and place. Movements between moments in time are often triggered by sensual elements, or the position of the actors’ bodies - beautiful, subtle cues typical of Corn Exchange’s aesthetic, only without the frontal address and the make-up. The result is not merely ‘impressive’ but physically involving.

The second point of connection (or disconnection) between Freefall and The Blue Dragon is the contrast on the textual level. Where The Blue Dragon was heavy with portent and symbol but wafer-thin as drama (leaving us with little to do but admire the set), Freefall shows how a social and cultural subtext can be woven through a dramatic narrative instead of lurking around demanding attention. This play is thoroughly grounded in a parochial Irish experience. We see moments from the central character’s experiences as a child in Cork, or a student in college. His natural accent and mild manner strongly represent a life so ordinary, so rooted, and so consciously undramatic as to again completely involve the audience in every recognisable everyday nuance of an Irish life. This is then easily pitted against any political subtext you care to bring to bear, but without any hammer-blows or thunder cracks.

This is a striking, moving, passionate story told with superb clarity and just the right amount of aesthetic style to avoid true banality while dealing in such a consciously banal set of experiences.

Andrew Bennett’s central performance is a marvellously realised study in affable mundanity. The character isn’t quite a blank canvas, and has some fairly twisted psychological baggage to sort through as he tours his memory while he lies dying, but the drama that emerges comes from Bennett's controlled physical mildness - moving gently about the stage clad in pyjamas at all times, shifting in and out of adulthood, adolescence, and childhood bearing the same expression of mild bewilderment with a touch of concern. It’s not a million miles away from the usual Commedia styling, but it shows how good basic expressive facial control can be honed in less archly theatrical aesthetics to powerful effect.

The rest of the cast play multiple roles, and each character is a distinct creation again because of the evident sense of specificity the actors can bring to every moment. The play on the whole feels immediate, real, and absolutely genuine in its emotions, no more so in the devastating scene where Janet Moran in the role of Bennett’s wife sees him move his toes. On a technical level, this scene is all theatrics. Bennett stands centre stage looking to the rear of stage right to the empty hospital bed where his actual body is presumed to lie. Moran is leaning over the empty bed, looking into a webcam which projects her eyes onto the rear of the stage. It is not a ‘naturalistic’ moment, but Moran’s voice and those projected eyes carry a terrific weight of palpable pain, and as Bennett speaks from centre stage in a voice which is only inside his character’s head, the nexus of connection, disconnection, closeness and distance is heartbreaking.

This is a striking, moving, passionate story told with superb clarity and just the right amount of aesthetic style to avoid true banality while dealing in such a consciously banal set of experiences. It is funny, sad, cringe-making, and not for one minute does it lose its grip on our emotional or intellectual attention. When you clap at this one, it’s not just out of politeness.

Harvey O’Brien is a writer and critic, and lectures in Film Studies at University College Dublin.