Theater Review An inexhaustible supply of ‘Irish’ music and wit

By Joseph Hurley

THE IRISH . . . AND HOW THEY GOT THAT WAY, by Frank McCourt. At Irish Repertory Theatre, 132 West 22nd St. Through Jan. 30.

Ready or not, it’s back. The Irish Repertory Theatre, with a convenient holiday-season gap in its production schedule, has revived Frank McCourt’s affectionately ramshackle scrapbook of perceived "Irishness," "The Irish . . . And How They Got That Way," for a brief run ending with the matinee on Sunday, Jan. 30.

And why not? The late Joe Papp’s Public Theatre floated for a decade-and-a-half on a Broadway cash cow named "A Chorus Line," so why shouldn’t the Irish Rep trot out its own golden calf once in a while for another little canter around the show ring?

No reason at all, particularly when the Rep’s regulars can be summoned to perform it as energetically, as generously, and with as much bravado and brio as they’re doing at the moment. The group’s evident theory, "If we mount it, they will come," appears to be valid, since, with little in the way of drum-beating, performances have been sold out, or close to it, since the first preview on Tuesday evening, Dec. 28.

For the occasion, the Rep has managed to gather what it calls "the original cast," including Terry Donnelly, Donna Kane, Rusty Magee, Bob Green, and both of its resident Ciarans, tenor Sheehan and producing director O’Reilly. (The glorious, flame-haired Kane, something of a Broadway regular, might be the only quibble. Although she’s been a decided asset to the production, she’s playing a role that was created by the unforgettable Marian Thomas Griffin, who is now in previews for the Storm Theatre’s production of Don Boucicault’s classic "Arrah-na-Pogue."

What, precisely, is "The Irish . . . And How They Got That Way?" It’s a songbook on the one hand and a grab bag of affable Irish trivia on the other. It’s also an affectionate little ramble through sections of the Irish and Irish-American historical record, cobbled together with at least reasonable respect for the facts by author McCourt, who, after all, was a respected and apparently beloved schoolteacher before "Angela’s Ashes" catapulted him into what appears to be a kind of permanent limelight.

The present running of the event does what it always did, right from the start, namely giving a great deal of somewhat superficial pleasure to a perhaps rather undemanding, admittedly parochial audience. "The Irish . . . And How They Got That Way" turns out to be the kind of show that inspires "repeaters," people who come back to see the production a second or third time, often bringing friends and family members along for a look.

What they’re getting this time is a show that appears to be at least as good as it’s ever been in the past, and very probably better, with the performers playing with peak confidence and optimal assurance, with the result that the production, essentially unaltered in terms of text, seems crisper and feels at least a bit more briskly paced than it did in the past. This is one attraction that definitely does not wear out its welcome.

It’s still sporadically moving, often amusing, and sometimes, as it teeters n the verge of tumbling into the yawning pit of smugness and self-approval, vaguely vexing. As ever, the show’s strengths far outstrip its weaknesses, and, as before, smiling audiences spill out of the Rep’s cozy home clearly pleased with what they’ve seen and heard, and very evidently undeterred by the event’s possible shortcomings.

If the show’s slightly self-congratulatory tone rubs off a bit onto the audience, that’s a minor misdemeanor, not a felony.

Since McCourt apparently didn’t avail himself of the opportunity of reworking his material, as, to cite one example, playwright Peter Shaffer did with Peter Hall’s new Broadway staging of "Amadeus," any "improvements" that seem to accrue to the new "Irish" must perforce be chalked up to the Rep’s golden cast.

The production’s two bona fide singers, Kane and Sheehan, provide, now as before, some of the show’s most memorable moments, she with "Galway Bay," "The Rose of Tralee," and, particularly, a beautiful rendition of the less familiar "The Fields of Athenry," and he, bringing fresh life and energy to such chestnuts as "Those Endearing Young Charms," "I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen," and, late in the show, the by-now risky "Danny Boy." Sheehan’s contribution to the less well known is his fine version of "Skibbereen."

The vibrant Terry Donnelly, the Rep’s equivalent of a first-rate utility infielder, might never claim to be a singer per se, but she does surprisingly well with "Carrickfergus," and, later on, impersonating vaudeville star Blanche Ring, "Rings on Her Fingers."

Ciaran O’Reilly, as always, brings a distinct sense of fun and personal commitment to everything he tackles, with particularly sanguine results when he takes on the persona of Irish-American stage great George M. Cohan for a spirited version of "Give My Regards to Broadway," complete with a bit of a dance, which triumphs, perhaps, more by virtue of geniality than by anything resembling skill or technique.

The Rep’s musical director, Rusty Magee is once again a distinct standout, supplying solid support on piano and accordion, and coming up with spot-on impressions of John F. Kennedy and James Cagney. The Rep might do well to encourage him to venture beyond the obscuring confines of his keyboard on a more frequent basis.

Once again, Bob Green demonstrates his versatility on violin, mandolin, guitar and bazouki. (What, you may well ask, is a nice Greek instrument like a bazouki doing in a show like "The Irish . . . And How They Got That Way?").

The show still seems at its strongest, at least to one observer, when it eschews its mildly bragging tone, and its fondness for easy jokes, and deals head-on with certain realities of Irish and Irish-American life, not all of them particularly pleasant.

McCourt, if he is to be believed, has unearthed at least a few wrenching realities connected with 1847 and the other desperate years of the Irish Famine, having to do on the one hand with the traffic in produce and trade in which the English rulers engaged, at the great expense of the subject Irish, and, at the same time, the not inconsiderable manner in which Americans, Irish and others, attempted to provide whatever aid they could from this side of the Atlantic Ocean.

"The Irish . . . And How they Got That Way" is to be commended for putting a kind of self-disciplinary check on the amount of overt Brit-bashing the script contains. The English, deservedly, come in for a beating, but not obsessively so. After all, the Irish were depicted as ape-like roughnecks in the illustrations of American magazines of the mid-19th century as frequently as they were in Punch and other British periodicals.

Perhaps the most salubrious single quality adherent to "The Irish . . . And How They Got That Way" in its present incarnation is the degree to which the members of the company so obviously like each other and enjoy the process of delivering the show to its eager audience.

It would be possible to dismiss "The Irish . . . And How They Got That Way" as untidy and somewhat scattershot, which it undeniably is. That, however, would be missing the point of McCourt’s affectionate bear cub of a show, just now proving once again, if proof were needed, precisely how much sheer pleasure it provides for its audience, an audience that, by now, seems inexhaustible.