Becoming bored during a play makes you aware of details you would otherwise tend to overlook. Take the howling wind that is heard outside designer Rae Smith's dismal Irish pub in a small Irish town. Except for its eerie B-movie effectiveness, it is a B-movie contrivance. But so are the lengthy ghost stories, as told by the pub's five occupants, that make up the fabric of the play. Then there is the amount of bottled Guinness (the tap needs filling) and refills of white wine constantly being ordered and served but noticeably not drunk by this curious gathering of four local men and a female newcomer from Dublin. This, as the evening progresses with the men taking turns revealing macabre lore about resident ghosts to the woman who will undoubtedly have her own I-can-top-that-story.
The groundwork is set when Jack (Jim Norton), a pub regular arrives to find the tap dry and that he has to settle for bottles of Guinness. Jack is even less pleased by the arrival of Finbar (Dermot Crowley), a local boy/part-time realtor. Having made his fortune beyond town, Finbar is mildly resented by all. Finbar has been spending the last few days giving Valerie (Michelle Fairley), the "blow in" tenant from Dublin, a sightseeing tour of the countryside. It only takes the presence of a stranger to perk up the gossipy banter between Brendan (Brendan Coyle), the bar's lonely proprietor, Jack (Jim Norton), the local morose garage owner, and Jim (Kieran Ahern) his forty-something assistant. They are all only too eager to impress the quiet but convivial newcomer with their personal encounters and knowledge of ghostly comings and goings that include graveyard spirits, messages from ouija boards and the presence of fairy roads.
Although The Weir was the Best Play winner of last season's Olivier Awards, this Royal Court Theatre production, now at the Walter Kerr Theater, expects supernatural patience from a Broadway audience. As ghost stories go, they are all rather tame, including the woman's, whose story is more tragically personal than far-fetched. Surprisingly, the characters appear less colorful and witty than is the custom for Irish pub habitues. Ian Rickson's attentive direction provides the fine actors with ample space for rapt listening and resonant speechifying, all under lighting designer Paule Constable's appropriately creepy illuminations. Unfortunately, The Weir, for all its outpouring of spooks and sympathy, is less a haunting piece of dramatic literature than a daunting two-hour exercise in time-sharing empathy.
