John Keating, Sean Gormley, Johnny Hopkins, Dan Butler, Sarah Street (Photo: Carol Rosegg)

The Weir

By Deirdre Donovan

Irish Repertory Theatre's fourth staging of Conor McPherson's The Weir, directed by Ciarán O'Reilly, proves why the play has become one of the company's touchstones. What begins as an evening of pub banter deepens into a spellbinding meditation on memory, loneliness, and connection.

The intimacy of the production, sensitively directed by Ciarán O'Reilly, is its greatest strength. Staged in the homey confines of the Irish Rep's mainstage, the play's simplicity and quiet rhythms shine through. Charlie Corcoran's rustic set, gently lit by Michael Gottlieb, faithfully evokes a rural Irish bar with its wooden counter, well-stocked shelves, bar stools, two small tables, a bench cushioned in red, and photos adorning the walls. One can almost feel the heat from the peat briquette glowing in the fireplace, smell the Guinness flowing freely from bottles (the bar's taps are on the fritz!), and hear the howling of the wind outside.

Dan Butler, Sean Gormley, Johnny Hopkins, Sarah Street (Photo: Carol Rosegg)

This is a true ensemble effort, enriched by several familiar faces from the company's past productions. Dan Butler portrays Jack with just the right mix of grit and warmth - a garage owner who dabbles in horseracing and isn't shy about taking anyone to task who crosses him. John Keating nails the role of Jim, Jack's loyal assistant, whose sharp instinct for picking winners at the track contrasts with his tender devotion to his ailing mother. Johnny Hopkins gives a grounded, understated performance as Brendan, the pub's owner and operator, and notably the only character without a story to tell - serving instead as mediator and quiet observer as the others unspool their tales. Sean Gormley slips seamlessly into the skin of the businessman Finbar, the local success who owns much of the town's real estate and, though married, quietly shares in the loneliness of the three single men gathered there. Finally, Sarah Street brings a quiet intensity to Valerie, a woman from the Dublin seeking peace and respite in the countryside, whose haunting story ultimately shifts the tone of the evening.

First produced at the Royal Court Theatre Upstairs in London on July 4, 1997, The Weir stands out for its structure, built around four interlocking monologues that illuminate the vital bond between storyteller and listener - and, ultimately, the power of storytelling itself. While McPherson leans into the familiar stereotype of the Irish love of drink, it's through those pints that the characters find the courage to share their tales, each one tinged with elements of the supernatural and Irish folklore. Yet the play reaches beyond cliché. What begins with playful banter gradually deepens when Valerie recounts a haunting story of profound personal loss. Her honesty stops the men short, drawing from them unexpected kindness and quiet compassion, and forging a connection none of them anticipated. Jack's final tale, less tragic than Valerie's, resonates deeply in its own way, revealing his lingering regret over a missed chance at love and giving the play its poignant emotional grace note.

Dan Butler (Photo: Carol Rosegg)

McPherson's dialogue is pitch-perfect, alive with the music of everyday speech and a treasure trove of Irish idioms that make the play sing. Each turn of phrase reveals character as much as it delights the ear: when Jack gently mocks Finbar's stinginess with the quip, "That fella'd peel a banana in his pocket," it lands as both affectionate teasing and sharp social commentary. Finbar, never one to be outdone, counters with a boast of his own savvy, proclaiming, "I've got an eye for the gap," a line that neatly captures his pride in having spotted opportunities others missed. Through such exchanges, McPherson gives us dialogue that feels authentic, layered, and subtly revealing.

The play's title is a potent metaphor for its dramatic and emotional currents. A weir, built to control and divert the flow of water, mirrors the way McPherson's characters attempt to dam up their private sorrows, only to have them gradually spill out over the course of the evening. In 1997, this release of buried feelings felt deeply Irish, rooted in folklore and pub culture, but today it speaks powerfully to a broader cultural moment. As we reckon more openly with loneliness, grief, and the need for connection, the play's undercurrent - the idea that we cannot hold back our emotional tides forever - feels both timely and universal. The Weir reminds us that storytelling is not simply entertainment; it's a necessary release, a way to unburden ourselves and find communion with others.

Refreshingly unsentimental, The Weir is a ghost story for grownups. Go-and discover its rough magic.

The Weir

At the Irish Repertory Theatre, 132 W. 22^nd St.

For more information, visit www.irishrep.org

Running time:  1 hour, 30 minutes, no intermission