It is, unofficially at least, Conor McPherson season at the Old Vic this spring and summer. Next up comes a revival of his modern classic Girl from the North Country, that ingenious interweaving of the songs of Bob Dylan into a haunting tale about Depression Era small-town America. Before that there is this new drama from the Irish master, taking its title from a line in the WB Yeats poem “The Song of Wandering Aengus”. If 2025 sees a finer or more accomplished piece of playwriting, I will be very surprised.
It would be no hyperbole to state that this is the English language answer to Chekhov; The Brightening Air, with its themes of lost love and missed opportunity, is a piece of drama that is surely going to endure down the decades, gaining in richness and resonance with each new revival.
Decay and disillusion are in the mix from the start, and echoes of Uncle Vanya abound, as we are introduced to a musty family home in 1980s County Sligo. Siblings Stephen (Brian Gleeson) and Billie (Rosie Sheehy) are festering away there, to the shifty disquiet of philandering brother Dermot (Chris O’Dowd). When their mysterious uncle Pierre (Seán McGinley), a priest who has either retired or been defrocked, arrives for a visit, the equilibrium of gentle melancholy is fatally unsettled.
I am usually highly sceptical of writers who direct their own work, as this lack of an outside perspective tends to end badly. McPherson, however, is the exception that proves the rule, tenderly affording his play a fiercely accomplished production that brings out all of its melancholy richness. His stage composition is full of elegantly understated tableaux, with the dusky hues and artfully angled lighting (full marks to lighting designer Mark Henderson) of an Old Master painting.
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The eight-strong ensemble is, quite simply, magnificent, as humour bubbles amidst the mounting family tension. It’s a treat to see O’Dowd back on a London stage; along with his customary sharp wit, he brings a rangy nervousness to Dermot as he tries to justify his ramshackle behaviour (his latest fling is “20… next year”). Hannah Morrish is full of beautiful wistfulness as his hopelessly besotted wife Lydia.
Best of all, however, is the astonishing Sheehy. Billie, who is somewhere on the autistic spectrum, is fierce, comically straight-talking and feverishly obsessive, whether that be about train timetables or hues of paint. She’s protective of what she loves but also prone to violent outbursts and Stephen’s unshowy devotion to her has been quietly but devastatingly taking its toll.
Just as in Chekhov, the atmosphere is simultaneously charged with stasis and change and McPherson adds in a strain of Irish folklore about a nearby well with purportedly magical properties. This all blends into the most rich, textured and subtle evening of theatre.
To 14 June, Old Vic, London (0344 871 7628, oldvictheatre.com)
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