FringeReview UK 2024
Ruari Conaghan Lies Where It Falls
Ruari Conaghan. Produced by Andy Jordan Productions in association with Neil McPherson for the Finborough Theatre
Genre: Biographical Drama, Contemporary, Drama, Fringe Theatre, Historical, Live Music, Mainstream Theatre, Short Plays, Solo Play, Theatre
Venue: Finborough Theatre
Festival: FringeReview UK
Low Down
A gun goes off. A bomb goes off. Ruari Conaghan’s Lies Where It Falls written and performed by him and developed with Patrick O’Kane starts and ends on the seaside. It arrives at the Finborough till December 21st
Ruari Conaghan has nowhere to hide in every sense. He exudes the charismatic of 100 watts cosplaying a glowing 40, then hits you between the eyes
Review
A gun goes off. A bomb goes off. Ruari Conaghan’s Lies Where It Falls written and performed by him and developed with Patrick O’Kane starts and ends on the seaside. It arrives at the Finborough till December 21st after debuting at Belfast in 2022 and a revival at Edinburgh Festival this year.
Conaghan’s uncle, after whom he’s named, was a high-achieving Catholic judge (rare in Northern Ireland) shot dead by the IRA in 1974. Years later his nephew is asked to play Patrick Magee, known as the Brighton bomber; which will feature at the Brighton Fringe.
I missed that but the bomb woke me up. Almost the only parallel Conaghan doesn’t draw is the date of his uncle’s killing. September 16th was also the date Magee set the timer on the bomb which went off at the Grand Hotel on October 12th 1984.
Conghan has enormous aplomb and with O’Kane works every nuance, offhand and casual inflection, including Irish stereotypes Conghan can flick over and guy. Sometimes it’s laughter. Quite often there’s a howl of pain, even of remorse. Quite why is unfolded in 75 minutes.
Nothing distracts from this intimacy. Finborough designer Juliette Demoulin’s set comprises a bare wooden chair, guitar and guitar-stand lit by Chris Corner. That light sometimes fines down to just Conaghan’s crumpled figure on the floor. It’s subtle and unfussy.
At first the newspaper-decorated backdrop projects that seaside in black and white, as Laurel and Hardy sing ‘The Trail of the Lonesome Pine’. The point of this moves to a family outing in Donegal; to travel there involves a shudder of years.
After detailing the trauma of his uncle’s death and how he’s taken out of school in 1974, Conaghan sashays between growing up and away; and more recently when his agent Mark – “an agent with a conscience. Who knew?” is typical craic – offers him the job. Soon he’s in a room with Magee and Jo Berry, daughter of Sir Antony berry and co-partnering Magee in a huge conciliatory initiative that takes in the world. “The vastness of that woman’s heart” Conaghan repeatedly intones, as he recalls his unspoken ambivalence, even hostility to Magee. “Sixth-form Stanislavsky.’ What was your first record?’” “I don’t see the relevance of that question” Magee returns.
Navigating between post-1974 and recently, Conaghan introduces two motifs, in between people no longer always associating him with his uncle, and being recognised as an alcoholic brother in Downton Abbey (cue a pitch to an imagined Hollywood producer on the back of it). First, why is Hamlet being referenced, why do its universal saws (and Hamlet can saw pretty much to anybody) justify themselves here? Cue Conaghan’s culminating RSC part as Player King in Benedict Cumberbatch’s Hamlet. It’s a fine noisy arrival, shivering both Hamlet and the Player King’s speeches through the huge refraction of rehearsal and after. Though there’s a rub. Strangely it involves a sidelight on Marlowe’s Dido, Queen of Carthage and a script shaking in a hand.
The other’s more subtle, around that guitar Conaghan initially fumbles with, till his boyhood friend Sean shows him how. Sean’s better at Diplodocus models, writing, finally strumming. ‘Eleanor Rigby’s two E minor positions and D minor are picked up by Sean with precision in just two weeks. Yet Sean it is who fumbles life through his fine talents. Conaghan moves to study in Liverpool. Sean stays behind curtains. The poignancy of the song returns. It’s the show’s most touching, perhaps most profound moment. Perhaps too for being unstated.
The crises around his role at the RSC, a trip to Belfast and the denouement involving much physical and some mental pain are always irradiated by humour, and the touch of someone else being worse off. Conaghan’s reveal of Sean refracted through his rumbustious of friend Paul (“Are you still a shite actor?”) counterpoints supportive actor Morag: who shows him how to manage pain; for a reason. And Conaghan’s wonder at Jo Berry’s “vastness of heart” when confronting demons. Because unlike Berry, there’s some differences. But there’s forgiveness too.
Conaghan has nowhere to hide in every sense. He exudes the charismatic of 100 watts cosplaying a glowing 40, then hits you between the eyes. It can be painful. It’s also brave: despite the chutzpah and the swervy artifice needed to sustain and thread stories, it’s clear the barnstorming confidence, off-cuff winks and foetally-curled pain are mined from his own life. There’s elements of storytelling rather than pure plot, though motifs recur. If they’re not entirely integrated, isn’t that where it falls?
Conaghan invites storytelling because since Boris Johnson’s Northern Ireland Legacy Act (passed May 2024) chokes off further prosecutions, it’s all we have. Missing the news that October morning, the first I knew was when treating a passenger for grand mal on a bus; and the St John’s ambulance apologising for turning up late. After deaths were sadly confirmed I asked: “Did they get Thatcher?” Cycling past the Grand each day was a reminder not to mention I grew up in Dublin.
The Brighton Fringe though. No. It really isn’t as grand as it sounds. This at the Finborough is a different matter. And it glows.
