Irish Timeswriters review Circo de la Sombra at the Abbey Theatre and Jenny Lindfors at Crawdaddy.
Circo de la Sombra, Abbey Theatre, Dublin
THE LIGHTS have come up, but the performers are still stretching, leaping and foostering around on their circular stage, which, with missing floorboards and revolving panels, looks like a series of accidents waiting to happen . . . Doesn't Circo de la Sombra realise it has a show to put on?
This, of course, is the show, an engagingly simple and energetic homage to the travelling circus, and its opening bustle contains so many blink-and-you'll-miss-them acrobatics that you could mistake these finely honed circus skills for a casual shambles.
Watched over by a shifty-eyed, bushy-moustached portrait of Alejandro Sombra, the putative founder of this charmingly frayed circus, six young performers treat the show as if it were their unexpected inheritance, shrugging on loose-fitting routines like costumes they are still growing into.
With continuous jaunty accompaniment from Napolese musicians Le Grand Osim Orchestra, the performance steadily attains an engaging shape. Jordi Gaspar, a physically adept performer blessed with the comic understatement of a latter-day Chaplin, draws giggles and gasps with his German wheel, a bracing and perilous contraption that resembles da Vinci's Vitruvian man or, if you prefer, a hamster's wheel run amok.
Anhalou Serre, when not being flung between burly catchers or propelled into shoulder-mounted somersaults, performs a startling trapeze act no less impressive for taking place just a few feet from the ground.
For a family audience more accustomed to high-wire circus feats, such modest-scale manoeuvres can be both a strength and weakness: the intimacy is refreshing, but without any obviously signalled crescendos (there are no drum rolls here) the achievement is often muted. It's unusual to find a circus troupe so discreet with their talents; if anything, they risk making their feats look too easy.
That may be why you leave the show with stronger impressions of two brothers squabbling than their Banquine dexterity, while Gaspar's dance with juggling pins lingers longer in the imagination than a flourish of whip-cracking. It is a brisk hour of innocent fun and frolics that leaves you more charmed than awed. - PETER CRAWLEY
Until Apr 12
Jenny Lindfors, Crawdaddy, Dublin
ON EVERY street corner in every city in this small country of ours there seems to be an aspiring singer-songwriter vying for our attention, so it takes something quite special to stand out from the crowd.
For Dubliner Jenny Lindfors, When the Night Time Comes, her rapturously received 2007 album, was the perfect calling card to set her apart. A rather lovely collection of 1960s and 1970s folk-inspired candlelit charmers, there is a timelessness to the melody-infused songs on her debut.
After a jaunt around the UK supporting Australian band Angus & Julia Stone, this show was her first headline gig of the year and showcased new material along with cuts from her record.
She was joined by regular collaborators Ben Kritikos (guitar) and Aidan (percussion and clarinet) as well as her support act, Alyanya.
The musicians created a welcoming and intimate atmosphere in the incense-scented venue. Lindfors used her stunning voice, a mix of Carole King and Sandy Denny, to convey the spirit of her songs: the liberation of Night Time, the defiance of Shelter and the regret of Lovestage. As she introduced each number with a refreshing absence of self-importance, the confident 26-year-old regaled us with amusing anecdotes about the inspirations behind her songs.
Lindfors admitted that musicians "thrive on misery" and confessed that the mysteriously titled Voodoo was in fact written following a drunken night out at Dublin's Voodoo Lounge.
Of the newer material, The Blazing Sun and Dust On the Mirror demonstrated that her debut was no flash in the pan. BRIAN KEANE
