The murder of Federico Garcia Lorca, by Franco forces in the Spanish Civil War, deprived Spain of one of its greatest dramatists. The House of Bernarda Alba, probably his finest tragedy, contains within it the elements of stage immortality. It captures the life of a time and place - Anadalusia in the 1930s - with a poetic authenticity which gives it universality.

It opens just after the funeral ceremonies of Bernarda Alba's second husband. She has one daughter by her first husband, who is now being courted for marriage. The other four daughters face a prospect of eight years of confined mourning before they may seek the life of subservience to men, which is their lot in the maledominated society. That is how it has always been; and their matriarch mother intends to preserve the primitive tradition.

One can almost feel the heat in the household; the Spanish sun outside, the seething, repressed passions inside the barred windows. The 25-yearold suitor who comes to pay court to the eldest daughter, now 40 years old, finds more than one welcome there and is tempted. Bernarda refuses to acknowledge the possibility of filial disobedience and, in the classic mode of Greek tragedy, the family of women is submerged in a destiny they cannot fully understand, much less resist.

This is a solid, convincing production, directed by Jayne Snow with Paul Keeley as her assistant. Deirdre O'Connell gives a typically intelligent and credible performance in the title role. Her daughters are played vividly by Michelle Costello, Stephanie Dunne, Michelle Manahan, Elizabeth P. Moynihan and, with impressive intensity, by Sile Nugent.

Two servants are well taken by Mary Moynihan and Mary Ryan, but I must demur at the brief appearances of Ber narda's demented mother which leaned towards broad comedy and contained several references to her white hair, here manifestly blonde.

That quibble apart, this was an absorbing evening's theatre, played against Robert Lane's simple and effective set design.