The six members of a Dublin residents’ association in Lisa Tierney-Keogh’s drama first came together on the stage of the Abbey theatre to convene a meeting, about obscenely sexist graffiti daubed on a wall in their neighbourhood, that spiralled into hot, drunken political debate.
They are back in this virtual adaptation for a topical social satire on Zoom that focuses on misogyny and male privilege as the original, award-winning stage production did, and adds references to “the chap George Floyd”, the Black Lives Matter movement and its relationship to Irish identity.
Directed by David Horan, the piece begins with familiar small-talk on the lockdown that seems designed to lull us before the bonhomie cracks apart: someone mentions baking bread, another speaks of a “man stepping inside my two metres”. One sighs: “I fucking hate Zoom.”
They initially look like the modern, liberal face of Ireland, with new man Dara (Michael Ford-FitzGerald), speaking up for women and effusing about his tasty vegetarian lasagne, while Grace (Bethan Mary-James), a black Irish doctor, is hailed as a “frontline hero” and Liz (Amy Conroy), a lesbian, brings forth a sculpture of a vagina from her mantelpiece to show the others.
The tone snaps when they begin to discuss the graffiti, which appears to refer to Liz’s girlfriend, and for which Liz wants proper ideological redress: “It’s control, it’s power, it’s violence.”
Liz’s main opponent is Paul (Luke Griffin), an out-of-work screenwriter and epitome of fragile white masculinity, arguing against the scourge of liberal politics and feminism. Two older characters, Steve Blount as Philip and Pom Boyd as Maggie, seem like his silent accomplices, averting their gaze from any mention of systemic sexism or racism and revealing bigotries even as they try to veil them. “Since when is an Irishman white?” says Maggie, using Ireland’s historical oppression to argue her way out of charges of white-on-black racism in modern Ireland, until that view is challenged.
The discussion becomes as emotive and angry as a Twitter pile-on with characters making tone-deaf statements and becoming ever more stubbornly entrenched in their positions. The six neighbours are excellently portrayed: each is given a degree of humanity, however unlikable they may be. Even so, they are too bound to stereotype, and the characterisation bears little nuance or subtlety. It all feels like sermonising by the end, with the force of the drama dropping away, but this is an impassioned social comedy with very contemporary concerns and some pin-sharp lines.
This Beautiful Virtual Village is available online until 17 September.
