Cyprus Avenue review, Royal Court Upstairs

Years ago, dispatched by The Guardian to report 'the troubles' for three months, I found myself in The Crown pub, now a favourite tourist haunt in Belfast. A bullish man, uninvited, joined me in my booth and asked in thick Ulster brogue: Are you a Catholic or a Protestant?  'Neither,' I replied, 'I'm Buddhist.' He didn't miss a beat: Are you a Catholic Buddhist, or a Protestant Buddhist?  How much has changed since 'the peace'? Some of the answers are in David Ireland's wildly exciting, scary, brutal, funny, coruscating, new play, Cyprus Avenue. In Northern Ireland today,  hatred between Prods and Fenians (Catholics) still burns fiercely for some. For our  protagonist, Eric, still salami-slicing the components of his identity, the Fenian enemy is distinguished by smiling eyes and rousing musical scores.  But now there is added confusion. It is not just the people who share his city that Eric mistrusts, but those who share his DNA.

Eric's daughter, Julie, has just had a baby. Eric believes the infant Mary May is Gerry Adams, President of Sinn Fein.  You have to laugh - especially when he tests his theory by drawing a beard on the child and fixing a teddy bear's spectacles to her face. But when his conviction continues in the house on Cyprus Avenue, events take a murderous turn.  The whole family is under suspicion. Tension mounts on the white carpeted stage. The audience is pushed to extremes - laughing aloud one minute and gasping the next. Through it all, we are mesmerised by Stephen Rea's lyrical disintegration as Eric: That fucking so-called baby. That unrepentant Communist, that unapologetic soixante-huitard masquerading as a new born?  Deliberately infiltrating this indomitable fortress of Unionism...' Every hateful word is perfect, including a peroration on English born Irishmen set in one of London's O'Neill's Irish pubs.

The ratcheting of tension in Cyprus Avenue depends on the unexpected, so no spoilers here, but it's a beautiful and frightening study in the way racism infects everyday interactions from the continued sectarianism of Northern Ireland to the historic enmity between Celtic and Rangers fans, and in different communities the honour killings of children who marry 'out', and the rejection of their British families and lifestyles by teens who rush to join fundamentalist ISIS.

In conclusion: Cyprus Avenue is a visceral exploration of Irish identity, and through it, of all identity. The stupendous central performance in Vicky Featherstone's production is matched by an ace cast, particularly Chris Corrigan as Slim, the loyalist foil who lurks in the bushes looking for opportunities to shoot Catholics. If the subject interests you, it's a brilliant watch.

References:
Royal Court Upstairs, Cyprus Avenue, Tickets

Royal Court Theatre, Sloane Square, London SW1.   Run ends 7 May.