Juno and the Paycock
Gielgud Theatre, London

CAN you hear that spinning sound, ma chara? That’ll be the genius playwright Sean O’Casey rolling in his imagined grave.

The cause lies in this latest iteration of his trailblazing work, first performed a century ago.

It should be said that there are some four and five-star performances in this production. Unfortunately, its biggest name, the much-lauded Mark Rylance does not deliver one. Instead, his is a baffling spectacle, a mumbling, eye-rolling extravaganza, manifesting the alcoholic bully “Captain” Jack Boyle as a rather exhausting caricature.

Thankfully, much of the backbone of O’Casey’s text stands solid, among the constant roistering. Central to the play, and to the family, is matriarch Juno.

J Smith-Cameron exudes resilience. As her little clan is beset with poverty (thanks to her work-shy husband), with a battle-scarred son, and feisty, struggling daughter, Juno has but one guiding principle: they must all survive.

As civil war rages outside, and threatens to invade the fragile homestead, it is the women who represent fortitude and mental stamina, values their germinal state will demand.

Aisling Kearns is wonderful as burgeoning feminist Mary. Her ignorant father, tearing her books into the fire, has no clue why the plays of Ibsen have gripped her. Nora Helmer stuck in her Doll’s House would surely have found a fellow sufferer in poor Mary.

The vagaries of life in the Dublin tenements continue to test Juno’s tenacity. A promised windfall turns to ashes, leaving only more debt. The bloody struggle for Irish independence, in juxtaposition, seems to herald a hopeful future, but meanwhile there is only death.

In an exquisitely acted vignette, Ingrid Craigie as neighbour Mrs Tancred weeps at the death of her son. The republican cause has claimed his young life, and her howl presages all the grief and loss, for decades to come:

“O Blessed Virgin, where were you when me darlin’ son was riddled with bullets, when me darlin’ son was riddled with bullets! Sacred Heart of the Crucified Jesus, take away our hearts o’ stone an’ give us hearts o’ flesh!”

The tragedy in this production is less forceful, thanks to an overemphasis on the comic capering of Jack Boyle, the vain and useless peacock, and the real disappointment lies in what has been lost, in Casey’s depiction of the relentless grind of poverty, and of people’s tendency to hapless faith in the stars — be that in fate or God.

I was raised with an Irish grandfather, who told the proverb: “A family of Irish birth will argue and fight, but let a shout come from without and see them unite.”

The desperation of the Boyle family is that their fragility leaves them unable to unite. Inner weakness and outside forces will surely claim them.

They cannot be the best ensemble they need to be, with a leading man letting them down.

Runs until November 23. Box office: gielgudtheatre.co.uk.