Appearances are deceptive. On the face of it, The Weir is not an exceptional play. Set in a rural pub somewhere in north-west Ireland, it is naturalistic and familiar. It does not call for fanciful interpretations or big directorial statements. Even its author, Conor McPherson, seems ambivalent. “It was just people talking, so it shouldn’t have worked,” he once observed.
Audiences who saw JM Synge’s The Playboy of the Western World in 1907 would have recognised the bar stools, the fireplace and the sleepy camaraderie. They would have sensed the timeless smell of peat and whiskey. So too would they have recognised the locals: practical men, variously shy, garrulous and funny, who are joined by an outsider, a mysterious woman from Dublin. They shuffle in, have a few drinks, share stories, then leave.
