7:30, the Abbey Theatre.  Our usual group gathered to see a performance of Shadow of a Gunman, a tragic and quirky tale of poor folk living in Ireland at the start of the Troubles.   We’d read the play individually and out loud as a group (the character I read in the group run through got killed–just my luck) and discussed the work artistically and historically. When I played out Shadow in my head it manifested itself as a series of serious events, spattered with dark humour and sarcasm.  The action would revolve around the main character, Donal Davoren, quite literally, as the brooding and often annoyed poet would rarely move from his writing desk in the middle of the room.  What I saw at the Abbey Theatre was almost, but not entirely, unlike my imaginings. The Donal Davoren of The Abbey’s production was an animated and changing character–more of a coward than I’d imagined him to be, but also more spirited and good humoured. He jumped around from place to place frequently, and hard large, nearly caricatured gestures and speech (as did most of the others).  He was an honestly funny character, as opposed to being amusing in the most twisted way. Despite my background in technical theatre, in my imaginary production I’d failed to consider the vital elements of light and sound.  These, in my opinion, were manipulated very well at the Abbey Theatre, as the lighting was used to both reflect time of day and also to create dramatic tension by changing along with the mood of each action.  Unexpected music amplified the drama (I felt as if I were watching a movie that had been carefully scored at some points) but was somewhat inconsistent and therefore, I thought, was distracting when it faded in or out. My favorite part of the show, oddly enough, was the scene change that shouldn’t have even happened.  Shadow is divided into two acts, which are traditionally separated by an intermission.  However, as the show’s run time is short (about an hour and forty-five minutes) Abbey’s ensemble decided to plow through the show with no break. The resulting scene change, like the rest of the play, was oddly modern for the 1920 period piece, yet I found it compelling in a beautifully abstract way.  The actors stayed in character for the change, dancing around each other with stylized movements.  A character who’d died in the previous act reappeared briefly though one of the two giant windows on set, only to be “blown away” in an imaginary explosion and flung out of view (a trick, as I learned earlier that day, achieved with a small trampoline and a durable actor).  The light was emotive, the movements filled with suggestion, and the music the perfect catalyst to create something heart-wrenching and fascinating. There was also the use of the cymbal-banging-monkey toy, which reappeared outside of the scene change, the symbolism of which I would need an entirely separate blog post to dissect. Overall, the show was–unexpected.  The first impression it gave me was not wonderful, but as the story progressed I came to enjoy it’s over-exaggeration and appreciate the unusual way that it had been stylistically modernized.  By the end it’s fair to say that I was attached to the characters as they were portrayed, even the ones who had less time on stage, and was glad the company had chosen the unconventional path that it did.  Don’t get me wrong, if I were directing it the show would be completely different–but that’s the beauty of art and storytelling; there’s a million ways to bring life to a tale, and no wrong or right answers.