[In the following review of the London production of Dancing at Lughnasa at the Lyttelton Theatre, Edwards praises Friel's characterization of the five Mundy sisters.]

Brian Friel's latest play is a poignant and sensitive piece of writing. Set in County Donegal in 1936, around harvest time, the play opens with a long and detailed reminiscence supplied by one of the characters, Michael. During the old Celtic festival of Lughnasa that summer, when Michael was just seven years old, two things of note occurred: his impoverished, Catholic family of unmarried women acquired a wireless, and his Uncle Jack arrived home from Africa where he had been a missionary. These elements combine suggestively in Michael's memory to create a humorously observed world, full of desolation and frustrated longing, on the point of irrevocable change. In addition Michael recalls two visits paid to the remote household by his father, an itinerant Welsh charmer called Gerry Evans.

There are dangers inherent in this kind of memory play. The presence of a narrator can break up dramatic impetus and tension by his intrusions. Friel gives Michael a considerable interpretive role—he comes on to introduce and conclude the evening. And as if this topping and tailing were not enough, he is on hand to explain certain events during the piece itself, as well as playing the voice of his own seven-year-old self. Michael's introduction is effected against a frozen tableau of the play's characters—like stills in some old family photograph album. Certainly, for the first 15 minutes or so, the characters did not appear to me to be entirely animated in their own right. Thereafter, however, the balance between explanation and action is perfectly judged.

This sense of balance is achieved thanks to some fine acting, particularly on the part of the women in the play. A charged domestic atmosphere is created. The five Mundy sisters, ranging in age from mid-twenties to middle age, are closely drawn. There is Maggie (Anita Reeves), ungainly in form but light-spirited and laughing in character; Agnes (Brid Brennan), a shy and graceful young woman, dedicated to looking after her simple sister Rose (Brid Ni Neachtain). Chris (Catherine Byrne), Michael's mother, is a moody, passionate woman whose life is momentarily lit up by the arrival of her feckless Welsh seducer. Then there is Kate (Rosaleen Linehan), a teacher at the local school, provider for the family and a stern upholder of Christian principle. Friel's art is considerable. None of these women fall into type, not even Kate, whose disapproving countenance exposes her to just such a risk. Kate is capable of understanding and laughing at herself, showing insight into others and fear for herself.

The wireless set brings music into the Munday home. Music means dance. Beneath the Catholic surface there lurk strong pagan impulses which we see powerfully released as the women break into what is first an eerie and then a wild ecstatic dance. Even the prim Kate cannot hold herself back. This is a very Irish work, but Friel eschews any dabbling in dark, chthonic Celtic forces. Indeed, one of the best scenes shows the effect of Thirties dance music on the family of sisters. When Gerry Evans (Stephen Dillane) wanders back, he takes his 'wife' for a whirl, and then releases something inside Agnes by turning his Gallic Fred Astaire charms on her too. The clash of religious and cultural influences is always seen through temperament, instinct and character.

Indeed, it is seen humorously too. The reason Father Jack has been sent home from Uganda is because, during his time as spiritual guide to a flock of lepers, he has gone native. The Catholic liturgy has given way to ritual animal sacrifice, medicine men and heavy intake of palm wine. Swahili is his first tongue now and he has difficulty in remembering English words. Alec McCowen's delightfully innocent and blithe performance soon dispels any Conradian shades.

If there are any literary invocations to be made, I suppose people will reach for Chekhov. There are touches of longing, frustration and grief in Brian Friel's play that might recall the predicament of certain other sisters. And the set, with its rural landscape of wheat, cornflowers and pop-pies, presents the sort of idealised vision of life that afflicts other Chekhovian characters. But 'Chekhovian' is really too loose and reductive a piece of shorthand to apply to a fine and intelligent playwright whose characters inhabit a world that we have come to recognise as distinctly his own.