Ballyturk is like Waiting For Godot an acid.
Performed superbly by a cast of three, Enda Walsh's Ballyturk was loud and physical, but there was an aching tenderness beneath the pulsing 80s score, the kind of sadness that only Mr Walsh can encapsulate.
When it opened at the National, the play received mixed reviews, with many critics feeling that it was too difficult to understand. But that was the problem: it wasn't until two, three weeks after I saw the show that I felt I had a remote grasp on what happened, and many of the reviews were just published too quickly. Like The Drowned Man, this is a play that demands concentration, everything is symbolic, and you get out only what you put in.
Unlike a sprawling, three hour theatrical marathon, Ballyturk is a sprint to the end, and while you may be exhausted by the curtain call, nothing can quite beat that feeling of crossing the finish line.
