A world is out there, imagined within the four walls of a room inhabited by two men. Will they ever escape to see it in reality?
‘How can I talk about Ballyturk knowing that it’s only ever inside and nowhere else?’
Ballyturk is Enda Walsh’s moving meditation on the brevity of our existence – a mundane village with echoes of Dylan Thomas’s Llareggub in Under Milk Wood, viewed through a Truman Show style filter of confined artificiality.
Explosions both literal and imagined, music and exhilarating physical comedy punctuate beautifully poetic renderings of life in the type of small town we have all visited, and, more likely, lived in. The result is exuberant, surreal, funny and gut-wrenchingly sad.
‘I walk through Ballyturk and the birds are flyin’ down from the woods… I can see them ahead outside Deasy’s and they’re feedin’ on last night’s chips… Her bare knees on the hard floor and Joyce Drench is packin’ away tins of peas. Her head full of last night’s Bingo, her agonising defeat to Marnie Reynolds and her own reliance on lime in lager. She hears him enter - the smoke on his breath visible before he is.’
Note: Contains strong language.
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