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Nothing lost in Translations
LYNNE WALSH sees a production of Brian Friel's great play on the fraught relationship between the English and the Irish which is telling in every detail
Translations
[Catherine Ashmore] 
JAMES WALSH takes advantage of an evening of comedy snippets to pick out which clowns will make it in Edinburgh
MAYER WAKEFIELD is swept up by the tale of the south London venue where music forged alliances across race, class and identity
MAYER WAKEFIELD applauds Rosamund Pike’s punchy and tragic portrayal of a multi-tasking mother and high court judge
FIONA O CONNOR recommends an unflinching depiction of child sexual abuse and its aftershocks, set in a working-class Liverpool family
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Translations
National Theatre, London
BRIAN FRIEL’S modern classic Translations is replete with allusions — to the liminal times and places of 1930s Ireland, to cultural oppression and revival, to imperialism and resistance. Set in rural Donegal, it charts the British army's intent to map an area and replace the Gaelic names with English.
So far, so prosaic, but Translations is also a paean to storytelling. There is folklore, be it Greek, Roman or Irish. And there are contemporary stories of a potato blight coming, of emigration, of the grim struggles of women with families of 10 or more, where a baby’s wake may follow soon in the footsteps of its christening.
Language is, of course, the beating heart of this piece. It can be flamboyant, on the lips of schoolmaster Hugh (the colossus that is Ciaran Hinds), with his delight in Latinate precision. Yet the translations offered by returning prodigal son Owen, straining to be a buffer between English officers and Irish villagers, reveal his own growing fear that his smart new paymasters might have malevolent intent. His interpretations are not an interface but those of denial and desperation.
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