I think if I had to describe this production in one word it would be charming. Even before the play starts, the actors are on stage interacting with the audience, encouraging them to sing along to the music that is being played live by two ensemble members (Conor Hinds and Katie Shortt). From the very beginning we are invited to “see” behind the curtain, this is a troop of players, and they are about to entertain us.

While we’re always aware we’re watching a play (the fake turkey is fantastic), there is no doubt that there was hard work into creating a world that immerses the audience in not Victorian London but Victorian Belfast. From the set design (by Stuart Marshal) to the costumes (lead by Catherine Kodicek) we are transported back to Dicken’s time.

Now as I said, the story is moved to Belfast, so the dialogue, the humor and the setting are slightly altered, this might account on me missing out on some of the jokes (forgive this Mexican writer). And while I am accustomed to London it was nice to see a story with so many adaptations be given a different style that responds to the people who are seeing it today.

Last but not least, I thoroughly enjoyed the acting, particularly Matthew Forsythe as Bob Cratchit. It was clear that all of the company were having fun while performing and, that just makes you as an audience member join into the fun. I hope both the company and the audience will continue to spread the festive cheer throughout the Christmas season.

From her harrowing lived experience, playwright Caitríona Cunningham has crafted a deeply moving meditation on the darkest chapter in the Ireland’s recent history, both north and south.  

We open with a young, pregnant woman, seated between two nuns. She is at Marianvale, one of the Mother and Baby Homes which operated across Northern Ireland throughout much of the 20th century. 

She is told she will go by an assumed name, Kitty. She is told about the daily routine of labour and prayer, and that she will sacrifice her welfare payments. She is told nothing about coerced adoption, or that she will share quarters with victims of rape and incest. But all that is to come. 

At its heart, the play grapples with two questions: how does one survive incarceration, separation from society, when her only crime is being human? And how, now, do we heal, as individuals and as a people? In response to both, the play offers comradery, hearing and being heard, shows women becoming a community for one another. These scenes invite the audience to join in the frequent laughter, to sway to the music, from the gramophone and the remembered dances. But the play never ignores the unignorable: not all were survivors. 

Stand-out performances by Aoibh Johnson (‘Kitty’) and Shannon Wilkinson (‘Sarah’) capture the precarity of pre-liberation womanhood, the degradation of being told what’s best for you. But where the writing and stagecraft reach perfection is in the creation of ‘Jackie’ (Sorcha Shanahan), whose loving parents adopted her in circumstances which are unclear. Her arc is separated from Marianvale, in time, character, and in presentation: she appears alone for interspersed monologues. Little does she know, as she wrestles with her identity, that she is not alone in searching for answers. 

We all are. For we averted our eyes far too long. 

Set in a University flat in Belfast, we follow four 'boys' as they navigate their final days in their university home. 

Upon walking in, we were immediately put into the environment. The set design and props were authentic, with a set-up kitchen, living room, a table covered in plastic cups, punting and rubbish. It made me think of my university accommodation, and the animalistic living space we created. 

The play had striking performances from the entire cast, particularly Fionn O'Hagan as Cam, a musical prodigy with serious FOMO. Nathan Adam's Benny became the voice of reason in this production, provoking the audience to query the other characters behaviors constantly. 'Boys' explored the mixed feelings we all face coming to the end of our students days, and diving into the 'real' world. 

Whilst the production impressive, especially considering the amount of time they had to put this production together, the choice of play left me wondering. Written by Ella Hickson, an established English playwright, I find the content of the play misaligned. Boys will be boys, the famous saying goes, but where is the consequence? Especially considering how little female roles and representation the play had to offer for any budding female actors starting at Queens. 

McAuely gave a fun, yet haunting snapshot of what it's like to be young and figuring it all out. I guess a perfect message or indeed warning, to all the new students starting this year at Queens.

‘Men think they own the land and the women here.’ The Sister states.

Yerma opens with a bright yellow car on stage, which acts as the centrepiece for all the action. From this vibrant opening, the audience is frantically thrown in between moments of laughter, to gut-wrenching anguish, never quite sure what to expect next. All while exploring what it means to be a woman in patriarchal Ireland.

Our protagonist is suffocated by the expectations set upon her, what it means to be a wife who is not a mother, and in turn being a woman sitting outside of societal norms. Surrounded by mothers, the protagonist slowly descends into a devasting madness, struggling with infertility and in consequence, becomes isolated.

The relationship between femininity and the land stood out blindingly to me, with flowers being used as costume pieces to represent fertility, all woman but the protagonist boasts these. As the woman begged the land to make the protagonist fertile, I could not help but be amused by the irony of the traditional Catholic Christening setting switching to a frenzied pagan ritual.

In a way the protagonist seemed doomed from the start, I am unsure whether it is truly a child she wants, or simply to fit in. The Protagonist stays in an unhappy marriage, believing it's the right thing to do. Her husband works the land, effectively owning it. There is a sense that the land rejects her pleas for a child, reflecting her husband's own decision they should remain childless.

The twist ending was both disturbing and heartbreaking as we see our protagonist finally snap and rise against her husband. However shocking the ending is, I left the theatre with a sense of comfort, knowing the female ensemble came together, helping the protagonist.

The subtitle for Aurora is “A modern myth” and that is what drew me to the play in the first place, I pictured something serious and epic, something with great battles and heroes and that’s what I got… in a very different way than what I was expecting.  

From the moment the play starts we are drawn in as Cass (played by Meghan Tyler) addresses the audience, recounting her favourite story “The lonely tree”, and from that moment you feel as if you are a part of the community Cass is addressing as she attempts to save her tree friend by livestreaming. That connection is maintained throughout the play, and there were even some moments where I struggled not to answer directly when the audience was being addressed.  

In addition to Cass there is her brother Conn (Conor O Donnel) and her best friend Drew (Thomas Finnegan), as well as the Interrogator (Maria Conolly). All of them are incredibly funny. While dealing with subjects like climate change, corporations, and our connection to both the people around us and nature, they manage to make you laugh at least once in every scene. (The highlight for me being Drew’s increasingly unhinged behaviour). That is not to say the play makes light of these subjects, it takes them very seriously and leaves you reflecting once the story’s finished.  

Finally, the play combines gaming and animation technology, that gives us an anarcho-communist badger (arguably the funniest character in the show) and a tree that feels authentic on stage. Lights and projections enhance Cass’s mission and remind us of what nature has to offer us (and what we could lose). The humour, the acting and the technology all come together to give us a fun play which invites us to reflect on our relationship with nature when leaving the Theatre. 

From the get-go, there is something different about this production – namely, the name. Out with the detached pragmatism, in with “The Tragedy of" Richard III, which for years has been dropped for simplicity’s sake. From there, things don’t let up for interest as the house lights dim and we are met not with the famously expectant "winter of our discontent” soliloquy but instead an opening narration via sign language as conducted by the electric Paula Clarke in a gravedigger’s mocked-up surplice. This introduces us well to the altogether thornier dynamic of this thought-provoking production of the Bard's most consistently entertaining play. 

The man of the hour, Michael Patrick, infuses the timeless words with new life; see the wryly dark and no-nonsense delivery of "Chop off his head, man" when asked what should be done with a potential meddler to his kingly designs. What he lacks in typically Ricardian menace, he makes up for with a banterous Ulster charm and a nuanced sense of ennui. The second act is where these layers come to the surface most roundly and, along with some ingenious uses of mannequins-as-players make for some gripping theatre. The finale, wherein all of Richard's neurosis and self-loathing surfaces is beautifully beguiling and unexpectedly life-affirming as Patrick (who like his Machiavellian monarch suffers from Motor Neuron Disease) rounds the show out with a Hamlet-esque appeal for life and life alone, beyond the meaningless symbols and stratagems that conflict creates.

The production design has many highlights — bright electronic panels radiate block colours in various hues to usher in atmospheres of unfolding dread but the spartan sets tend to clash with the more ornate costuming decisions, which tend to straddle the line of Gilliam-esque revery and art-pop irony. A more unified vision in these two departments would have given the audience more of an inroad to the various characters' perspectives.

Overall, though the object of turning Richard III into an outright sympathetic figure is a far off thing, they have done a very admirable job of plucking it down.

Rose is always speaking, and Bud doesn’t want to hear it. We don’t want them to stop talking; Rose+Bud is acidly funny, poking fun at unexpected allies, drama classes, and Ballynahinch. But for all its irreverence and ironies, there is a warm and moving story underneath about identity, transition and reconciliation.

Bud is moving to Derry, and Rose is coming with him. Bud is trans and Rose – the woman he wants to be – terrifies him. On the interminable car journey prolonged by his heartbroken mother, at the excruciating fresher icebreaker, over the bowl of a nightclub toilet; Rose is always with him. Bud barters, Rose chides, and suddenly the wicked barbs and desperate pleas give way to harmony.

Actors Rose Coogan and Conor Cupples speak at once, their words overlap, and you see how two people might become one, or many. Rose and Conor play everyone in this production, from the boy next door to the girls in halls, and it is a testament to their committed physicality that we always know who is speaking. In both its narrative and staging, Rose+Bud is a triumph of voice.

Rose+Bud asks, what do you do with the old identity, when we embrace the new one? Rose comes out and Bud comes in, but both go home for Christmas. Rose does not know who she is and, being from here, she does not know where she is from. There is discrimination, there is transphobia; this could be a nightmare.

Out of the misery, writer Rose Coogan crafts a joyous and hilarious play. It is bold and fierce and should be toured again. Our heroine is still searching for answers but she knows enough to keep going, and I hope we hear from her again.

Initially I had not planned to write this review. Then we entered the room and I saw the box. I am a PhD student, writing poems that are shaped like boxes, and The Doppler Effect is a performance that places a dancer, actor and chamber ensemble inside a multimedia projection box. It tells the story of a PhD student who is grappling with a complex topic, the legacy of queer history, and his own desire.

The projection box was made of grey mesh, darkening the dancer who stood in the centre on a raised platform while the chamber ensemble played music around him. At times he was partially dressed, wearing only a pair of boxers. A woman’s voice spoke over the music. Transformed by the projections, the box became a nightclub, a PhD supervisor's office, a bedroom. "Feel free to move around the room" signs on the floor instructed the audience.

The voiceover spoke of isolation, of walking, with headphones in, and seeing graffiti reading “queers go home”. Of seeing two men, holding hands, having slurs hurled at them. One side of the box became a laptop screen that played a documentary about the murder of a gay man in Belfast in the 90s. “Enough” the voiceover said. “Enough of then. I wasn't there."

How can younger queer people understand the history that game before them? What does it mean to see and be seen as queer? How do observations change based on our location and perspective? These were the questions I saw the work exploring. 

I realised, after moving around the room, that it was not a voiceover. There was a woman inside the box, speaking. She was reading from a page. Closer, I could almost read the words over her shoulder.

“Feel free to move." Some people didn't move at all. Most stood in one place. When one person would move, others around them seemed to take that as an invitation. To me, there was something in this, as well. In these small movements. In one person, or one group of people, doing something different, and the ripple effect this creates. . The performance itself didn't last long, it was over after 35 minutes, and some audience members seemed struck by its brevity. Some things are made or forced to be short.