Bank's production, sticking to the work's realistic surface, plays it so close to the vest that at times it almost disappears, sinking into a constant mutter coated with Gaelic vowels. The comic characters tend to overplay; Benton and Redmond, who were good in James Whelan, come off dogged rather than dramatic. Dowling and Horgan, under less constant pressure, do somewhat better. Only James, jumpy-eyed and wary, seems to have caught his character's full essence. The shortfall hardly matters: Deevy's play, solid and startling, lets an unexpected chunk of the past speak truth to the present. And that's what the Mint is for.
