'Seafarer' awash in power and pathos

It would seem the devil hasn't a chance in hell on Christmas Day. Yet there he is, as night creeps toward dawn, laying down bet after bet in a high-stakes game of poker. Not that he's interested in lucre -- he has money to burn. No, he's on a Faustian errand, looking to cash a marker on something he likely already owns -- the soul of one Sharky Harkin.

Sharky is the pivot point in Conor McPherson's richly worded "The Seafarer," an Irish stemwinder that rides a crest of stormy boozing before finding merciful harbor. A spanking cast spins out this yarn in a frightfully good production directed by Joel Sass at the Jungle Theater in Minneapolis.

Stephen Yoakam portrays Sharky, a man who would be long past his prime if ever he had one. In the suffocating bowel of his blind brother's home, Sharky plays housemaid -- his face etched with the insistent agony that comes only from years of considered regret. Sharky is two days dry when we meet him on Christmas Eve morning. Brother Richard, a huge man wrapped in layers of tweed, is king of this dump and dedicated to the drinking life. Actor Allen Hamilton plays the role with such authenticity that he seems to be making up his lines as he goes along -- nothing is acted, everything is natural. He bullies and charms, laughs and scolds with the alcoholic's deluded sense of superiority.

Patrick Bailey plays Ivan, another misfit who prefers this sodden hovel to the reality of wife and home. His hair unkempt in a cock's comb, Ivan has lost his glasses after erasing his memory with hooch the previous night.

So there these three sit on the bobtail of Dec. 24, Sharky with a white-knuckle grip on sobriety, Richard and Ivan laughing at their empty lives while lapping up stout, Irish whiskey and cheap lager. And then enters another hapless sot, Nicky (Mark Rhein), with a dapper stranger he has found in the pubs. Mr. Lockhart (Phil Kilbourne) is a gimlet-eyed mist from Sharky's past and he has come to collect a bet. In the play's definitive monologue, he describes hell as a panicky coffin of self-hate removed from God's love. This, he suggests, is Sharky's fate.

McPherson has an amazing ear for his characters' voices. Nothing much happens in his play, yet these people seep into our brains and lodge there. The acting here is the best I've seen in quite some time not only at the Jungle but anywhere. Each man devours the playwright's dialogue, their characters emerging only after deep consideration in the belly.

Sass' staging has a cohesion, pace and rhythm that is spot-on, and his set reeks with soggy decrepitude, down to the duct-taped sofa. John Novak's props and Amelia Cheever's costuming complement this perfectly delightful evening in the theater.

Graydon Royce • 612-673-7299