I rarely hate something so completely as to want to run out of the theater to save my mortal soul. In this 90 minute exercise of pretentious drivel, I had to (had to!) peek at my phone to see how much more boredom there was left to endure. I was about 65 minutes into Ballyturk. 65 minutes more than needed and a full 25 minutes to escape. Do I leave now? That was the tension created by this play. If you are a fan of Beckett and Waiting for Godot, perhaps you may find some sort of diverting forgettable thrill. For everyone else, save your cash.
Promised as “gut-wrenchingly funny,” this Irish import was written and directed by Enda Walsh, the Tony winning book writer for the exquisite musical Once and the co-creator (with David Bowie) of the stylized mess called Lazarus. Third time for me is not a charm. For those readers still on the fence: two men in a Ballyturk flat go about their lives seemingly playacting. Dancing around to records, flouring themselves, getting dressed, being silly, having conversations which may or may not be real, imagined or past events. None of it is funny, really. Antic, yes. Gut-wrenchingly hilarious, no, without any question whatsoever.
Unfortunately for Ballyturk, a visitor of sorts arrives who has one of the longest and singularly most boring monologues in the history of theater. While that is an exaggeration for sure, the comment is much funnier than anything in Ballyturk. The surprise last minute ending was at least interesting; inviting an opportunity to consider what this crap was all about – even if by this point, you could care less.