Jackson Free Press

What would happen if you took the camera in a typical crime movie and refocused it on the faceless mobster in the back? The brutish thug who's in and out of the movie in a flash, his blunt features and grunted lines leaving little more than general distaste in the audience's memory—what if he were the protagonist?

Conor McPherson's play, "The Good Thief," asks just such a question. The gruff, unnamed protagonist is a paid thug in Dublin, a small-time player in the intensely professional network of crime and corruption woven into the socio-economic fabric of Ireland. In short, pragmatic sentences, he recalls his last job and how it went awry. He often verges on retrospection but then shakes the mood off like a Labrador shaking water off its fur. At first encounter, he walks and talks like a stereotype of hired muscle. Turner Crumbley, who directed New Stage's production of "The Good Thief," observed, "In any other story, he would be the third guy from the left in the background with the gun who you'd never give a second thought to."

At first, the audience is drawn in by the unmediated seediness of the protagonist's setting—ex-girlfriends sneaking out of the bar to screw men in the parking lot and casual remarks about breaking other people's bones. But as it becomes obvious that the main character is barely a criminal compared to those around him, and he loses the glamorous sheen of villainy, other, more surprising characteristics come to light. For instance, as he walks through the kitchen of a house that he has just littered with three corpses, he remarks, "The kitchen had every modern appliance and for some reason that made me sad." There are some very poetic and complex reasons why an appliance-filled kitchen is a sad thing, and such spontaneous and insightful sensitivity, which comes in unexpected bursts throughout the play, makes the main character more compelling. Similarly, once the story has become as convoluted as it is going to get, once plenty of accidents and coincidences have transpired, and while he is in the midst of a brutal beating, the protagonist raises a clear, inquisitive eye to the audience and says, "I wondered whose fault this was."

Chris Roebuck has what it takes to play this character. His physical presence animates the space whether he is silently brooding or in the midst of a violent outburst. When he is at his best, the deadened inwardness of his eyes, the heavy furrow of his brow, the defensive hunch of his shoulders and the stubborn angle of his chin are enough to provoke just the right mix of fear and pity in the audience. One feels pity for a man who has seldom known gentleness or untarnished accomplishment, and one who is as familiar with violence as he is with a hangover.

But for all this, the production is over-acted. While telling his story, Roebuck's physical re-enactments of the recounted events are often too literal, too exuberant. He breaks out of the seamless embodiment of his character in order to "act out" what he's recollecting. Considering that the story is being told 10 years after it occurred and the ponderous personality of the protagonist, these mimetic re-enactments seem cartoonish—a misplaced attempt to add excitement to the play. But this play is not about excitement; it is about regret, helplessness and the suppression of desire. The violence is almost incidental, merely a more affecting context in which to frame a story about unremarkable people who couldn't realize their meager aspirations, who couldn't escape the manipulation and cruelty of other, smarter, more powerful people. "The Good Thief" is a disquieting examination of powerlessness and victimization in their most disturbing forms.

In the background of all this, you can feel McPherson trying to communicate something specific about life in Ireland. The play is littered with casual references to violence and instability; a local councilman who has his thugs beat an innocent man in order to extract a bribe, unchecked IRA loyalists exacting gruesome revenge on behalf of their slaughtered compatriots, a respectable real estate broker who is only momentarily put out to hear that his friend has murdered two people and utterly under-eager policemen who seem resigned to the crime all around them. These passing references vein through the body of the play, creating an impression of a deeply troubled nation where lawlessness is the norm.

This play is worth seeing. In his more restrained moments, Roebuck is able to gather the play into himself and give it realism. At such times, the gravity of the play flows in his body and seems to physically weigh him down, creating a gut-wrenching portrait of an unexceptional human hopelessly burdened with a torment he can't identify.

"The Good Thief" part of the Unframed Series at New Stage Theatre plays Jan. 27th at 10 p.m. and Jan. 28th at 7:30 p.m. in the Hewes Room at New Stage Theatre. Tickets are $5 at the door. Mature audience only.