The Fossil watch company shall be hearing from my attorneys in short order. At the conclusion of a performance of Disco Pigs (at the Irish Rep through March 4), the timepiece on my wrist indicated that only seventy-five minutes had passed. Preposterous. Surely seventy-five hours had gone by, hence my forthcoming legal claim against the watch manufacturer. I will be seeking punitive damages as well as recompense for the days lost in a combination of disbelief, disgust, and boredom while the play droned on in a monotone of studied surliness.

Written by Enda Walsh and first staged in 1997, the two-hander set in a small Irish city aims to sound “like a load of instruments being thrown down a cliff while they’re still being played,” in the playwright’s words to his director, John Haidar. Mission accomplished, chaps. The putative...

 
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