St Nicholas - Donmar Dryden Street and Dublin

I bought it, alnoor, so a belated thank you very much, as I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

Some spoilers follow. . .

If there's a drawback to the play, it's that the character himself doesn't go through much of a crisis or a change, being very much in the role of a storytelling wizard, dazzling us with his mesmeric skills, taking us on an atmospheric journey through multiple layers of a story about his encounter with vampires.

The story ebbs and flows, widens and narrows like a river, as the atmosphere ranges from pitch black to candlelit, with Brendan Coyle's character intimately surrounded by 60 wooden chairs (a set-up exactly like the old Print Room, but with more space between the chairs).

Mrs. Bates from Downton, aka Joanne Froggatt, was in the audience tonight, which added a meta element, as her onetime story husband regaled her with stories about stories being as important as reality, the only way we can make sense of anything. Elaine Cassidy was also in the audience.

If Brendan Coyle was denied the chance to put himself through the story wringer, he certainly put his audience through a dreamy one, hypnotically moving from his hilarious backstory about being the kind of theatre critic who walks out of plays ten minutes before they end, to his dramatic obsession with a woman, to his mysterious encounter with vampires, to the strange stories he was told by vampires, all the way back to the story of us, the audience.

He was a bluff, tough, mischievous storyteller, occasionally rising from his central chair to touch audience members on the shoulder, stare into their eyes, take a spare seat next to them, walk assuredly and calmly among us, a benign predator stalking his victims. Over the course of two hours, he very effectively communicated McPherson's point about storytelling, how compelling it is, as well as how important it is to making sense of the world.

During the interval, however, noone could make any sense of the bar prices, with one lady requesting a small wine, then promptly unrequesting it on hearing the £8.60 price, and not at all tempted fir the large at £9.60. She had an ice cream instead. I couldn't help wondering later if all the unbought wine was decanted into the huge tub of water that Brendan Coyle was scooping up in a glass every fifteen minutes or so, as his relish in his own storytelling increased exponentially over the course of the evening.

All in all, a spellbinding evening, that could only have been improved if McPherson had thought to write some surprises into the story for his storyteller.

4 stars.

And thanks again, alnoor, and theatreboard, for the ticket tip.