They say that future and present generations are haunted by the ghosts of the past, and Myra’s Story takes this notion and swims in it. From the start, we are presented with the plight of Myra, a homeless alcoholic, awaking from another night of sleeping rough on the streets of Dublin. Many of us would look on such a sight with sympathy; but Myra does not want your sympathy, she simply wants to be heard, to tell her story.
Myra, masterfully portrayed by Fiona Hewitt-Twamley, has a twinkle in her eye as she recalls a love affair with a young wannabe poet and cracks jokes about the colourful characters dispersed about her life, but dark shadows appear on her face as she recalls a torturous upbringing sullied by alcohol and children’s homes. Hewitt-Twamley switches between characters with ease – one moment embodying Myra, another her father, and then a peculiar character sat opposite her in a hospital waiting room. The range and depth of the show’s lead is astounding, but the sheer quantity of peripheral characters and tall tales can be bewildering – it is a difficult task to keep up.
The comedy – intentionally lewd – can, at times, feel at odds with the messaging of the show. It feels as if the show keeps the comedic elements separate from the dramatic, as if you’re torn from the main narrative to be told superfluous jokes or anecdotes. The two sides of the show could have been batter integrated. However, the narrative is well constructed, and you feels as if you have lived Myra’s life and felt her pains as she slides towards oblivion and a sombre conclusion. This show is not called “A Homeless Story,” it is called “Myra’s Story,” and it serves as a stark reminder that all those who are treated as if they are invisible have lives, futures, and captivating stories to tell. They are not charity cases, but people who deserve respect and dignity.
Myra’s Story, Assembly Rooms, Until August 25
