The Lieutenant of Inishmore, NUTS, Kambri Drama Theatre, 10-13 May

Martin McDonagh hit the world's stages in the late 90s - one of the "In-Yer-Face" generation of the late 90s like Sarah Kane, Mark Ravenhill, and Jez Butterworth - plays that put sex and violence back on stage in a modern Jacobean era of excess. The fifth of his plays, "Lieutenant of Inishmore", hit the stage in 2001, like the first four, set in Ireland, in this case, during the then-recent era of 1993 (five years before the 1998 Good Friday agreement), and deals directly with the IRA's history of terrorism in the country, treating it as a product of individual ego and stupidity in a blackly comic extravaganza featuring a lot of carnage, both human and feline. Mocking both sentimentality and brutality in equal measure, it's heartless and hilarious. 

McDonagh has been criticised by many native-Irish writers as using Irish stereotypes to get ahead (he's of Irish parentage but has never lived there) at the expense of their community, and certainly, this isn't the play you'd go to for a nuanced political view of the situation - it's a fast-paced gorey spoof featuring hot-headed men (and one woman) making impulsive decisions that can only really end one way. Director Liat Granot plays it with Over the Top Enery, all the performances primed for maximum comedy. It's not a subtle production, but it's not a subtle play. If there's a little too much floor-acting for the limited sightlines of the Kanbri Drama Theatre, the storytelling is still clear and it makes the carnage slightly easier to take if it's just very slightly out of view.

Toby Griffiths as the titular lieutenant has surface charm and the right kind of intensity to be a true psychopath. Zara Hashmi as the immature Mairead plays the role perhaps a little quiet and non-committed - she's a little too concerned with looking nice rather than suiting the role. Jamie Grey and Wyatt Raynal as Donny and Davey are a double-act in equal stupidity as two-almost-close-to-normal-but-still-insane figures trying to escape a very likely fate. Adam Gottshalk, Paris Scharkie and Anna Kelley as a terrorist trio show self-righteiousness and egomania well. And Eli Powles in his one scene as torture victim James steals every moment he can, even down to dealing with an increasingly malfunctioning chair with aplomb. 

This is by no means the most polished or smooth work that I've seen, not even in the last 48 hours or so. But there's a reckless energy that suits the play here, a wild eccentric power that gives us McDonagh's twisted world straght between the eyes, and lets it hit home.