Image by Batuhan Kayatepe

I am not easily triggered in the theatre, but I couldn’t stand to look at the opening scene in Act Two of Meghan Tyler’s Crocodile Fever. The violence verges on gratuitous, down to the needless massacre of an entire Tayto Cheese and Onion multipack. But this play is set in 1980s Northern Ireland, where violence was unavoidable both inside and outside the home.

The premise relies on stereotypes: pious, house-proud Alanna and her wild-child sister Fianna in over-the-top, Derry Girls-esque performances. The tightening dynamic between the sisters is best illustrated when they fight over a cassette player. This is one of a handful of spectacular theatrical moments, as metaphor gradually turns literal in a beautiful and satisfying manner. Jokes are borrowed from other comedies, but Tyler’s spin on them earns their place. 

The formality of language imbued with religiosity is distinctly Northern Irish, as is the signature dark humour, exemplified in a shrine to the mother who died in a fire directly over the fireplace. The craic continues in the most heightened, unnatural and nightmarish situations. Crocodile Fever is, in equal parts, powerful, inventive, and horrifying.