Review: THE FERRYMAN at Rochester Community Players

Every so often, a production comes along that reminds you exactly why Irish theatre holds such a special place in the dramatic canon. Rochester Community Players’ The Ferryman by Jez Butterworth is one such production—spooky, mystical, sorrowful, and ghost-haunted, yet always shot through with dark humor and the lilt of everyday life. Featuring a sprawling cast, beautifully detailed performances, and a simple but evocative set, this production captures both the intimacy of a family kitchen and the vast, inescapable weight of political turmoil.

Set in rural Northern Ireland during the height of The Troubles, The Ferryman follows the Carney family as they prepare for their annual harvest. At first glance, the house is filled with the usual bustle: children underfoot, aunts bickering, Uncle Pat telling old tales, and a family holding fast to their traditions. But beneath the surface lies deep unease: the body of Seamus Carney, Quinn’s long-missing brother, has finally been found, a victim of IRA violence. As the family celebrates the harvest and grapples with the reemergence of old wounds, the tension between personal loyalty and political allegiance steadily builds toward a shattering conclusion.

One of the most immediately striking things about this Ferryman is the sheer size of the cast. It’s rare to see such a massive ensemble on stage, and even rarer when each member contributes meaningfully to the story’s texture. Rather than feeling overstuffed, this cast creates a lived-in, bustling world where every raised voice and whispered aside feels natural and true.

In particular, the character acting is superb. Wyatt Doremus as Uncle Pat charms with his sly wit and twinkling eye, spinning yarns of Irish folklore with a storyteller’s ease. Barbara Lobb’s Aunt Pat carries the fire of political anger, delivering cutting lines with sharp precision. And Vicki Casarett’s Aunt Maggie, though confined to a chair and seemingly lost in reverie, breaks your heart wide open in her moments of clarity. Each of these performances helps stitch together a world where myth, memory, and mourning live side by side.

The set design, though simple—a farmhouse kitchen with a few rustic touches—is all the show needs. It becomes a crucible where generations collide, dreams die, and ghosts refuse to rest. The choice to keep the staging understated allows the emotional stakes to shine through without distraction.

But where The Ferryman truly excels is in its balance of the personal and the political. Butterworth’s script is a masterclass in weaving the weight of historical trauma into the small rituals of daily life. The Carneys sing, laugh, fight, and tell dirty jokes, even as the specter of violence lurks just outside the door. You feel both the warmth of the hearth and the chill of the grave, often in the same scene.