The devil of it all is that is that, both despite and because of its flagrant use of formula, The Ferryman hooks us through the gills and pulls us along. After all, are we not entertained? There's a live goose, for God's sake. In the wake of the play's frantic, lurid, pull-out-all-the-stops-and-knock-down-all-the-pins conclusion (which makes the whole play feel like the prequel to an as-yet-unwritten bloodbath blockbuster called The Wrath of Quinn), the audience rocketed to its feet - and I got the reaction. Even though, when I stopped to think about it, at least three different elements of the story's final catastrophic 60 seconds left me wondering, "Wait, but why?" In a sense, set and costume designer Rob Howell's rendering of the Carneys' farmhouse, with its barrage of meticulous detail and its absurdly outsize proportions, is the perfect metaphor for the play itself: It's a head-trippy presentation of rich, authentic-seeming texture inside a romanticized, larger-than-life box - a gourmet meal by a very clever chef that somehow gives us the same uneasy satisfaction as Lucky Charms. "That just... almost looked right," said the friend who saw it with me, whose family lives in Donegal, "And... almost felt right. But..."