Irish Ghosts, No Blarney

Pin-drop silence is a gorgeous sound, one you don’t hear often enough in the theater. It’s the sound of a rapt, ready audience caught up in a moment, a scene strung taut with suspense, a good story well told.

You hear it in the Geffen Playhouse’s excellent production of “The Weir” more than once. But it’s especially piercing in a key ghost story relayed, with exquisite care, by actress Lindsay Crouse. She plays a Dublin woman who has retreated to rural Ireland for reasons revealed to her listeners--four local men, fixtures at the bar run by one of them--each with their own shivery tale to tell.

Young Irish playwright Conor McPherson’s 1997 work premiered at London’s Royal Court Theatre Upstairs. It then moved on to larger houses in the West End and on Broadway. Its particular, wily charms, however, are best enjoyed in a smaller venue.

The Geffen’s just about perfect for “The Weir.” The actors, including John Mahoney, best known as Martin Crane on “Frasier,” can relax, draw us in and put the whammy on us, in between pints and “small ones.” A substantial amount of alcohol is consumed during McPherson’s play; at times during its intermissionless 105 minutes, you may experience the effects of secondhand drinking.

Life in Northwest Leitrim is pretty spare. When a “blow-in” from Dublin rents a cottage, and she’s pretty, it’s news. With a blessedly small amount of exposition “The Weir” establishes its locale, characters and atmosphere.

McPherson first introduces pub owner Brendan (Ian Barford), who lives in the adjoining cottage, and car repair shop owner Jack (John Mahoney), griping about the Guinness tap being out of whack. The talk turns to local well-to-do sport Finbar (Francis Guinan), the only married one of the batch, who’s squiring Valerie (Crouse) on a tour of the area. The men, including taciturn mama’s-boy Jim (Paul Vincent O’Connor), are suspicious--and jealous--of Finbar’s intentions.

When Finbar and Valerie arrive at the bar, the stories begin, offhandedly at first, with Finbar pointing out photographs on the wall. One depicts the local weir (a dam). Then comes Jack’s telling of the “fairy road” story, involving harmless sprites who, local legend has it, trafficked in the very house Valerie has rented.

The next story--Finbar’s, about why he quit smoking--darkens the mood a bit. Then, by chance, Jim’s memory is jogged and he recalls a grave-digging incident from years ago, one that takes an insidious turn toward the realm of “The Turn of the Screw” or, if you prefer, “The X-Files.”

McPherson’s a crafty one. “The Weir” takes us ever deeper into nasty territory (its key supernatural phenomena relate to the death and/or terrorizing of children). Yet the play, finally, works as well as it does because the grimness is wrapped in camaraderie. Once the dam bursts, the stories come flooding out, and the talk is good for the soul. That’s all the play is saying, really. And it’s enough. In the words of a McPherson character found in the more recent (and very interesting) “Dublin Carol,” “The Weir” has “a great listening quality.”

The Geffen production reunites director Randall Arney, formerly with Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theatre, with three Steppenwolf alums. It’s a highly attuned ensemble. Arney doesn’t indulge anyone; the direction is virtually invisible, but in the right way--the gab and the movement have an unhurried quality. (The Royal Court Theatre production, at least as seen on Broadway, was fun, but the grandstanding was pretty ripe.)

Mahoney’s bittersweet Jack, a lonely man with years of bluff and hail-fellowdom on his skin, anchors the production. Barford’s a lumbering charmer as Brendan; Guinan’s self-styled Irish swell represents one end of the local spectrum, while O’Connor’s superlatively controlled and witty portrayal of Jim represents the other, from the tip of his comb-over to the toes of his Wellingtons.

The bar we see in the Geffen production--a kind of dream pub, warm and reassuring, designed by Karyl Newman--is a world away from the Royal Court’s, which was far more drab and dreary (and, probably, more realistic). This one works on its own cozy terms, however. You feel like you’re there, by the fire, overhearing these folks and the stories that haunt them.

One thing would make a strong rendition stronger still: The dialect work at this point is rather spotty, and as good as Mahoney is, he’s the one whose R’s and vowel sounds waver the most. But overall we have a most persuasive and flavorsome production. “The Weir” has been praised as a modern classic by some, especially in England and Ireland; I wouldn’t go that far. But it’s extremely well-made on its own, enveloping terms. And the Geffen does right by it.

* “The Weir,” Geffen Playhouse, 10886 Le Conte Ave., Westwood. Tuesdays-Thursdays, 7:30 p.m.; Fridays, 8 p.m.; Saturdays, 4 and 8:30 p.m.; Sundays, 2 and 7 p.m. Ends March 11. $21-$43. (310) 208-5454. Running time: 1 hour, 45 minutes.

The Weir

John Mahoney: Jack

Ian Barford: Brendan

Paul Vincent O’Connor: Jim

Francis Guinan: Finbar

Lindsay Crouse: Valerie

Written by Conor McPherson. Directed by Randall Arney. Scenic design by Karyl Newman. Costumes by Mary Quigley. Lighting by Daniel Ionazzi. Sound by Jonathan Burke. Music by Richard Woodbury and Michael Kirkpatrick. Production stage manager Jamie A. Tucker.