Ciara

Ciara is a play about protection, first and foremost. About safety mapped onto the contours of a city or a life, about the dark and dangerous regions beyond havens and wall gardens.

Ciara has built herself a sanctuary of art to hold the reality of her gangster father's brutal way of life—a way of life he has passed on to her husband—at bay. There's a sense in which Glasgow itself is the central character, which Ciara sees as overflowing with stupid, vicious men. "How is it that we produce so many of these men?" she asks.

Her life is described as a forest of violent masculinity, in which art, or one artist in particular, seems to offer respite. His drawing of a naked giantess sprawled over Glasgow is a recurring image of tranquil female dominance.

David Harrower's monologue ripples with well-turned phrases, and its bold, scribbly chronology makes Ciara's story a pleasing challenge to unravel. Unfortunately, Harrower works too hard and takes too long to wrap the ends up again, leaving the conclusion feeling pat rather than suggestive.

It's hard to fault Blythe Duff's reserved, dryly witty performance, except that its rhythms have a tendency to emphasise the tonal repetition of Harrower's writing.

Though its gangland saga becomes steadily less convincing, the picture of Glasgow Harrower sketches is a haunting and persistent one. Harrower paints the city as a microcosm of a world of evil men – where the soil is barren to anything good or pure.