Not a Word review – superbly strange tale makes the mundane mesmerising

One egg cup on the shelf, one tin mug, one knife, a game of Solitaire. Such are the trappings of a lonely life. On stage is a sparse home, washed in grey dust, the light a specific shade of dingy. A weary body gets home from work, pulls off heavy boots, strips to saggy underwear. His head, though, is covered with a knobbly mask of thick clay, like a gargoyle, with a pinched nose and tiny eye holes. It’s an alienating presence.

This is the work of Galway-based company Brú Theatre, led by director James Riordan (performed as part of MimeLondon, a descendant of the London International Mime festival). As the title suggests, there are no words, bar a final poem in Irish voiceover, on the experience of exile. The inspiration behind this odd, but oddly affecting piece of theatre, is the story of the Irish navvies, who emigrated to Britain in the 19th century to build railways and other infrastructure, and the lives of forgotten migrants, yearning for home.

Essential to making this all work … Ultan O’Brien, front, plays his instrument. Photograph: Tristram Kenton/The Guardian

The performer behind the mask is Raymond Keane, joined by musician Ultan O’Brien perched on the front corner of the stage. O’Brien’s music is essential to making this all work: a wistful viola, like the hum of a rasping voice; a jauntier violin, recalling jigs and reels of the past; various pedals and effects, making an uneasy, dreamy soundscape. The man is almost revivified by music, and the deep, even painful connection to community and identity it carries. His leg inadvertently twitches with the rhythm, but when he stands, the heaviness of his creaky body, and the woe it carries, won’t let him truly dance.

Little happens. Amid the nothingness of mundane tasks to fill the empty moments – slicing a loaf of bread, picking up a newspaper, scrabbling for coins from a tin on the shelf – there are small, subtle notes of memory, regret, nostalgia, the empty hole of family and love. A single idea is stretched across an hour until the painfully pitiable nature of his situation becomes palpable. From a bald existence is made a strange and surprisingly powerful piece of theatre.