Milo O'Connor, an Irish immigrant in Brisbane, is convinced that he is at death's door. Though his doctors have tested him and found nothing amiss, he is convinced that he can see apparitions in an x-ray of his chest - Nostradamus, the Pope, Jesus, Mick Jagger - which signify imminent death. So he decides to hold a wake while he is still alive, gathering friends and family together to celebrate his life while he's still around to appreciate it. Yet what begins as a rousing mixture of Irish singing and rousing speeches soon spirals out of control, as the gathering which Milo has organised threatens to dredge up dark moments from the family's past.

Pub theatres, and the productions which take place in them, can go one of two ways: stifling or intimate. Thankfully, Milo's Wake manages to be the latter, transforming the claustrophobia of its venue into a strength. The play, in fact, would not work in a larger venue, as it relies on a degree of audience interaction which produces some of the play's most entertaining moments; certain audience members are spoken to as friends of the family, and Milo's wife Maura circulates with a tray of Baileys and Whisky for the audience to sample. With the pleasingly worn out seats on three sides of the stage, the barrier between cast and audience is repeatedly and effectively broken down, and the play is never less than engaging.

The actors generally make a fine job of commanding this level of interaction, without it becoming hackneyed. Andy Hamilton's Milo is suitably overbearing and energetic, and is matched by Frances Bodiam's Maura as his long suffering wife. Both manage to portray their characters without lapsing into cliché, and the play's sensitive treatment of the issues surrounding immigration is one of its strong points. Charlie Sandford and Lisa Davis, as the couple's son and his fiancé, struggle slightly to maintain Australian accents, but this only grates occasionally and is generally glossed over by the sheer energy of the piece.

While the early emphasis of the play is on comedy, centring on Milo's blustering oafishness, the tone of the latter half is very different, as the action veers towards devastating revelations and an examination of family relationships reminiscent of Edward Albee. This shift is managed ably by the actors, who convince in their portrayal of a family torn apart by shared tragedy, yet the play fails to entirely balance these shifts of tone. The attempted conglomeration of farce, tragedy and rousing Irish singing is certainly a brave one on the part of writers Margery and Michael Forde, yet it is difficult to pull off, and can lead to an awkwardness of tone as the action veers between Milo's bitter tears and his renditions of 'The Wild Rover' and 'Danny Boy'.

It is certainly a play worth catching, though, either in Baron's Court or in August when it goes to the Edinburgh fringe. The cast are capable, and the play is intelligently directed by Jane Hammond and Sarah Cottam, who make excellent use of the space in the theatre. The audience being plied with alcohol and drawn into the party is indicative of the best frame of mind in which to watch this play - after a few pints of Guinness, willing to be swept along with the song, the laughs and the tears.

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