Theatre night:Blood Wedding.

"That boy will come to a bad end. The blood's no good" - The Father.

My main concern, initially, on attending Marina Carr's adaptation of Federico Garcia Lorca's 1932 tragedy Blood Wedding (or Bodas de Sangre in its original Spanish) at the Young Vic was getting through the nearly two hour running time (no interval) without needing a wee. The view from the cheap seats was fine but no readmittance was allowed so the play would have to be enthralling enough to distract me from my impatient bladder.

Luckily, for the most part, it was. It's well acted, it's well scripted, and it's thoughtful although, disappointingly, I never felt any huge emotional engagement with any of the characters or any of the action. I was never particularly invested and as the story worked its way towards what was always clearly going to be a tragic outcome, even if we couldn't be sure who for, I found I wasn't really bothered.

I wasn't rooting for anyone. I'm not sure I was supposed to be. Carr, a Dubliner by birth, has transported the setting from Lorca's Spain to a rural Ireland (it's all set on 'the mountain') of horses, poverty, and some remarkably old fashioned male attitudes. The story tells of a young man and his impending marriage to a young woman (the characters are rarely given names), that young woman's uncertainty about this union, her fiery affair with Leonardo Felix, and the groom's mother's complete and utter hatred for Felix and his family following a blood feud many many years ago.

A feud the younger characters say should be left in the past but one the older generation, the mother especially, refuse to let go of. The action revolves around the groom and his mother meeting his future wife's family. Leonardo's unhappy relationship with his pregnant wife, and there's also three characters of colour who sing a kind of Greek chorus between scenes, the two male 'choristers' carrying axes for no apparent reason.

They're also put to use moving the scenery and I couldn't help think that it seemed rather superfluous to the action. At least, that is, until near the end when their reason for being there was revealed. It was one of many things that took a while to make sense. At least to me. I'm slow on the uptake at the best of times.

The constant talk of knives had me thinking of the theory of Chekhov's gun and how plays should not make false promises. The red thread an unnamed weaver woman passes through her hands, of course, stands in for blood and its spilling but it also represents a yarn. One weaved and one told. The horses that were oft-mentioned seemed, initially, like somewhat cliched mise-en-scene, almost as if The Rubberbandits had been tasked with stage design. but, again, proved pertinent to the script.

It was all very clever and there's the rub. Perhaps it was just a little too clever. Maybe Marina Carr had tried to combine too many elements and this undoubtedly rich vein of complex intertwined narratives and symbols felt more like a puzzle to solve than a story to savour. Much as I love to have to do a bit of work when I go to the theatre (or cinema, or art gallery), even more so I like to feel something.

But I didn't cry, I wasn't ever scared, and I only laughed once - and even then a brief titter rather than a proper PMSL (which, bearing in mind my earlier observance on the lengthy running time was probably for the best). The cast are all great. David Walmsley's kind hearted, if naive and unworldly, groom does a fantastic job of portraying the vengeance of a cuckolded man who's had his pride dented and his heart broken while Olwen Fouere as his mother, or Whistler's mother judging by her outfit, has just the right amount of acidity you'd expect from a woman who's allowed a feud to consume decades of her life.

Brid Brennan as the Weaver gets her teeth into the spookiest role of the play, Thalissa Teixeira as the Moon (really) has a great voice and even gets to do a little stunt, and Gavin Drea as Leonardo Felix gets to show off his, admittedly impressive, pecs more often than seemed necessary while also spinning round in circles and gliding in the air. He's the horny handed son of the soil and though his character seems sent straight from central casting he pulls it off with no little panache.

Best of all, for me, is Aoife Duffin who, as the Bride, takes a while to assert her authority in this culture of male dominance. It seems likely she'll be punished if she follows her heart and she'll be punished if she follows her head so, on realising this, she makes a decision that causes outrage to many and then qualifies that decision with a feminist reasoning that seems decades ahead of its time.

As the whole thing moves towards its dramatic conclusion, things do really ramp up towards the end, I couldn't help feeling that if Blood Wedding had been edited down to about two thirds of its length it might have worked better. They say revenge is a dish best served cold (though I think the maxim 'living well is the best revenge' serves humanity better) but theatre should always be served warm. The action in Blood Wedding felt like it had been left to simmer a bit too long. Good rather than great.