Skull has an intriguing story to tell: Mick Dowd is a solitary, mysterious, and heavy-drinkin' Irishman, hired once a year by an overcrowded cemetery to exhume the long-dead and make way for fresher occupants. As it comes time for Mick to unearth his own wife--who died under mysterious circumstances seven years ago--the past rises to haunt him, and he finds himself defending his honor and the memory of his dearly departed. Skull manages to buoy about with no discernible plot until Act II, maintaining interest and humor solely by way of dialogue between some eccentric and entertaining characters. When the actual plot finally emerges, it's tossed in almost as an afterthought. But surprisingly, this doesn't detract from the show. Skull truly could have sailed on as a fun and memorable piece riding on the high quality of acting (Kevin Tighe and Zoanne LeRoy were superb as Mick and his bingo-playing, poteen-swilling friend Maryjohnny) and playwright Martin McDonagh's rich use of language. A room full of grave-digging, maladjusted drunks with thick Irish brogues going on about piss and puke, drunken driving, and attempted murder is more than sufficient to entertain the average American audience, with or without the story's late-coming cloak-and-dagger developments.