We watch, for the most part impassively, as “The Night Alive” ’s five characters cling to the refuse-laden reef of their lives—a space littered with greasy food, misbegotten children, bloodstained T-shirts, used condoms, cheap cologne bottles, broken promises, the rubbish of love. From this they try to build a home, but there is no comfort there—not even a window through which to look out at the passing world… .

Hilton Als for the New Yorker on Conor McPherson’s “The Night Alive”