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One death is an accident. Two are a coincidence. Three and a dead dog, well, that’s just bad DIY. In this coal-black farce, the luck of the Irish is dreadful. Indolent actor Mark and his neighbour, failed film writer and failed recovering alcoholic Pierce, are wastrels with no lives. But they quickly become the only characters left alive after a series of accidental deaths in the ill-repaired house they share. Like a Final Destination movie with a Harold Pinter script, the entire ramshackle edifice becomes a Rube Goldberg machine of death, adding a ghoulish hilarity to proceedings as the two protagonists, stone-faced and sweaty-palmed, concoct plausible reasons for why Mark’s apartment has more cadavers than a funeral home in midwinter. Hiding the bodies has rarely been so bleakly hilarious.