Wednesday, 2 August 2017

Jez Butterworth's 'The Ferryman': the politics of the (Northern) Irish play

(Official poster for the West End transfer of Jez Butterworth's The Ferryman, at the Gielgud Theatre)

I didn't see The Ferryman during its first run, at the Royal Court Theatre; running from the end of April to the end of May, it famously sold out in one day. However, I was extremely lucky that my friend -- a culture critic and journalist -- took me to the press night of the West End transfer at the Gielgud Theatre.

'Press night' is a strange description for what took place, though; as the press had already (mostly ecstatically) reviewed the first production at the Royal Court, the 'Press night' actually consisted of the glitterati of British drama, tv, and showbiz: perhaps explaining the near-unanimous standing ovation at curtain call, and the chumminess of the audience with the actors on stage. But maybe what was also going on was something more complex and fraught -- something about what happens when an apparently 'Irish' play, but written by a non-Irish playwright, gets performed in the West End. I'm not sure if people quite felt able to respond honestly.

David Tennant was sitting next to me. I watched him, as slyly as possible, for evidence of his responses. A quick search tells me that Tennant's father, as I had thought, was a Church of Scotland Minister -- and also that Tennant is descended from Ulster Protestants, and that some of his descendants were members of the Orange Order. This is not to harp on about celebrity, but rather to highlight an example of what Sean O'Hagan pointed out recently in The Guardian: that some of the uncomfortable politics of The Ferryman -- an Irish play, written for a largely English (largely middle-class) audience -- have been glossed over by the press. Without giving too much away -- because The Ferryman is definitely worth going to see (it is the most gripping play I've seen in years, despite breaking my cardinal 'theatre rule' of lasting longer than the average film) -- the story takes place in 1981, at the height of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. However the focus is shifted to a large farmhouse in the countryside, with the head of the family trying to avoid his IRA past. Circumspect glances at my neighbour told me that in places the story was uncomfortable; that not all of the difficult topics could be glossed over by the play's humour (children swearing and drinking, a mad old auntie); and that he wasn't quite joining in with the general ribaldry of the occasion. Of course, there might have been many reasons for this; but it did make me wonder whether our general lack of understanding of, or interest in, Northern Ireland (as the recent election has shown) was writ large that evening -- our uncertainties and ignorance covered over with laughter and applause. It is not an accident that the easiest way to get a Pointless answer in Pointless is to mention a Northern Irish political party.

Just after going to see the play, I came across a very interesting blogpost by Patrick Lonergan entitled 'Is Jez Butterworth's The Ferryman an Irish play?' For one, as Lonergan points out, Butterworth isn't Irish; in fact, the main plot of the play is derived from the true story of the uncle of one of the actresses in the play, Laura Donnelly. Lonergan is at pains to point out that Butterworth's lack of Irish provenance shouldn't matter; however Sean O'Hagan is not as magnanimous, accusing the play of 'paddywhackery' and noting that 'Butterworth is an English writer grappling not just with the complexities of Northern Ireland politics and culture at a pivotal time in its history, but also with the full weight of the Irish dramatic tradition'. I'm not sure, however, that Butterworth is grappling hard enough with these things, and perhaps that's part of the problem. Critics have been at pains to point out that Butterworth's previous hit play, Jerusalem, dealt with English and Englishness; yet in a 2011 interview with The Guardian he rather backtracks on this, saying that what started off as a play about 'England and the English' ended up being more 'personal', and that though Jerusalem appears to be concerned with myth and history, actually his research for the play was far bittier and fragmented.

As an interesting point of comparison, both Lonergan and O'Hagan note the various Irish literary influences that Butterworth makes manifest throughout The Ferryman -- Yeats, Heaney, Friel and the playwright Tom Murphy in particular -- but on the other hand, this borrowing from a tradition through books rather than through living strikes them as somehow inauthentic. Can we access a culture just by reading around it? And yet, here's another problem. Why shouldn't Butterworth borrow from a tradition to write a play? Hasn't Western drama, from at least Shakespeare onwards, borrowed from other cultures to tell its stories? Both O'Hagan and Lonergan reference Brian Friel's play Wonderful Tennessee in their critiques of The Ferryman, but what both of their commentaries, and the play itself (perhaps by accident), kept returning me to was that famous line from Friel's Translations (1980):

Hugh: I will provide you with the available words and the available grammar. But will that help you to interpret between privacies? I have no idea.

Certainly, the broad brushstrokes in the depiction of Northern Irish Catholic characters in The Ferryman suggest a move away from the 'privacies' of subtle, tribal, communication that Friel describes in Translations: instead we are in a world where everyone tells stories, where the priest is compromised, where rebel songs are sung and where everybody drinks. But then again, are we so far from the depictions of Irish characters on-stage in 'London Irish' plays like Martin McDonagh's The Beauty Queen of Leenane or even Conor McPherson's The Weir -- an Irish play, undoubtedly, but certainly capitalizing on the continual demand for Irish plays on the London stage? And yet, what we have in the case of The Ferryman is an endless circle, one encouraged by British and Irish alike. By writing about the Irish, the British are in danger of reviving the stereotypes that prevented the Irish from asserting their own cultural autonomy; by criticizing these same attempts, the Irish risk closing off their culture to outside influence, or wider cultural discussion. And this is without even mentioning the complex cultural and political paradigm of the North! I'm sure that some people in Ireland would think that I, as an academic working in Britain with an Irish mother, shouldn't even be commenting on such a difficult subject. But if I was to hazard a conclusion, it would be this: that had Butterworth written a more nuanced play, which delved more deeply into the social and cultural politics of the North, we would probably be asking fewer questions.

And that's without even discussing the accents!


Sunday, 15 January 2017

It's Oscars Season! Adjectives are rife!


 Over the last few weeks, in dull, dark January, I've been to see four films: A United Kingdom, Paterson, Manchester by the Sea and La La Land. In my personal opinion, I would rank them, from best to worst (as follows): Manchester by the Sea, A United Kingdom, La La Land, and then Paterson. In recent run-downs of film listings in well-known newspapers, these four films were described as: 'bleak' (Manchester), 'stirring' (United), 'joyful' (LLL) and 'Indie whimsie meets profound' (Paterson): all were given five stars. Although I don't wish to harp on too much here about how disappointing I found La La Land (very!), or how faintly ridiculous I found Paterson (particularly as someone who loves poetry), what I am in danger of doing -- just like the critics themselves -- is casting a film in a certain light and then influencing the way everyone watches it. For some reason, this tendency to apportion an adjective to a film and then stick with it, despite the fact that the film might alter its mood many times, is particularly prevalent during Oscars Season.

As English literature students, we were always told to avoid using adjectives and adverbs -- particularly ones that provide a shortcut to an argument without providing additional support. Obviously, journalists need to put forward a point of view, and they need to write in soundbites; otherwise they wouldn't be doing their job. Nevertheless, I can't help but think that such soundbites sway the way we receive and review films ourselves. We want to see La La Land as joyful, rather than (as one critic, buried far down the search engine results, described it) 'superficial': when enough people use the same term, that other voice is drowned out. It also leads to some uncomfortable moments. When my husband and I left the cinema after watching La La Land, we whispered the word 'boring' to each other, afraid that the Ryan Gosling-obsessed cinema-goers would give us a tongue-lashing. (Here's another word I can think of to describe 'The Gosling': over-rated. And here's another: average.) But in a post-truth, post-Brexit, post-Trump era, a film that comes along promising an 'intravenous shot of joy', as another critic put it, will deliver this: even if it doesn't, not really.

On the other end of the scale, to describe Manchester by the Sea as merely 'bleak' is to dismiss the complexities of moods, tone and character that are expressed and teased out throughout this wonderful film. If I had to choose one way to describe the film, it would be 'redemptive'. Yes, the story-line is unbearably sad, but there are funny moments too, and moments of kindness and deep love. We learn far more about the relationship between the characters played by Casey Affleck and Michelle Williams in two scenes than we do about those played by Ryan ('The') Gosling and Emma Stone in La La Land. Maybe we don't watch the second one for character development. But there isn't much else there, because there are hardly any other characters in this film. I feel churlish criticising it so much: it's obviously a well-meaning film, and I really wanted to love it. But I feel it's a film for our times: times in which we expect so little, that we're happy with any crumb of 'joy' we're given. When I want joy in future I'll take Gentlemen Prefer Blondes -- every single time.



Thursday, 8 December 2016

Sabbatical number 1

I'm writing this post in the final stretch of my first term of sabbatical leave. I was really lucky to be able to spend the term away from Oxford -- the below is my view -- but I didn't write this post to gloat. The sabbatical leave is an odd fish. People here (in France) don't seem to understand what it is (although that might be my bad French); it is nice when they mistake me for a student on her gap year, though. I looked it up (does Google translate count?), and the word for sabbatical is more or less the same... 'Sabbatique': that's what I thought! Although perhaps it has a different meaning?!

Before I began my sabbatical, my brother (who's an historian) sent me a link to a blog article, 'Seeking Sabbatical Advice', written by someone about to go on her first term of sabbatical leave. As far as I can tell, she wasn't offered much in the way of advice. This is telling. I'm not sure that there is much of a template for these things. For me, it was a great excuse to catch up on writing deadlines, to work on my new book, and to clear my inbox. I finally cleared my inbox today – for about 2 hours – but there is something oddly frightening about a screen that declares 'Inbox: 0 items'. It immediately, perversely, makes me want to run back to civilization. At the same time, I'm enormously admiring of a colleague (and friend of mine) who told me he keeps to a '<5' email inbox. That will definitely be my mantra going forward. Of course, a sabbatical is surely, mostly, about making resolutions you will never keep. Plus ├ža change...




That picture of Marilyn Monroe reading 'Ulysses'

It's been a while since I posted -- blame the man I met, and subsequently married, since my last post -- so there's lots to catch up on from the past couple of years...

Let's begin with Marilyn. Over the last two years I've been working on an edited collection entitled Navigating the Transnational in Modern American Literature and Culture, and in addition to co-editing and co-writing the introduction, I wrote a chapter for it entitled 'Man and the Echo: W. B. Yeats in Contemporary American Poetry and Song'. During the same period, I had been discussing (with a variety of people) the ways in which apparently 'high' culture becomes assimilated into apparently 'low' cultural forms–and the attendant presumptions (and snobberies) that come with this. I was also reading my colleague (and friend) Edward Clarke's book The Vagabond Spirit of Poetry, which brilliantly connects pop culture with poetic culture in a challenging and provocative way.

Inevitably, as might be the case with all academics working in Irish studies and/or Modernism, my thoughts turned to Joyce's Ulysses, a book that seems to be the most cited in discussions of 'high' and 'low' art; only relatively recently, Declan Kiberd argued (in Ulysses and Us: The Art of Everyday Living) that the novel had been misappropriated by the academy and was meant to be read and discussed by the 'everyday' person walking around Dublin. This, perhaps inevitably, led me onto Marilyn Monroe, and that famous picture of her reading Ulysses (not upside down, as some cruel commentators have often claimed).

What I am interested in, is what this photograph does to our expectations (and presumptions) as readers. In one sense, the photograph, taken by Eve Arnold in 1955, is one of the most persistent and iconic images of American artists interacting with Irish culture. It's a surprisingly touching, innocent pose which (perhaps inevitably, but certainly frustratingly) has now become more famous for its discussion of whether Monroe actually read Ulysses than for the beautiful composition of the photograph. Arnold, however, insisted that Monroe was reading the novel, and that she was travelling around with it in her car for some time. What is perhaps surprising, though, is not that Monroe was reading Ulysses, but that there was so much disbelief surrounding whether the 'dumb blonde' American actress could read it. But perhaps the more pertinent question is: why not?

It's always a challenge, when confronting images that subvert our expectations concerning 'high' and 'low' culture, to know how to respond to them. We're nervous lest we should be condescending or patronising, or (perhaps worse still) cheerleading: there's a kind of gun-ho, 'you go, girl!' mentality to the declaration 'Why wouldn't she have read it?'. Yet at the same time, we know that Ulysses has beaten many a reader. A colleague of mine once said in a lecture that only around 1 in 8 of the people who claimed they had read the novel actually had. Are you part of this secret majority? Your secret's safe with me.

           

Sunday, 29 June 2014

Lee Miller/ James Joyce

In Dublin for a conference a couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate to be surrounded by 'Bloomsday' excitement -- and felt drawn particularly to a new event at the James Joyce centre, 'Lee Miller in James Joyce's Dublin'. I've followed Miller's work in different ways over the years -- saw portraits of her by Man Ray at the National Portrait Gallery in London, visited Farley Farm House (the home she shared with Roland Penrose and a focal point for British surrealism), marvelled at those famous photographs of Miller in Hitler's bath -- but these small, quiet snapshots of life in Dublin in 1946 were somehow just as, if not more, affecting. In the photographs Miller traces the journeys of Ulysses and Dubliners but also encounters the people and places that shaped Joyce's life and work (he had died in 1941, previous to her photographic Odyssey), and she does so with stillness and grace. There is very little of the tourist gaze in these photographs, which makes the American photographer's work all the more valuable I think.


Advertising poster for 2014's Bloomsday Festival, James Joyce Centre, Dublin

Saturday, 3 May 2014

Faith, doubt, and the Passion: 'Calvary' and 'Rev.'


In the last month I've seen two extraordinary pieces of writing on faith, doubt and humanity focusing in on a protagonist who is a priest: Irish film-maker John Michael MacDonagh's wonderful, bleak and shockingly moving Calvary, and the (increasingly challenging) third series of the BBC 'black comedy' Rev. Both, I think, are brilliant for the ways in which the central characters, who themselves are flawed humans, try to believe in the good in people in ways that are sometimes uplifting, sometimes demotivating and other times completely heartbreaking. 


Both stories use the Easter narrative to brilliant effect too, allowing the trials of their protagonists to follow a recognisable journey: but it would be giving it away to say too much. The question central to both seems to be whether faith has consonance in the modern world. And just as they appear to answer that question, to get close to an ultimate response, they step back again: infuriatingly, perhaps, but brilliantly, of course. It helps, also, that Brendan Gleeson and Tom Hollander are both wonderful actors of 'face', for want of a better expression. Oh, and look out for Chris O'Dowd in Calvary as a butcher who's handy with a cleaver -- and Liam Neeson as a shell-suit wearing 'God' in Rev. (yes, really).