Relocating

I'm relocating all of my 'Journal' entries to their own datestamp to keep them out of the main feed. Anyone interested in reading them can head to posts on May 22nd for Academic, May 23rd for Cultural. Or, click the links below under 'Labels' to jump to a category, or see them all.

Academic Journal 15 - Quiet Reflection

I began watching ‘The Quiet Man’ before going to Dublin, but I turned it off. It just felt too schlocky – all of my research had made it clear that while vast portions of Ireland were very rural, it was in many ways as cosmopolitan (especially in Dublin) as anywhere in the USA or mainland Europe. ‘The Quiet Man’ just sat poorly with me, and while in Ireland, I wondered at times why the program asked us to watch the film; I couldn’t figure it out, so when I got back I decided to knuckle down and watch the damn thing. Having done so, I have a few ideas on why it was on our films list.
Obviously, the film is set (and was filmed) in Ireland, and has some fantastic views of the landscape. Passing through rural Ireland on train and bus rides, it’s easy to see that much of the country does still look that way. Perhaps part of the goal was to remind us of that fact, since we were spending the majority of our time in cities and towns rather than the countryside and it would be easy to forget the agrarian roots of the country. It could also have been a subversive move by the faculty to see I we would fall into the trap of thinking that 1950’s Ireland was what we should expect.
Hand in hand with that, the film presents a number of common stereotypes about the Irish. Mary and Red certainly have the famed Irish temper, and even Sean as an ex-boxer (fulfilling another stereotype about Irish athletes, I suspect) embodies this tendency towards violence. The importance of drinking, though not entirely a stereotype, is also featured in the film as Sean and Red become friends over a fight and a pint. Dragging Mary back to town from the train, followed by cheering townsfolk (one of whom provides him with a stick to hit her with) sends an interesting message about the role of women in Irish culture, and quite frankly about the perception of women in America at that time as well; perhaps we’re meant to reflect on that, and to compare that to more recent Irish films featuring strong female characters. The film also features scenes of wealthy people congregating, as contrast to the more “simple” lives of the villagers, which is a theme we returned to often when discussing imperialism.
After thinking on it for a while, there seem to be many potential reasons to watch ‘The Quiet Man’ before, during, or after a trip to Ireland, but I don’t feel that it would have been integral to my visit, or that I somehow missed out by not watching it before going. In fact, I’m glad I watched it after returning home, so that I had an actual context of Ireland to compare it to, instead of vice-versa.

Academic Journal 14 - Once Ending (Twice Shy)

I really enjoyed ‘Once;’ in fact, I went out and bought the soundtrack/score from Amazon.com as soon as I got home from Ireland. The timing to watch it was right, as we recognized many of the areas of Dublin where filming occurred, which I think helped us to identify with and relate to the film in a different way than we would have at the beginning of the trip. One thing that really stuck with me about the film was the ending. I was pretty sure that I had the ending predicted early on; their awkwardness would melt away as they worked together, leading to a stolen kiss, a lingering embrace, and at long last they would “find” each other. Even signals that seemed to belie this expectation fed my belief – he called his ex girlfriend and said he was coming to find her, but of course at the last minute he would have a change of heart. After standing him up, the Girl would catch him at the airport, or fly to London to find him. When he left the airport towards the end, I just knew he was running to her arms, and when the piano arrived, I just knew she would be on the next plane.
But it didn’t happen, which some of my classmates disliked. They felt that these two characters had been built up as a romantic couple over the course of the film, and were somehow robbed of that by the end. I disagreed, but at the same time I see their reasoning, and expect that many people (at least, Americans) might feel the same way. It’s a difficult ending in many ways. It isn’t a tragic ending, where they secretly pine for each other as they stumble through the lives they chose. It’s a happy ending in that he is off to pursue a career and she has her husband with her, but it’s not happy in the sense of the Boy and Girl ending up together. Why did the writer and director choose to end the film this way, with him leaving to be with his ex and yet buying the Girl a piano even after she stood him up the night before?
I don’t know for sure, but I have a theory: the romantic plot is there to serve the main plot of musicians coming into their own talent, rather than the other way around. I assumed from the start that this was the story of two people who fall in love, and that the musical subplot was a vehicle to tell the story of their relationship; that’s the way many romance films seem to be structure – whatever the main characters do is just a part of how they get together, which serves the story of a budding romance. But the screenwriter didn’t want to tell a love story, s/he wanted to tell a music story. How do we get these two musicians to work together? He’s broken hearted, and she’s a lonely foreigner. Hey, a romantic interest between them! I think that might be what threw off my classmates – like me, they expected a love story carried by a musical arc. But I love films that feel different, and ‘Once’ was surely that.

Academic Journal 13 - Some Mothers Son

Some Mothers Son was an excellent and moving film, and I was especially struck by the final exchange between Kathleen Quigley and Annie Higgins. After Kathleen tells Annie that she signed the form to remove her son from the hunger strike, Annie (whose son had just died as a result of the strike) responded that she was glad Kathleen had that option, and that someone had to do it. Annie had been a staunch supporter of the IRA’s actions and of the strike itself up to that point, and I had expected her to be angry and accuse Kathleen of being a traitor, or perhaps the film to end with Kathleen’s car exploding when she next started it, or something similar. Annie’s response was a surprise to me, and I’m still not 100% sure what she meant by it.
At first I thought it might be a little sarcastic. We know that Annie lost a child to the British forces, fueling her IRA sympathies and support of her son as a member, so I understand why she felt that she had no choice but to let her son continue on his strike. Telling Kathleen that she was glad she had the option of ending it could have been a dig at her for subverting the cause, or a reminder that Kathleen hadn’t experienced loss the way Annie had. But then why would Annie say that someone had to end it? The IRA position was that Thatcher had to give in to their demands and end the strike, so I understand the wording, but why would Annie be so accepting of Kathleen’s decision?
What I’ve come to believe is that Annie is acknowledging a deeper strength in Kathleen than she herself possesses. It takes great strength and courage to stand up for what you believe, and arguably even greater courage to starve yourself to death for your beliefs. It seems on the surface that Annie had the greater strength to stand by and let her son kill himself, but in fact I think it was the easier road. By allowing her son’s strike to continue Annie can absolve herself of responsibility by blaming Thatcher; after years of supporting IRA activities, standing up and ending the strike would not only be counterintuitive, but potentially dangerous if the IRA decided that she was a traitor to the cause. Kathleen’s decision to take her son off the strike was not a sign of weakness or giving in to Thatcher, but in fact a standing up to the insanity of the standoff and the waste of life. How could anyone not envy that sort of strength?

Academic Journal 12 - Feminine Power

We’ve discussed in class how females have often been portrayed as “weak” or subjugated in Irish literature, especially with the influence of British and Catholic patriarchal systems. However, I have noticed a surprising number of examples of very strong, even aggressive female characters in more contemporary works. Ms. O’Shea in A Star Called Henry is an excellent example of a woman who is not just independent, but downright dangerous as a soldier. Even after marriage, her activities never become “domestic;” in fact, Henry refers to an incident burning down a barracks as a night out with HER, rather than a night out with him. Trudy in When Brendan Met Trudy follows in this same iconoclastic vein; a professional thief, she brings the mousy Brendan into a world of danger and excitement he could never have expected. At the Galway Film Fleadh, I saw two films with strong Irish female leads who were not only fierce survivors but had some kind of “mystic” power, subverting the withered crone stereotype even as they skewer the weak female one. This empowerment of women can be seen in the public sphere as well; despite the Republic of Ireland’s tendency towards Catholic values, the President of Ireland has been a woman for the past twenty years (Mary Robinson 1990-1997, Mary McAleese 1997-present).
It seems to me that the Irish Republic has been quick to embrace women’s empowerment, and I suspect that their mythic tradition has something to do with this, as Ireland has a number of powerful and important female characters in their mythology, from goddess-like figures such as Macha and The Morrigan, associated with war and sovereignty, to famed queens such as Maeve who ruled as equals with their kings (I’ve read some sources that claim marrying Maeve was the only way to become king in the first place). I believe that a mythic tradition featuring powerful females has enabled the people of Ireland to move more quickly towards equality of the sexes in spite of centuries of patriarchal tradition imposed by invaders.

Academic Journal 11 - Something About Mary

Several of the films we have watched include depictions of the Virgin Mary in a less than flattering/helpful light; I believe that these depictions are not merely symptoms of iconoclastic filmmaking, but reflect a deeper shift in the Irish attitude towards religion. We learned in lecture that religious sentiment in Ireland had been deeply shaken in recent years by scandals within the Catholic church, and this loss of faith can be seen in the way the Virgin Mary is reacted to and portrayed in Irish cinema.
In Margo Harkin’s Hush-A-Bye-Baby, after Goretti tells her friend Dinky that she is pregnant, Dinky addresses a nearby statue of the Virgin, admonishing it not to move (visions of Virgin statues moving/crying/etc. were apparently common in many areas of Ireland at the time). Rather than turning to the icon for aid or comfort, the characters shun her and make clear that the grim reality of the situation is something they intend to deal with without praying for divine intervention. Goretti’s dreams, in which she seems to see herself transposed with a statue of the Virgin, her growing belly straining at the glass window, seem to show a horror of motherhood; her shame and fear manifest in a nightmare trapped for all to see.
In Neil Jordan’s The Butcher Boy, the Virgin Mary herself begins appearing to young Francie Brady, giving him messages of hope and comfort which fail utterly to help his situation as he spirals further into nihilistic madness. In addition, her visits begin AFTER he starts claiming to have seen her, hinting that although the viewer is led to believe (by her later manifestations) that Francie does in fact see her, the visions themselves may not in fact be real or divine, but rather a hallucination. Jordan seems to suggest that religion is self-inflicted, brought on not by the will of the divine, but by the desire of the human mind. Additionally, these visions (and by extension those of scripture) aren’t helpful to us, giving vague comfort and advice that proves meaningless in the face of real life dilemmas.

Academic Journal 10 - Guiness and Kilmainham Gaol

Visiting either of these locations is a postmodern experience, participating in what Peter Lyth called “Heritage Tourism,” visiting sites of historical and cultural significance rather than of natural beauty or splendour. However, the two differ somewhat in how they invite the tourist to encounter the historical materials contained within.
The Guinness Storehouse tour and exhibits are installed in the ‘Hops House,’ not the brewery itself. The building itself is no longer used for any part of the brewing process, so it is unlike visiting the Miller brewery or Jim Beam distillery where work still continues on-site (or did when I was there). Much of the equipment from the days when the building was a working part of the brewery is still there, integrated (or converted) into attractions and exhibits, so you have at least a sense of it being “real,” but the truth is that it is a representation, luring you into the illusion that you are witnessing the actual brewery in some way. Although there is some attempt to educate the visitor as to the history and techniques of the brewery, the emphasis is on an enjoyable and fun experience, as evidenced by the interactive kiosks, pouring lessons, pubs and videos.
Kilmianham Gaol, meanwhile, is the real deal. We tour the actual, brick-and-mortar prison where thousands of criminals and political prisoners were housed and executed. The tour is led by a guide who tells the history and stories of the prison, pointing out cells where the famous resided and relating statistics and numbers that make clear the dark history of the place. It is very low-key, and strives to be educational wherever possible, and yet it is not so different from Guiness. The museum houses interactive exhibits and artefacts, the stories told by the guide are engaging, violent or sad, playing on the emotions of the participants to keep their interest. The intersection of education and entertainment is readily visible, as well as the heritage tourism mindset of peddling a country’s history as an attraction. There are obvious differences in the way they are portrayed and the implied motivation behind the attractions (profit vs. education, profit vs. upkeep, etc.) but in the end it feels like they boil down to the same essential thing. Walking the stones of the prison didn’t seem to put me in the shoes of the revolutionaries any more than the planks of the storehouse made me feel like a brewer (despite my ‘honorary brewers assistant’ online quiz and photocard).
(I hope it doesn't sound like I didn't enjoy these sites, because I did.)

Academic Journal 9 - Ourselves Alone (Malachy)

At the risk of derision by my classmates, I stand by my belief that there is textual evidence that Malachy is beginning to change for the better at the end of the play.
Despite the fact that the unborn child is half-British and the son of Joe, a (suspected) traitor to the Republican movement, Malachy defends it. Liam, the child’s uncle, wants to kill it because it is Joe’s child, but Malachy stops him aggressively, declaring himself the father, saying it is “[his] baby now . . . [his] blood” (79), and making clear that he will protect the child from anyone who would harm it. This is surprising, given Malachy’s pattern of hard-line Republicanism and threatening nature. He is taking his daughter and her child under his protection and back into his home; yes, this gives him power over her, but I don’t believe that this is his ultimate goal. A classmate argued that he is taking the child in so that he can manipulate it, train it to be a good little soldier, but I think this is unsupported. First of all, he already has a grandchild whose father (Liam) was imprisoned, thus effectively fatherless. Why didn’t Malachy take in Donna and her child, which was also his blood, to begin training Catherine as the next generation of messenger/servant? Perhaps it is because it is a granddaughter that he never took them in, taking in this child in hopes of raising a soldier, but for starters we don’t know the gender of the child; it could easily be another girl. In addition, the kid won’t be usable for the IRA for several years, and in the meantime represents a substantial risk to Malachy and his cohorts. An infant will make it harder to move in a hurry if the police come, and will require care, attention and resources that now can’t go to the cause. If Malachy is a cold enough bastard to take in a child just to raise a soldier, he’s cold enough to wait until it’s old enough to be usable.
Is Malachy a nice guy? Probably not. Has he had a Joycean Epiphany? Unlikely. Will he continue to terrorize and manipulate his family, up to and including putting them to work in dangerous positions at a young age? Probably – but his reaction to the coming baby at the end of the play leads me to believe that he HAS changed over the course of events, and that those changes are for the better.

Academic Journal 8 - 'Dancing at Lughnasa' (Film)

On our walk home after watching the film adaptation of ‘Dancing at Lughnasa,’ Keith and I got into a discussion about the scene in which Uncle Jack encounters Rose at the back hills fire, and after a bit of unpleasantness with Danny Bradley, escorts her home. Danny coerces Rose to go with him, and is clingy and belligerent throughout, even threatening to follow her when she leaves with Jack. The entire scene is absent from the play, and her time in the hills is only mentioned briefly by Rose without any of the unpleasant overtones of the film sequence. In fact, she and Danny went up to see the “what was left of the Lughnasa fires” (59). She says that she and Danny were the only ones there, and that the experience was peaceful. Of course, she may have been lying (in the film she relates nothing of her negative experience to her sisters), but lacking any evidence from the text we are forced to take her word for it.
At first I found it odd that the director would add this scene at all, and doubly so that he would make it such a dark experience, demonizing Danny and, by extension, his cohorts at the fire and the ceremony itself. In discussion with Keith, he pointed out something that I hadn’t paid much attention to – that when Uncle Jack escorts Rose away from the fire, he appears visibly shaken, recoiling from the revelry he had until then been participating in (ostensibly as it connected with his years in Africa). Although he joined in as a happy participant, he is clearly unsettled and afraid.
Shortly after this sequence, we see Uncle Jack again – trading hats with Gerry. In this sequence, the actor plays him as lucid, completely in command of his faculties, all but recovered from his culture shock. It’s almost as if his rejection of paganism at the Lughnasa fires has led to a miraculous recovery. This doesn’t come across in the play, but with the addition of the fires sequence and the way it is handled by the director and actors, it seems to send the message that Jack’s mental troubles all stem from his fall into paganism. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the director was trying to make that the “message” of the film, but it is interesting how such a small addition to the adaptation can send a vastly different message.

Academic Journal 7 - 'A Star Called Henry'

I’m a member of an organization that maintains a global role-playing game (trust me, this becomes relevant momentarily). Not long ago, word came down that the Irish affiliate had instituted a policy that any character that had spent time in Ireland required written approval from them. The reason that was most widely cited was Irish players coming to games in America and other countries and being offended by people not from Ireland who were portraying characters with IRA histories and ties. We all accepted this decision, but a lot of people felt that it seemed a bit excessive; although I supported their right to have this policy, I sympathized with those who were against it, until I read this book. I’ll admit I never really stopped to think about the bloodshed and destruction that revolution carries with it, and Doyle does an excellent job of working it into the narrative so that although it never feels like he is trying to comment on it, the read can’t help but internalize a real sense of horror.
As Henry’s violence escalates (along with the revolution itself), it becomes subtly oppressive – reading the passage where he and his wife are pouring oil into a roof to burn out the soldiers inside is a great one where I was reading along and suddenly just struck by the sheer insanity of what was happening. The plan was so casually introduced that it wasn’t until I was well into reading about the resulting fire and explosion that what they were doing really hit home for me. The planned “hits” that Henry discusses and engages in also stuck with me, as I think we tend to think of revolutions (those that we approve of somehow) as wars, with soldiers on both sides attacking each other. In the reality of the novel however, it truly comes across more as a gang war, with hits and retribution coming fast and furious, killing soldiers, policemen and civilians alike for sometimes flimsy reasons justified as part of the war effort. The tactic Henry discusses of forcing the British to crack down on innocent Irish families is chilling, as again it isn’t a thought process that we associate with warfare, where the goal is to destroy the enemy outright, or at least to outlast him until he retreats. It’s the mindset of total warfare – everyone is a target.
I think that Americans tend to idealize revolution, which is logical given our history, and the Irish revolution is no exception. We know there was violence and destruction, but somewhere in our minds we get the idea that it was a glorious fight for freedom against an oppressive aggressor. It may have been that, but it was also a bloody, violent conflict that had no qualms about forcing itself on those who wanted no part in it, and I think it’s important to bear that in mind while reading.

Academic Journal 6 - 'Ourselves Alone'

I’m thrown by act 2, scene 1, where Donna has a monologue about the devil. I don’t quite know what to make of it. It seems like she is drawing a connection between this devil and her asthma, and says that Liam’s imprisonment made the asthma and devil vanish temporarily. So it seems like Liam and the Devil are tied together, but it seems like such an obviously stated connection that I have trouble accepting it. Liam’s behavior towards her in the rest of the scene certainly indicates he is a relentless and negative influence in her life, but why include this devil business?
Since the devil first appeared while she was with her first husband, and vanished when her second was put away, maybe she has trouble really accepting that she can live without a man in her life. Blaming the devil for things we don’t like is not a new trick, and personifying him into an oppressive presence could be a way of blaming the asthma on an unavoidable evil rather than a husband she could leave. The attacks start while unhappily married, and continue until the man in her life is forcibly separated from her, at which point they clear up. When he is released from prison and returns home to her, the attacks resume. She’s clearly deeply devoted to him, as she tells him in the same scene, and so it would presumably be difficult for her to accept that he is the trigger for her attacks.
I’ve tried to come up with some grander connection for the devil, but I’m hard pressed to do so. He seems to be a Donna-specific tool for the author to externalize the character’s conflict over her marriage. Maybe the last bit of the monologue, where Donna tells us that she asked the Devil to leave her alone and he agrees to do so (though not, she suspects, for long) is a way of hinting at growing strength for the character, that her time away from the husband and devil have shown her a better life that she is almost willing to fight for. This isn’t particularly supported by the end of the play where Donna suggests she has lost the ability to be happy, so maybe the fact that she suspects the devil won’t stay away forever is the key, showing that she believes herself trapped no matter what, with only Liam’s periods of absence to look forward to.

Academic Journal 5 - 'Waking Ned Devine'

I really liked this film, but I can’t help but wonder why more wasn’t done with the priest and his relationship to the townsfolk. He seems to pop in and out of the narrative without being much a part of it. He sees Morris call the seal, and is reassured by him that he has done a good job, agonizes extremely briefly about the plan to defraud the lottery commission, and performs the funeral service for Ned, but considering the length of the film he’s barely in it, as if he serves only to explain why a priest was driving along the road in time to hit the Witch’s phone box at the end of the film (I assume this is the regular priest returning, but it’s never really clarified).
Many of the characters have these fleeting moments, but theirs seem more substantive. The pub owner appears in a few short segments, but is the one who concocts the plan to open a bank account. He, along with the postmistress, help to set up the evilness of Lizzie, and the postmistress is considered an early potential winner of the lottery. Other characters only appear briefly, but the film makes a point of introducing the priest and showing that he has concerns over his performance in the town and whether the regular priest would approve of the plan. Why add this level of depth to the character if he isn’t going to play a substantive role?
I haven’t figured it out yet, but I have some ideas. Maybe he was in fact the easiest way to set up the other priest driving by in time to hit the phone box. Maybe it’s a commentary on the church focusing on morality over worldly matters (eg, the immorality of fraud vs. the benefit the money will do for the townspeople). Since he goes along with it, maybe it’s a pat on the back for religion starting to come around to the practical side of things. Combine that with the seal incident and a vague knowledge of Selkies in Irish folklore, maybe the church is also perceived as being more willing to connect with “pagan” history and life. Maybe we’re supposed to wonder if the priest is Morris' father, since he seems keen to spend time with him, although that seems unlikely since 10 that would indicate he had been the temporary priest there for some years. At the moment, I lean towards him being a useful tool to explain the priest at the end, and also perhaps to offer a bit of moral justification to the audience, point out that the director/screenwriter considered the ethical implications of what the townspeople were doing, and believes it is plausible that the clergy would go along with it.

Academic Journal 4 - 'Translations'

I was confused at first when reading this play as to why these characters were studying classical languages – not that it isn’t a worthy pursuit, but the utility of this kind of knowledge in a largely agrarian setting eluded me. What I came to realize though is that it is all a part of Friel’s take on language as a tool of conquest. The languages they study are the languages of empires, classical Greek from the Hellenistic period and Latin from the Romans. Both were spread through conquest, and thus became critical to communication among the conquered. This is paralleled by the British military surveyors who are working to make a detailed map of Ireland (surely a helpful tool to retain control of the island), and to translate the Irish place names into English. Although they claim that their aim is to help the Irish join the world community, it is clearly the imposing of a conqueror’s language on the conquered. As Lancey and Owen work to translate local names, Owen muses on the strange way they came about (while marveling at the bewildering variety of recorded names for a single feature) and debates whether it is better to translate the sounds or the meaning. In either case, the translation doesn’t really mean what the original does.
This struggle carries over into the issue of the incoming national school, which is expected to replace the local hedge school almost entirely, providing a modern curriculum with study of the modern world in place of the hedge school’s emphasis on classical and historic learning. Of course, this instruction will include learning the English language at the expense of Irish. In this way, the British seem to be trying to rob Ireland of her history, renaming landmarks and reeducating the people in a calculated effort to bring the Irish firmly under control. Loosing their language will make it much harder for the folklore and history of the people to survive, allowing them to (in theory) rewrite not only the map, but the entire history of a people.

Academic Journal 3 - 'My Left Foot'

I thought that the director’s decision to jump in time from the “present” of Christy’s recognition dinner and the past events of his life, all framed within the story of an attendant (who would later become his wife) reading the book he was being recognized for, to be intriguing and very successful. The vignettes between Christy and the nurse broke up some of the harsher sequences of his life story, and the change in their relationship over the course of the film seemed to mirror the viewer’s own in many ways, moving from a pitying detachment to, frankly, near-outright dislike, and finally a warming respect as his accomplishments rack up. The scenes presented are often not very complimentary towards Christy, and I think the director very much risked alienating viewers and turning them against him, but the inclusion of these interspersed moments of human interaction in the present helped keep us grounded in his humanity.
An especially interesting moment came after the suicide attempt sequence when the camera snapped back to the present focused on Christy himself, as if he had been reliving the events in his mind and was coming back to reality. What made this powerful for me was that until that point, every time that such a snap to the present had occurred it had focused around the nurse character as she read his autobiography, letting the audience see and identify with her growing admiration and fascination. I felt that it humanized Christy, who had increasingly been a notably drunk and depressed jackass, reminding the viewer that he would to some extent overcome what we were being shown. I think that it also helped to develop the relationship between the two characters as they begin to share in the story – it is no longer an artifact handed from writer to reader, but a reality that each is experiencing simultaneously (relatively speaking). Without this moment, I would have had a much harder time accepting the later relationship and future marriage, but this tiny moment of sharing and connecting made it far more plausible to me as a viewer.

Academic Journal 2 - 'The Butcher Boy'

I noticed that American culture cropped up almost incidentally in this film, primarily in media clips on the television and wireless sets. Footage of nuclear testing is shown, reports on the Cuban Missile Crisis and the voice of JFK are heard, and bits of the famous “Duck and Cover’ instructional film are played during Francie’s rampage at the Nugent house. The most relatable instances I saw were in his viewing of American television shows and films on the family television.
Before his father breaks the TV, Francie is seen watching two American shows – The Lone Ranger and The Fugitive. I wonder if these specific shows are used to highlight his developing personal reality. The relationship between the Ranger and Tonto seems to parallel Francie’s perception of his relationship with Joe, and the idea of a secret crusader putting wrongs right seems to fit right in with his actions towards his perceived enemies. Francies claims of persecution and of being framed could easily match to the premise of The Prisoner, who was wrongly accused of his wife’s murder and escaped police custody to find the real perpetrator. Francie’s attempts to escape and reunite with Joe, even after Joe has pretty clearly moved on, seem almost a mish-mash of the two characters, and his turning to the visions of Mary (initially implied to be lies) a parallel for the higher calling both the Prisoner and Ranger share.
Francie is also shown watching the film The Brain from Planet Arous, an American gem about a brain-shaped alien that takes control of a human body to wreak havoc on the Earth (a second brain later arrives to reveal that the first is a wanted criminal). I think that this too connects to Francie’s development (or degeneration), not because he was in some way possessed, but because he perceives himself as a promising young man who is driven to increasingly horrific acts by forces beyond his control. Perhaps it was just me, but I really got a strong sense of inevitability form the story arc, as if what happened couldn’t have gone differently given the situation – Francie’s father, mother, friends and enemies all coming together to push him in a pre-set direction.

Academic Journal 1 - 'Dancing at Lughnasa'

I found the narrative style of this play to be very interesting; the narrating character (Michael as an adult) fills us in on the setting and history of the other characters before the narrative begins, and tells us of the fates of the other characters after it ends, and in-between speaks the lines of his own younger self without actually playing the part (Friel dictates that dialogue I addressed to the imaginary “Boy,” while Michael speaks in his narratorial, adult voice). There is no actor playing the part of young Michael, and all physical interactions with him are pantomimed; his presence is referred to by other characters and implied by his ability to present this story in flashback as an adult, but his physical absence leads the reader to forget that he is there, only “feeling” present when attention is directly called to him.

In reading, it feels as though Friel has taken an external narrator and a focal character and rolled them into one part, moving freely in time and story-space. This technique allows Friel to set up the story and give us a glimpse of the future via a narrator without having an awkward, unexplained “extra” character wandering around observing things (or clumsily written into the background). Using the actor playing adult Michael to voice the young Michael as well creates a connection between the past and present, forging a strong and explicit link between the focal character and external narrator which would have been weakened by having a child play the part.

At the same time, I feel that this technique risks casting Michael as a particularly unreliable narrator. The entire narrative is presented as the memory of a child as recounted by him as an adult, putting a particularly lengthy gap for memory to overcome and implying that it is subject to forgotten details, shuffled timelines and mental editing. The child who becomes our focal character often appears to be absent, even when he is implicitly present (and then, only rarely in the same room as the adult characters), and moreover is presented as preoccupied with building kites, hiding and bushes, writing to Santa and so on. The idea that a child with such a busy schedule would have paid any attention to the goings-on of the house, much less committed them all to memory, seems questionable.

I suspect that reading the play rather than watching it performed weakens these effects; although I knew that Boy and Michael are the same actor using the same voice, in my mind Boy always sounded like a child, and Michael like an adult. Conversely, this tendency to forget the link between them also seemed to reduce the sense of unreliability; it was only when I forced myself to picture the play as performed that these things occurred to me.