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.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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