by Colm Toibin
In the early 1990s Moore and his second wife began to build a house on the coast of Nova Scotia where Jean had been brought up. The house was finished in 1995. Thus Moore spent his last summers in sight of the Atlantic Ocean: ‘It’s beautiful. It looks out on a bay that looks just like Donegal. It’s very wild there and empty. I love it for its emptiness. It’s like Ireland probably once was. Now that I’m old it seems so crazy to build another house, I know. Especially there. But I’m very happy I did all the same.’ That October, he revisited Belfast, walked through his old school for the first time in sixty years and saw the site of the family house on Clifton Street, which he had first described as the professor’s house visited by Judith Hearne forty years earlier. The house had been demolished a month before his visit:
I think as a writer it is very symbolic. Your past is erased. Now it’s as if it’s completely died. I was here a few years ago to film a documentary and I stood in front of the shell and I could remember my father’s brass plate at the door, the patients to-ing and fro-ing. Now what is it? It’s a paradigm of man’s existence on earth. The earth remains and man does not.
Sebastian Barry’s Fatherland
In the first years of the new century the young Irish playwrights wrote about bad fathers. In May 2000, for example, Marina Carr’s play On Raftery’s Hill, in a joint production by Druid in Galway and the Royal Court in London, was performed at the Kennedy Center in Washington DC as part of a festival of Irish culture. Some in the audience at the opening night were old Kennedy stalwarts; others were loyal devotees of Irish culture. It was clear from the silences and the gasps and the shocked comments at the interval that this Irish father on the stage was not familiar to them. ‘The kitchen of the Raftery household’, where the play was enacted, lacked charm, to say the least. There was no dancing at Lughnasa; there were no wild or comic Irish characters; there was even no bitter melancholy; the language was colourful in ways that did not seem to appeal to the audience. The dark cruelty of the father was relentless. Incest, rape, violence, vicious attacks on animals were all central to the drama and its impact. It was an Ireland recognizable to anyone who attended to page four of The Irish Times, which by the mid-1990s was daily covering cases of family horror. But for those whose image of Ireland came from their memory or from the glories of The Quiet Man or Riverdance, this dark Ireland was new and strange.
In 2004 three first plays by Irish writers dramatized a world dominated by bad or mad fathers. In these plays, fatherhood was to be mocked, subverted, shown in all its madness and perversion. Stuart Carolan’s Defender of the Faith, for example, was, once again, set in a rural kitchen. The setting was South Armagh in 1986. As in Marina Carr’s play, Foucault rather than Freud was the dominant spirit, where power over others was the goal, where mindless control and cruelty lay in a fierce embrace on the hearthrug. Foul statement made a constant raid on the inarticulate.
In Mark Doherty’s Trad, first performed at the Galway Arts Festival in 2004, the word ‘Da’ became almost a chant in the play, as a mad father, well past his sell-by date, led his dim-witted son into the temptation offered by hideous prejudices, many non-sequiturs, hilarious wild goose chases and bizarre urges and desires. In Take Me Away by Gerald Murphy, produced by Rough Magic, the father was a manic figure, unprotected, asking absurd questions, lacking all forms of authority, a joke on the stage. As in On Raftery’s Hill, Defender of the Faith and Trad, the mother in Take Me Away was entirely absent. Thus the father was left exposed in his foolishness, his exaggerated needs, his mad requests, his ultimate humiliation.
In his play Hinterland Sebastian Barry sought to move the drama about fathers and their failures from a purely domestic space into the public realm, or into what seemed at first like the public realm. For an Irish audience the character of Johnny Silvester was clearly, and also deceptively, a closely researched version of Charles J. Haughey, who became Taoiseach in 1979 and held that position through some of the 1980s until he was ousted in 1992. Later, in his retirement, Haughey was plagued by allegations, which he himself subsequently confirmed under oath, that he had taken large sums of money from prominent businessmen for his own private use, and had held an enormous overdraft at Allied Irish Banks. If Ireland needed a public figure to become its disgraced father, then Charles Haughey auditioned perfectly for the role and played it with tragic dignity in a lonely exile in his Georgian mansion in North County Dublin.
This was the house of Hinterland. The stage directions set the play in ‘the private study of a Georgian mansion, outside Dublin. All the paraphernalia of a successful political life – citations, presentations, election posters framed.’ The opening speech, however, offered a clue to the great ambiguity that would surround the text and its dramatic intentions. In what was, ostensibly, a stilted letter to his aunts in Derry – Haughey also had family in Derry – about the effects of partition, Silvester mentioned his father, who was ‘hardly the same man after partition, and his physical breakdown may well have been hastened by the same imposition’. Partition, he wrote, separated ‘father from fatherland’; the play dealt over and over with the matter of fathers – Silvester was haunted by his own father’s failure, his wife by her own father’s reputation, and their son by Silvester’s own disastrous fathering.
What distinguished these fathers in Irish plays of the first years of the twenty-first century was that none of them was a tragic hero; they were not caught between two worlds as one collapsed and the other took its place. In these plays, there was only one world, the one that had collapsed and had brought down a reign of terror, or a reign of madness, with no other world come to replace it. These men were static villains, caught in dramatic headlights, willing to destroy, living in a dream of the past. They would always do their worst, and there would be no moments of redemption or recognition or reconciliation. These fathers did not change; they acted and they remembered and they justified their actions. They and those around them were frozen in a ritual in which there was no exit. They were like figures in a Trojan horse, which does not move, which has no Troy in sight.
The act of not killing the father became the core of both On Raftery’s Hill and Hinterland. Letting the father live, against all dramatic expectation, became a powerful and intriguing way of offering no resolution, no easy hope, and an increased tension. It is important to note that both of these plays were written in a time of great and obvious social change in Ireland, a time of new money, new social and sexual freedom and many bright expectations. These plays became a message from the strange, dark, hidden soul of the society. But they were also plays which dealt with both the private and the public. The unrepentant exile of Charles Haughey was a godsend to a playwright concerned with the dramatic possibilities of intractability; he is a hero who is unready for change, on whom everything is lost. Johnny Silvester’s kingdom in Hinterland has already been taken from him; his house, where his wife weeps, is his prison. As his servant leaves him for the night, Silvester uses precisely the same phrase from Othello as Charles Haughey used in the Dáil on the day of his resignation. ‘I have done the state some service.’ Just as he begins then to quote Yeats’s lines about ‘an aged man’ he is visited by Cornelius, a dead colleague, instantly recognizable to an Irish audience as Brian Lenihan, who held many ministerial portfolios in Fianna Fáil governments, and was defeated for the Presidency by Mary Robinson in 1990. One of Silvester’s earliest comments to his old friend mentions his heart transplant; Brian Lenihan, as an Irish audience would know, had a liver transplant.
Hinterland thus contains large numbers of references to details from the career of Charles Haughey that are given to Johnny Silvester as part of his past. Both Silvester and Haughey, for example, were praised by pensioners for giving them free travel. Both men gave a silver teapot to a female British Prime Minister. As Silvester had betrayed Cornelius during his bid for the Presidency, so too Haughey betrayed Brian Lenihan in the 1990 Presidential campaign. Both Haughey and Silvester have to face tribunals
to investigate their financial affairs.
These clues to the emotional or political core of the play are, however, deeply misleading; they represent a sort of decoy to distract the audience from what is really happening. Almost any imaginative writer who creates a set of motives and signature tones for a character from history ends by writing a sort of autobiography. Sometimes this can happen unconsciously; the character begins as a set of facts, and slowly melts into a set of fictions. The process is gradual and tentative; it may have its origins in speculative drafting, seeing how some new ingredient might work, realizing that, while the main character need not be changed, some of the surrounding circumstances will not fit the drama. Gradually, the play, or the novel or the story, becomes a dramatization of an aspect of the secret self.
In considering the relationship between Hinterland and Sebastian Barry’s secret self, it might be useful to quote in full the second stanza from a poem from his collection The Pinkening Boy, which was published in 2004, and written in the same few years as the play. The poem is called ‘The Trousers’. The first stanza deals with the poet’s interest in joining the Royal Marine Yacht Club, his inability to join because his father was not a member, his plans with his father to buy
a yacht
and sail
wherever the spirit took us, to Dalkey island,
to the inland mysteries of the French canals
though neither of us knew a sail from a bedspread,
and still don’t.
The second stanza reads:
So what a surprise to meet him in Dawson Street
last Friday, after years of separation,
family troubles keeping us apart. He passed
like a retired sea-captain with a long white beard,
the trim of his coat quite sailorlike,
the hint of the South Seas in the sun creases
about his eyes, his tentative and nautical hello –
not sure of his ground, the tilt of the hard earth.
As if in the intervening years he had indeed
gone off to the Caribbean or rounded the Horn
nonchalantly enough, and the Royal Marine Yacht-club
owed me an apology. And as he hurried on,
quite shipshape at sixty-seven,
his sea-legs not yet attuned to land,
it was his neat trousers particularly I noticed –
the cut of his jib, the breeze athwart the main.
Hinterland is as concerned with the failures of fatherhood and the surrounding grief and estrangement as the poem ‘The Trousers’. Just as Johnny Silvester summons up his father in his opening speech, so his wife Daisy does hers almost as soon as she arrives on stage. Daisy’s father, like Charles Haughey’s actual father-in-law, was a politician, ‘the soul of probity’. Both Johnny and Daisy will continue throughout the play to make reference to their respective fathers, as though they are desperately trying to eke out an identity for themselves, even one that depends on myths and shadows. So too Aisling, who comes to interview Johnny, refers over and over to her own father. (‘My father is a good decent person, I have to say. As fathers go.’) As Daisy bemoans her husband’s infidelities, she mentions the needs of their son Jack:
A little boy waiting for his father to come home. Do you know what a little boy is, Johnny? I’ll tell you. He’s a tiny contraption of bones and skin, tuned like a radio to give out and receive certain signals. When a little boy is sick, his whole body strains to broadcast a special signal, he wants a very simple thing, to be cuddled in the arms of his father.
Daisy carries on discussing the power of the absent father to do damage in a set of speeches that are the most emotionally forceful in the play:
I pity all the little boys of this world. Because, when the signal is not answered, the pain is so great, so oddly great … A true father would feel that call from three thousand miles and travel all day and night to reach his child. Nothing can put that little scenario back together again and time goes on swiftly and then there is nothing but a tangle of broken wires, good for nothing because it can finally neither receive nor send a signal.
When Jack arrives on stage, it is clear that he is a tangle of broken wires, still half a child demanding and offering love. Daisy, by this time, has mentioned a particular mistress of her husband’s who had written a book. For an Irish audience, this would have been seen as a reference to the journalist Terry Keane, who published a series of articles in the Sunday Times about her long affair with Charles Haughey and who made no secret of the affair in her column in the Sunday Independent. Once more, a precise reference to an actual event in the life of Charles Haughey had been inserted into the play.
The problem, however, was not this reference to Haughey’s personal life, but the presence of Silvester’s son Jack on the stage. Charles and Maureen Haughey, as is well known, have three sons, all of whom benefit from exceptionally strong mental health; there has not been a sign of a breakdown or a hint of a twitch among them. But healthy children, in general, are no use to a playwright. Suddenly, with the son Jack, the play had moved into areas dictated by its own necessities, the proper realm of fiction. In one sense, the play had always been there, since its emotional life arose not from a set of public events but from a series of meditations about fathers and fatherhood. But in scene after scene, the connections between the Silvesters and the Haugheys had been made abundantly clear. Now the script had departed from the story of the Haugheys to tell another story, one of grief and estrangement and the damage fathers cause to their sons, which belonged more to the emotional life of the poem ‘The Trousers’, in which a son inspects his father as he passes him silently on the street, than to the many volumes by journalists that told the story of Haughey’s reign and his downfall.
The controversy surrounding the play thus centred on the use of Haughey as a central character and the distortion of the facts for dramatic purposes. It simmered in the newspapers and on radio and came to a head at a post-show discussion in the Abbey Theatre on 20 February 2002. The actors, the director and the theatre’s literary manager took part, the author watching from the wings.
Jocelyn Clarke, the literary manager, remembers ‘an unusually full post show discussion house’ in which the first speaker from the audience disagreed with the director’s statement that the play had ‘grace’. ‘The characters,’ she said, according to Clarke, ‘were small-minded and petty, especially the politician, and his relationship with his wife and son was not credible.’ Clarke remembers that a young man then stood up ‘and wondered how Barry could use the life and figure of a still living politician for his play – what right had he to do that to Charles Haughey’s family, and to a lesser extent Brian Lenihan’s family’. Clarke set about defending the play:
I replied that Hinterland was not a biographical drama about Charles Haughey’s life and times but about an imaginary politician whose life and times were based on figures and events in Ireland’s recent political history, which were very much in the public domain. That a playwright chooses to write a play about a political figure whose life story has similarities to the story of a living or dead politician does not make it a play about that politician’s life or career.
‘The audience,’ Clarke remembers, ‘grew more restive.’
‘That’s not true,’ cried somebody. ‘It’s about Charles Haughey,’ shouted somebody else. ‘It’s all been in the newspapers.’ I replied … that it had not been Barry’s intention to write a play about Charles Haughey. Indeed, Hinterland should be seen in the broader context of his work, and his ongoing theatre project to explore a nation’s history through the prism of Barry’s own family and its history. It could be argued that Hinterland is a biographical play in the sense that Barry primarily uses elements from his own biography rather than Haughey’s or any other politician’s and that as far as I was aware Haughey was still happily married, and he has several sons, none of whom suffer from a mental illness.
Thus the ambiguities surro
unding the play and its intentions were spelt out. Its emotional shape came from the author’s private life and that of his family; some of its detail came from the public domain, from aspects of the life of the former Taoiseach. Some of the audience believed that the author had no right to confuse the two, and the play had been damaged by the confusion. The theatre’s literary manager suggested that to see Hinterland as solely about Haughey or as a distortion was a fundamental misreading of the play.
Act 2 of Hinterland centres on Jack’s father-fed neurosis and Johnny’s affair with Connie, the woman whom the audience recognized as Terry Keane. The act opens with Jack trying to hang himself. When Daisy comes in on this scene, she says to her husband: ‘Listen, you can be the king that ruined his country but I won’t let you be the father that ruined his son.’ And it is this sense that the personal is all that matters that impels Hinterland, with Daisy as a sort of chorus, musing always on the career of her husband as a father rather than as a party leader. His neglect of his son is offered as an event that supersedes politics, but stands for the rot at the heart of the public realm as well:
