By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
A keen and flexible sense of dramatic structure distinguishes his work from the ramblingly prosy plays that, along with Guinness, have become the nation's trademarks. Beginning each writing day at 4 a.m., Murphy, a devotee of classical music, makes analogies between playwriting and composing. "I construct the story, the rhythm of dialogue, and try to create a score." Though disciplined in the manner common to all virtuosos, he hastens to add that "I don't think a writer is in charge completely. A play has to have its own say."
What was it like to experience five productions of his plays, one written 40 years ago? "I was returning to moments of my life which were moments of striving, of loneliness, of trying for something better than life. Revisiting those years could not be regarded by me as happy. Exciting and a depth of pride, of course. I was proud that a generation later there was a commitment to what I had written."
Commitment is an understatement. Irish Times critic Fintan O'Toole, author of the fine book Tom Murphy: The Politics of Magic, described the Murphy Season as a "homecoming for the most restless, angular and courageous imagination in Irish theatre," a writer who's "neither a naturalist nor an expressionist but a fabulist, a creator of daringly imagined stories." Conall Morrison, who directed Whistle and The House, believes that though both plays "confront the sad fact that Ireland has rarely been able to provide an equable economic existence for its citizens," Murphy's genius lies in the way "his plays take a realistic situation and leap into the realm of metaphysics without being pretentious."
Politics and magic, then. A construction that also encompasses one of the bolder new Irish playwrights, Marina Carr. At an award ceremony at the Abbey, she reminded her audience that she was the only honoree with a womb. Certainly, it's a rare distinction among Emerald Isle dramatists, though Carr speaks of herself foremost as a tragedian, albeit one with a perversely comic female streak. (Mothers, daughters, and wives have, if rarely the last laugh in her plays, always the best.) While sharing a bottle of wine (OK, two) during a New Year's Eve lunch at the Shelbourne Hotel, she spoke of wanting to move away from "the realistic realm," which she finds constrictive and lacking in credibility. Her work since her Blackburn-winning Portia Coughlan has derived inspiration from the Greeks. By the Bog of Cats, her Irish Midlands version of Medea, had a production last September at San Jose Rep starring Holly Hunter, and she's currently reimagining the Iphigenia saga for the Abbey, as well as a play about Chekhov's life for the Gate.
But while Carr has been searching beyond Ireland for archetypal material, other writers have been finding sustenance in quotidian life. Conor McPherson's success with the monologue has launched a thousand-and-one storytellers, particularly those in love with the pub-crawl genre, where alcoholism, impotence, and blundering violence often intersect with ludicrous results. Eugene O'Brien's Eden, which began at the Peacock before moving upstairs to the Abbey last month, is a two-hander set in Edenderry, involving the desperate marriage of a young couple paralyzed at an age when their American counterparts would be investigating mortgages or divorce attorneys. Directed by McPherson, the piece has a cunning vernacular humor and a demythologizing pastoral power, though the inherent limits of the direct-address gab-athon have a quality every bit as claustrophobic as the small-town ethos that drives everyone to binge drink.
Obviously few writers can match Beckett's formal innovation with the monologue or create a dramatic sequence of them in the magisterial manner of Friel's Faith Healer(1979). Two talented voices, however, are giving it a go: Disco Pigs author Enda Walsh, whose Misterman (currently at New York's Irish Arts Center) is a kind of McPherson-esque Krapp's Last Tape; and Michael West, whose Foley, a wry memoir delivered by a figure who can only be described as Protestant Descendancy, exposes the lie of narrative linearity. Though neither playwright is married to the talking-head format, they share what Walsh calls "the bundle of anxieties" of men in their thirties, who are looking at their fathers' failings and wondering how to escape the same soup.
To broaden the reach of Irish playwriting (which can admittedly get caught in garrulous loops), Barnes has brought to the Abbey two administrators with an eye for groundbreaking international talent: Jocelyn Clarke, a former Sunday Tribunecritic who has dramaturgical relationships with Anne Bogart and Carl Hancock Rux; and Ali Curran, former director of the Dublin Fringe Festival. Clearly, experiment is high on the National Theatre's agenda.
Cultivating an audience beyond the middlebrow remains the toughest hurdle. Gate Theatre artistic director Michael Colgan has had success in what he calls "eventing," as witnessed by his highly successful Beckett and Pinter festivals. Under way at the Gate are plans for an American Theater Festival, where playwrights like Sam Shepard and David Mamet can receive wider foreign embrace.
Dublin's increasing cultural openness can only galvanize a theater scene that's become a bit snug in its role as world purveyor of English-language fables. Whether the new crop of playwrights are up to the challenge of an era in which national identity is taking on even more complicated global dimensions remains to be seen. Certainly the issues are trickier than "European humanism versus American materialism," a simplistic dichotomy currently in vogue. But in the afterglow of the Tom Murphy Season, truth-telling has the upper hand over blarney.