Damien Dempsey at the Abbey

 I have to confess that I am not familiar with Damien Dempsey’s music  – I knew of him vaguely as one of our standing army of singer-songwriters but couldn’t name you a song of his. However, when a friend offered me a ticket to go and see Tales from the Holywell at the Abbey based on his life and featuring his songs I went along mainly because it was directed by Conor McPherson whose Girl from the North Country (based on Dylan’s songs) I had enjoyed. This however turned out to be a much different kind of production. Instead of dramatised scenes accompanied by songs, we got Dempsey himself telling the story of his life and stopping occasionally to sing songs accompanied by a very accomplished quartet of musicians on violin, double-bass, keyboards and drums. He’s a personable, entertaining guy with a good stock of mildly amusing stories. His life was not as hard scrabble as his working-class hero persona might suggest. Both his parents worked and he attended a third-level college. He had a comfortable upbringing, even if it was in Donaghamede, which is hardly the Gorbals. But that’s alright, most successful artists, writers and musicians have a well-polished origin story that often strays from reality. His anecdotes and stories were not enough however to carry the evening for me. My main problem were his songs and his singing. He has a strong voice but with a limited range - it was frequently flat and out of tune, more shouting than singing occasionally. The songs themselves were often banal with clichéd language and commonplace rhymes. Best listened to in a crowded pub after a few pints I suspect. The sentiments expressed were admiral, but their mediocrity left me completely cold. (He’s no Richard Thomson nor indeed Teddy Thompson). However, I was pretty much alone in this regard as the packed audience greeted every song with ecstatic applause and in between hung on his every word as he told the story of his life. Fair dues to him for parleying a modest talent into a successful career. His amiable manner and impressive communication skills suggest to me that he’d make a good radio presenter – but of other people’s songs. 

An Cailín Ciúin

 I can’t think offhand of any Irish-made film that has impressed me as much as An Cailín Ciúin. I had read Claire Keegan’s small jewel of a novel (Foster) on which it was based. Colm Bairead’s restrained and sympathetic direction turns it into a flawless masterpiece in another medium. Not very much seems to happen but every frame is loaded with import as the girl in question blossoms under the loving care of her fostering relations. But all the time we are aware that this is an interlude and she will probably be retuning to her chaotic and dysfunctional home presided over by her brutish father. The acting is flawless – especially the slowly thawing character of her uncle played by Andrew Bennett and the father rendered convincingly by Michael Patric. The most violent scene in the film is the latter’s stubbing out of a cigarette on his dinner plate and yet the whole film thrums with suppressed emotion and latent violence. There are lighter moments too – the interrogation by a local busybody where she is asked does the aunt use butter or margarine in her baking. The naturalism of the setting helps also – the slightly down-at-heel farm set in the lush green countryside. Comparisons with its fellow Oscar nominee Banshees of Inisherin do McDonagh’s ludicrous and overblown melodrama no favours. 

Rugby, Racing and the Fear of Relegation

 I enjoy the Rugby Six Nations more than any of the other sporting competition – it is I suppose because of its history and the old rivalries renewed. I’ve been watching it since the early 1960s when our Cork school used to go en bloc. I particularly enjoy the Welsh match because they take it so seriously and history has sown the seeds of some serious antipathy. Many will remember the Mike Philipps farce in 2011 where a dim-witted linesman ( “it’s the correct ball”) allowed a clearly illegal try by the opportunistic scrum half. Older folk will remember the infamous punch delivered by the Welsh captain Brian Price to Noel Murphy (no angel mind you) in 1969. And on a personal note I always found the Welsh fans tendency (in the old Landsdowne Road days) to use the terraces as urinals a tad unseemly. So I certainly relished last Saturdays’ drubbing – although like most I was disappointed that the team took its foot off gas in the second half. The pack were outstanding, flawless in the line out and solid in the scrum with the back row in particular doing well – O’Mahony in the line out and Doris and Van der Flier everywhere. Keenan was superb at full back – brave and reliable as usual. 

 

The Dublin Racing Festival at Leopardstown was compulsory watching for anyone interested in top-quality racing and in form spotting for Cheltenham. The one slightly sour note was the absolute dominance of Willie Mullins, and to a lesser extent McManus as an owner. Mullins has become the Manchester City of racing with many of the big buys by the big owners ending up in his stable. Gordon Elliot is his only substantial rival with Henry de Bromhead in very poor form so far this year – even the great Honeysuckle has been vanquished. A feature of the racing was the number of Mullins hot shots who got beaten, only for the stable 2^nd or 3^rd string to triumph. These included Blue Lord at 1-4, Lossiemouth at 1-3, and the ostensibly unbeatable Facile Vega at 4-9. It’s rare to hear the generally amiable Mullins being critical of Paul Townend his stable jockey but in two of the cases mentioned he had a go at him in the after-race interviews. Of Facile Vega’s run he said next time Townend should “ride him like a racehorse and not a machine.”  State Man in the Irish Champion Hurdle, owned by my old school mate Joe Donnelly, put Honeysuckle (over the hill?) in her place and he has to be considered a serious rival to the much hyped Constitution Hill in the Champion Hurdle. I was unimpressed by Galopin des Champs in the Paddy Power Gold cup and can’t see him winning the Cheltenham Gold Cup. I’ll be hoping de Bromhead’s pair (A Plus Tard and Minella Indo) recover their mojos. Another impressive performance was John Kiely’s A Dream to Share (see image above) in the bumper on the first day – a race that always throws up Cheltenham contenders. He was up against 7 Mullins’ horses (Willie, Thomas and Emmet all had runners) but won handily. A small owner and trainer prevailing - with a McManus horse in second. I had a decent bet on him at 14-1 and will be hoping for a repeat performance in the Cotswolds. While I’m on the subject of creatures being “over the hill”, would somebody please retire Ted Walsh. His son Ruby is probably one of the shrewdest analysts around and is always worth listening to on RTE and ITV and his daughter Katy doing her interviews on horseback is a nice touch even if it’s all a tad incestuous and unchallenging - many of the winning horse are attached to a stable with strong family connections. But do we need three Walshs? Ted has atrophied into a caricature of himself – with a desperate need to be blunt and salty (is using “arse” every time he’s on TV written into his contract?), and a singular lack of detachment.

 

Not many people know that I’m an Everton supporter. But I’ve been at it long enough to see them win leagues, cups and even the European Cup-Winners cup in 1985 – beating Bayern Munich on the way.  Their golden age in the 80s coincided with the Liverpool-inspired European ban for all English clubs – irony of ironies. I can’t remember why I started following them but assume it must have been because of the number of Irish internationals they featured in the 1950s: Peter Farrell, Tommy Eglington and Mick Megan to name a few. Kevin Sheedy was on their great 80s team. In recent years I’ve kept this near-fatal attraction quiet. The notion of them being relegated seems unspeakable – especially when you know their history and have seen at first hand the pride and esprit-de-corps at Goodison. But they have fallen into bad company in recent years and the management merry-go-round has been farcical. I was happy to see a no-bullshit, pragmatic manager such as Sean Dyche appointed . If anyone is going to drag them out of the slough of despond it’s surely him. So I was very pleased to see stirrings of pride and honest endeavour last Saturday when they beat Arsenal. I just wish it hadn’t been against Arsenal who I have begun to take an interest in because of the fine football they play and of course because of Arteta – their Everton connection. Now a result against Liverpool next week would be a different matter.

More Paddywhackery from McDonagh: The Banshees of Inisherin

We all know of course that it’s nearly impossible for an Irish-made film to get bad reviews in the Irish press. Even our back-slapping book-reviewing establishment will admit to the odd stinker, but not our film critics. I do recall Neil Jordan’s High Spirits (an appalling farrago) getting treated as reverently as the latest Antonioni by a certain well-loved and now departed critic – who certainly knew better. So I went to see The Banshees of Inisherin recently with only mild expectations – heightened a degree by a mostly positive review by Peter Bradshaw (not an easy lay) in the Guardian. Readers - it left me cold and unimpressed. Now there were elements within it that I thoroughly enjoyed: the epic scenery around the Aran Islands and Achill; the soulful dog, the soulful cow, the soulful horse, the playful miniature goat and the virtuouso performance of Kerry Condon as Siobhan – sister of the afflicted Colin Farrell character. But the story line and the cast of cliched caricatures left me beyond indifferent. I didn’t believe a word of it. Now the McDonagh brothers have form in dishing up Paddywhackery – especially the older sibling. It’s perhaps a second-generation Irish thing where the smart London boys are inclined to exaggerate the priest-ridden, feckless Paddy tropes. But Martin is as guilty of that sin in this film as his brother John Michael was in the deplorable Calvary. No Irish-based film of theirs is complete without the brutal corrupt Garda or the compromised priest. The film is set in rural Ireland in 1923 so we’re not expecting latte-drinking islanders reading the New Yorker. Also, it’s a black comedy with Grand Guignol elements so we’re not expecting naturalistic characters and realistic situations. But even in comedy there has to be a reasonable foundation on which to build the story. And I couldn’t take seriously the basic premise. I just can’t believe a fiddle player would deliberately cut off his fingers – no matter how depressed he was. Neither can I believe that a priest would repeat local gossip in the confession. Or the naked Garda masturbating in his living room. And what was all this routine drinking at 2 pm? I’ve lived on isolated Irish islands with pubs and there was never such a practice – except on Sundays. The only place I encountered serious lunch-time drinking was amongst office staff in London in the Seventies. And the cliched characters: the snoopy post-mistress, the arrogant priest, the brutal Garda. Some positives of course: the surreal extension of the pigs in the kitchen trope was mildly amusing – especially that gorgeous cow. And the prosthetics were excellent – Brendan Gleeson’s fingerless hand was very convincing.  But overall a poor show Martin. The Tourist Board however won’t mind.

RDS Visual Arts Awards 2022

An edited version of this piece appeared in the Winter edition of the Irish Arts Review.

Aideen Barry, the curator of the RDS Visual Arts Awards tell us that “What you're seeing is a cutting edge snapshot of what the future of Irish art is going to be.” A bold statement which could perhaps do without the “cutting edge”. It’s a snapshot –  time will judge whether it’s old hat, emperor’s new clothes, or the real deal . Barry is a fine artist herself with an interest in the Gothic and the “uncanny”. Her work incorporates drawing, sculpture, and film and the show that she and her fellow judges have assembled provides a rich and entertaining blend of these media. 

Inside the entrance of the RDS Concert Hall you encounter Sadhbh Mowlds’ startlingly life-like Eve (see image above). I had to move very close to ensure it wasn’t a person so well-wrought was the illusion. Duane Hansen could hardly have done better and I wager he never used his own hair to give the legs a little authentic hirsuteness. This striking, award-winning work sets the tone for a show that aside from one dull and gratuitously esoteric work (accompanied by an earnestly worthy blurb) is full of colour and technical verve. Orla Comerford’s prize-winning Oidhreacht is an innovative video depiction of her father, a woodworker, building a boat. The film is projected on to three large curved screens and the images move from abstract to figurative depending how far you stand from the screen. This provides the viewer with a taste of Comerford’s own visual impairment. It’s a technical tour-de-force, an aesthetically-pleasing encounter, and a meaningful expression of the artist’s psyche. Another arresting piece of video was Aisling Phelan’s Dual Reality. A triptych of screens delivered a well-scripted meditation on the gulf between our identity and our digital identity. The long-list of candidates for the awards, and indeed the awards themselves, were inclusive in terms of colour and our LGBGTQ community. However, there was a noticeable shortage of male contenders on both the long list and the short-list. It possibly reflects the dwindling number of men taking fine art as a subject – with a touch of the zeitgeist thrown in. (A recent Graphic Studio Dublin show featured 16 female members and nary a male one. When I queried this with the curator she replied “I’d say you weren’t a bit worried when the art world was dominated by males for centuries”. A comment that suggests her selection process may have tainted by an element of revenge for the sins of our fathers.) It was good to see that one of this beleaguered gender at least made it to the final 13 – he also represented the art of painting, somewhat neglected in our art colleges. Syzmon Minias’s small self-portraits in oil were full of character with echoes of Vuillard and Eugène Leroy. Michelle Malone’s striking tapestries of the Artane Industrial School, accompanied by video and interviews with those whose lives were touched by the abuse in these places was another moving work and a fine record of hard times.The main award, the RDS Taylor Art Award, went to Venus Patel for her film Eggshells. As a queer person of colour she has experienced abuse, including ‘egging’. The film employed the offending object in a series of colourful vignettes where the artist danced her troubles away. I was however concerned by the number of innocent eggs that were harmed in this exercise. I was entertained by being allowed sit on Sinead McCormick’s very serviceable raft Adrift and getting that islanded experience. And Myfanwy Frost-Jones alarming film that dealt with pollution in Kenmare Bay combined grim facts with distractingly gorgeous views of the South-West. The show, notwithstanding the many substantial issues it addressed, was highly entertaining and professionally presented so it’s a shame it didn’t enjoy a longer run.