Dancing at Lughnasa by Brian Friel

The last few years, local theater The Empty Space has blended familiar classic and modern plays with some unusual and bold selections. Alas, I haven’t been free to see everything, but have caught some of the best ones. My wife and I had an evening free, and went to see Dancing at Lughnasa, which I hadn’t previously heard of, but thought might be interesting.

Based loosely on his mother’s family, Dancing at Lughnasa was written by Irish playwright Brian Friel in 1990. It was later made into a movie starring Meryl Streep, apparently. I’m not much of a moviegoer, so I haven’t seen it.

The play has certain similarities to a couple of other plays that TES has put on in the last two years, notably Three Sisters, with its ensemble of sisters living together with a brother who is challenging to say the least. There are also similarities to The Glass Menagerie, with the missing father, and a son who leaves to seek his fortune. Perhaps the reason that variants on the same story are told so many times is that it is a common one in human experience.

The five sisters in this play are Kate, the eldest, who is employed as a school teacher, and is devoutly Catholic; Maggie, who is a bit of a clown outwardly, but who keeps house and keeps everyone together; Agnes, quiet and yet wishing to get out and dance at the festival; Rose, developmentally disabled and childlike; and Christine, the youngest, who has a child with a man who abandoned her. The play is told from the perspective of the child, Michael, who appears only as an adult narrating the play from beyond the action. The other two characters are Uncle Jack, a missionary to a leper colony in Uganda, who has been sent home because he has essentially “gone native” and abandoned the Catholic faith; and Gerry Evans, Michael’s father.

The sisters are, shall we say, “past their prime,” and have extremely limited prospects in the Ireland of the 1930s. Kate loses her job because she is “tainted” by her brother’s apostasy. Agnes and Rose knit gloves until a factory puts them out of work. Christine is unemployable as a “fallen woman.” They scrape by, but it is a hard life. Society really has little use for old maids, particularly ones who have tainted families.

When Gerry reappears, he turns out to be not quite the irredeemable rake that Kate claims he is. He is catastrophically unsuccessful at gainful employment, to be sure. And, as Michael discovers many years later, he also has a family back in Wales. But he seems genuinely in love with Christine, and makes attempts at being a good father.

In a similar way, Jack is a sympathetic character. He is suffering from malaria, and some sort of mental break which has affected his memory and his cognition. He can’t keep his sisters straight, struggles to remember English words, and is confused about whether he is in Ireland or Uganda. But the tales he tells of African ceremonies and his former life are scintillating, and he is clearly a decent man who devoted his life to helping others.

Even Kate, who seems to be a killjoy and prig has a human side, and her care for Jack even as she fights with him over religion is admirable. And, let us not forget, she is the main source of income, so it is understandable that she expects to be in charge of major decisions.

The play isn’t exactly dark, but it is rather sad. Things don’t end well, as it appears they didn’t for the playwright’s family. There just weren’t a lot of good options for 40ish unmarried women in that era.

The cast was quite small for this play. The six siblings, Gerry, and Michael, so eight in all. In general, this meant that each part was important, and there were really no “bit” parts. Every actor, therefore, had a lot of lines and a distinctive emotional role in the drama. Although all were acted well, I do want to specifically mention some of the roles in connection with the relationships portrayed.

Maggie was played by Kamala Boeck, who I am not sure I have seen before. She is on the faculty at CSUB, and has done professional voice-over work among other things. Whenever there was singing in the play, she did it, and did it well. Maggie is an interesting role, as the heart of the family, and the clown hiding her own sorrow. As such, her chemistry with the rest of the cast was crucial. 

 Kamala Boeck as Maggie

Jared Cantrell was (if I recall) Teddy in Arsenic and Old Lace last year. This role is a bit less nutty, but he still had to get the tics just right. 

Jared Cantrell as Jack

Sheila McClure has been in a number of things locally, so I have seen her in various roles. As Kate, she had to be both stern and soft, and play off of Agnes and Jack. 

 Sheila McClure as Kate

DeNae Brown and Katelyn Evans (Agnes and Rose respectively) are TES regulars. Evans in particular had to portray a developmental disability without caricature - I thought it was a sensitive bit of work. 

 DeNae Brown as Agnes

 Katelyn Evans as Rose

Brian Purcell is likewise a regular, as well as a board member for TES. He’s made a career of playing the straight men, which is never the easiest job, but there is a reason he gets the roles. He doesn’t dominate the spotlight, but reliably brings a “boy next door” vibe to his roles. 

 Brian Purcell as Michael

This brings me to the couple. Chris and Gerry are a rather nuanced couple. Eight years ago, it is plenty likely that Chris was naive and easily seduced by the charming Gerry. But by this time, she knows he is totally full of shit. He still tries to spin his tales and his boasts and his plans for the future. She knows he is just making stuff up, and tells him so. But she still loves him in a way, and he loves her. Christina Goyeneche hasn’t been on stage locally for a while, but I swear I remember her from something a number of years back, although I cannot recall exactly what. Perhaps at a Bakersfield College production? Anyway, she is riveting to watch. Gerry was played by Eric Tolley, a veteran of local theater - and one of the actors I could watch in anything. The two of them really had the chemistry in this one - Gerry trying his old tricks even as he can see they are falling flat, Chris trying not to fall for him again, keeping him at arms’ length, and vacillating between mocking his lies and wanting to be with him anyway. I guess one could say, the chemistry of awkwardness. 

 

 Christina Goyeneche as Christine

 Eric Tolley as Gerry

The play itself wasn’t as scintillating as some - I think Chekhov did the psychology better, for example, and the action dragged a bit in spots. But the acting was compelling, and the characters drew you into the story. It was definitely worth seeing. Kudos to TES for bringing a less well known play back, with its look at a time and place less explored.

Dancing at Lughnasa was directed by CSUB Theater professor Mendy McMasters. If recent productions at CSUB are any indication, she is doing great with with our local students.

Saint Patrick's Day and Immigration

I have kind of toyed with whether to write my own post, or simply link Libby Anne of Love, Joy Feminism’s post. I decided to add a bit while acknowledging her outstanding work in locating and collecting the racist materials of the past.

In 21st Century America, we have no problem celebrating Irish heritage - even those of us with no known Irish blood. My brother proudly plays fiddle in an Irish band. I wore green to the office today. Shamrocks, Celtic and pseudo-celtic imagery, and Irish flags will be everywhere. The Chicago River will be dyed green as usual.

Now imagine for a moment if we took out “Irish” and substituted “Mexican.” Hmm, not quite the same sense of pride? Nope, more like, “fly the AMERICAN flag!” and “go home!” and “Build That Wall.”

Or imagine it with Middle Eastern Muslims instead.

But the Irish are - in 21st Century America - viewed as safe, and as "real" Americans.

But it was not always thus.

Rather, every single slander and stereotype about Latino and Muslim immigrants today was in fact used about the Irish during the 1800s when they were the disfavored immigrant group.

The Irish were seen as dirty and subhuman.

The Irish were seen as failing to assimilate.

The Irish were seen as an invasion by a foreign religion intent on imposing their laws on us.

The Irish were portrayed as longing to kill the “real” Americans.

The Irish were seen as paupers leaching off of the “real” Americans.

The Irish were seen as diluting the “true” American culture.

The Irish were seen as taking jobs away from the “real” Americans.

The Irish were stereotyped as drunk and lazy.

The Irish were stereotyped as sexually dangerous to American women.

The Irish were seen as fraudulent voters.

The Irish were portrayed as bringing harmful, intoxicating substances to the US.

Does any of this sound familiar?

The bottom line is that racism and xenophobia are the same in any era - only the victims change. (I could also cite the anti-Chinese hatred in the 1800s and 1900s, the anti-Japanese sentiment in the 1930s and 1940s, and the anti-Italian propaganda of the early 1900s. Or the anti-German sentiment from the 1840s and later the 1940s. And let’s not forget the Jews either, who have been a disfavored group through most of our history. Many perished in the Holocaust because we turned them away.)

There was actually a political movement (labeled the “Know Nothings”) devoted, like the Tea Party and the Alt-Right today, to the exclusion of immigrants. Their positions sure look similar, and contain similar reasoning.

It is also interesting to note that foreign-born immigrants made up a much higher percentage of the population back then than it does now.

There is nothing unique about the Latino immigrants of today, or the hateful response to them. And ditto for Muslim immigrants (the 3.3 million Muslims in the US are overwhelmingly ordinary people looking for a better life, just like me and you.) They just happen to be the favorite targets of racial hatred and xenophobia at our moment in history.

So when you bristle when I point out that this is racism or complain about my tone, remember that it is Mexicans and Muslims today, but it was likely your ancestors and mine that were the targets of hate and exclusion in the past. Racism and xenophobia were wrong then, and they are wrong now.

Complements of Love, Joy, Feminism, here are some of the racist cartoons about the Irish back in the day. I have also added a few of my own:

Well look at that: building bombs, cheating at the polls, gunning for the "real" Americans, and lazily sponging off everyone else.

Foreign invasion by the unclean. 

Servants rising against their masters. Also, dehumanization by portrayal as apish.

Another one showing Irish  as a stupid apes.

Say goodbye to religious freedom: Catholic/Irish Sharia is coming...and also voting fraud.

The lovely English nurse contrasted with the Irish ape. 

 Sacrificing the Democratic Party to the Catholic Church. Again, note the portrayal as an ape.

 

Showing the similarities of the African-American to the Irish: both are subhuman apes.

How the Irish celebrate St. Patrick's Day: by rioting. Also note "open season on the police." Compare to modern claims that Muslims celebrated 9-11 (not true) or that Cinco de Mayo means drunkenness and rioting by Mexican-Americans. And the accusation that Black Lives Matter means attacks on law enforcement.

 Bringing intoxicating substances into the US. An ape, of course. 

Taking the jobs from the "real" Americans. 

 

Immigrants as paupers sponging off of the "deserving." 

Irish apes as the ones who refuse to assimilate.

***

A few links:

First, these on America’s troubled history on immigration, with the altruistic instinct in constant battle with xenophobia:

Trump’s Muslim Ban and the Long History of American Nativism

America’s Long History of Fearing Refugees

Green Beer and Rank Hypocrisy

And this one on the rejection of Jews fleeing the coming Holocaust. Very interesting to see the horrific things said about Jewish children.

The Refugee Ban That Kept 20,000 Jewish Children Out of the US

And, it can’t hurt to click through to Libby Anne’s post and give her some traffic:

Why Trump’s Irish Merchandise Broke My Irony Meter

The Voyage of Bran, Son of Febal (and a few other Irish legends)

Source of book: I own this

I got this book as a gift, but it was one I had on my wish list, primarily because it was one of the ancient works that is said to have inspired The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C. S. Lewis. Since I am in a snarky mood, I’ll give just a quick summary, and then give some important lessons learned from the poem and the additional legends that are in this book. The Voyage of Bran dates to the 8th Century, but the tales themselves may well have been told in oral form centuries before that. The story is believed to have influenced the tale of St. Brendan, whose voyages also inspired Lewis. 

Manuscript of the story of St. Brendan

So, Bran is met by a woman/fairy sort who tells him of mysterious islands over the sea, where a magic plant can be found, and many other wonders. He takes a boat and some men, and voyages to these islands, over the course of 50ish quatrains, returning to tell his story, but finds that he has been gone for centuries and he is only known in legends. (50ish, because the poem refers to 50 stanzas, but only thirty-some-odd are found in the various surviving versions, and even combined and added up, they still fall short.) Many of the stanzas describe “Mag Mell,” the Happy Plain (perhaps paradise?) and the delights and wonders found there. A stanza or two may suffice:

The size of the plain, the number of the host,

Colors glisten with pure glory,

A fair stream of silver, cloths of gold,

Afford a welcome with all abundance.

A beautiful game, most delightful,

They play sitting at the luxurious wine,

Men and gentle women under a bush,

Without sin, without crime.

In addition to the poem itself, there are also some short prose works included in this thin volume, filling in the back stories of characters that appear in the saga of Bran. The most notable is Mongan, the king of the Cruithin people of ancient Ireland. Mongan was a real person, although the stories told about him are clearly mythical. He was believed to be a reincarnation of Fionn mac Cumhaill (aka Finn McCool).

In legend, Mongan’s birth and subsequent adventures were told and retold, eventually ending up in the Cycles of the Kings. (This would be a fun book to get some time.)

So, without further ado, here are the snarky lessons to learn from these:

1. If a woman comes to you and encourages you to take a crazy trip, she will always be dressed in “strange raiment.”
2. If a chick in funky clothes sends you on a trip, you are probably in for trouble, but you might become famous. Even if it kills you. (I’m pretty sure this holds true across all legends from all places. The human universal of epics.)
3. If the king sees you as a rival, perhaps taking that voyage is a good idea.
4. It is always a bad idea to offer someone “anything short of the kingdom.” This never ends well.
5. Chances are, if you have a hot wife, you will be asked for her.
6. On a related note, the best way to get a hot woman (unless you are king already) is to make a wager or bargain with the king and ask for his wife.
7. Ergo, if you want a hot woman, best to be sly and cunning, or a wizard. Preferably both.
8. Also, if you have something the king wants, like, say, the world’s prettiest herd of cattle, you can drive a hard bargain.
9. It sucked to be a woman in those days. You might find yourself having to bed some random dude because of a bet gone bad.
10. Except that apparently human women are irresistible to fairies and gods, so at least one occasionally got some serious bragging rights.

So there you have it.

My translation was by Kuno Meyer, an old German scholar, who had no hesitation to call all older women “hags.” On the other hand, he was willing to admit when he had no clue what a word meant and footnote how he came to a guess. It would be fun to find the rest of the legends, and fill in the gaps.

Selected Early Poems by William Butler Yeats

Source of book: I own this

Like many, my knowledge of Yeats was limited to a high school reading of “The Second Coming,” which is a memorable poem, but not necessarily one to create a desire to read more. After all, there does seem to be a curriculum writer’s goal to expose students to a certain amount of dystopian thought. (Hence the use of “The Waste Land” by T. S. Eliot as well.)

Yeats is considered one of the most skilled of the English language poets in the early Twentieth Century. He was Irish, and advocated for Irish independence, but was a protestant rather than a catholic. His works can be divided into three periods, with the first period lasting roughly to 1900. I chose to read the selections that I had from this period. (My book is not the complete, but the readily available collection edited by M. L. Rosenthal. My wife found it at a library sale.) 

Yeats in 1900, as painted by his father, John Butler Yeats.

The selections that I read come from three different collections: Crossways, The Rose, and The Wind Among the Reeds, for a total of 34 poems.

Yeats’ early works are lyrical and filled with imagery and legend. In fact, his liberal use of Irish legends made a few of the poems quite obscure to me. He was also fond of metaphots of the stars, moon, and the empty sky, as he puts it. The gaze is drawn from the roots and earth, with the end a searching of the heavens. His forms are always traditional, with rhyme and meter. They feel a bit like a nod to a previous era. At their best, they are well crafted and beautiful.

Oddly, many of the poems that stood out to me seem tinged with a feeling of age and the passage of time - kind of odd for a young poet. One could very well imagine them being written by the older Yeats, having experienced a series of love affairs (often one-sided) that would be farcical if they were not tragic. It is also interesting to me that he found a satisfying marriage late in life, after all of his misguided attractions and doomed relationships. I shall have to keep reading his works to see if the history influenced his later works.

“Ephemera,” from Crossways, is a devastatingly sad poem, yet with beautiful language and a sensitivity to the soft pain of a dying relationship.

'YOUR eyes that once were never weary of mine

Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,

Because our love is waning.'

And then She:

'Although our love is waning, let us stand

By the lone border of the lake once more,

Together in that hour of gentleness

When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

How far away the stars seem, and how far

Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!'

Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,

While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:

'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'

The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves

Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once

A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;

Autumn was over him: and now they stood

On the lone border of the lake once more:

Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves

Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,

In bosom and hair.

'Ah, do not mourn,' he said,

'That we are tired, for other loves await us;

Hate on and love through unrepining hours.

Before us lies eternity; our souls

Are love, and a continual farewell.'    

Another one about love, aging, and loss, is “When You are Old,” from The Rose.

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

He loved the pilgrim soul and the sorrows of her changing face. I particularly love those lines.     

Of the poems on Irish legends, I enjoyed “The Song of the Wandering Aengus” the most. Aengus was one of the gods, probably of youth, love, and poetic inspiration. The poem is loosely based on the tale of one of Aengus’ many love affairs, in which he dreams of a girl and then must wander and search to find her.

I WENT out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

Believe it or not, Donovan did a folk song version of this poem in the 1970s. 

Three very short poems from The Wind Among the Reeds were among my favorites as well. Each is a tiny snapshot of an image and a mood.

“He Reproves The Curlew”

                                        

O CURLEW, cry no more in the air,

Or only to the water in the West;

Because your crying brings to my mind

passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair

That was shaken out over my breast:

There is enough evil in the crying of wind.                        

“The Lover Pleads With His Friend For Old Friends”

                                                 

THOUGH you are in your shining days,

Voices among the crowd

And new friends busy with your praise,

Be not unkind or proud,

But think about old friends the most:

Time's bitter flood will rise,

Your beauty perish and be lost

For all eyes but these eyes.                        

“He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven”

HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.    

Each beautiful and melancholy in its own way. Although a few of the poems went over my head due to obscure Irish legends, I loved the rest. “Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” Indeed.