10:07 am July 2, 2011
So I've been pretty terrible about keeping a solid journal. I've written some tinges on Word on my laptop, but mostly it's been the video camera cataloging my journeys and the weird aspects of culture that fascinate me.
Anyway, I am on the train to Kilkenny right now, and I barely got my fat ass on it. This morning, I got on the bus and went to the wrong station. Seriously? I walked from the stop near the Liffey to what I thought was the end of O'Connell street, where that weird spilt is. I couldn't remember which way to go exactly, so I went to the right towards Trinity and Temple Bar, but soon realized I made a mistake. I asked for some directions (again, no distance, just left, straight, right) and eventually ended up at O'Connell Station. After hopping the escalator up to the info desk, my fears of being at the wrong station were confirmed and it was suggested I take the tram and I'd be there in 7 stops. Well I know that screwed the pooch, but what choice did I have? I was gonna miss the train. So I sat on the tram for a minute on the phone with Ambi and was like, "Fuck it," I'm hopping a cab. The tram has to stop 7 times, so I'd just be better off in the cab even if if the cab can't move. The driver had actually been to the States living in Rhode Island for a year, and his brother had lived there for 15 years. He thought he'd get me there in less than 10 minutes and he did! So I jump out, run over to print my ticket, and haul my chubby carcass to the No. 7 platform, hopping a gate and a fence in the process. I made it with just two minutes to spare. Whew! I found my seat, or what I think is my seat, and sat down for a ride south.
One funny thing so far, the conductor (?) comes down to check our tickets, I motion to the two ladies across from me that he's coming to get our tickets. But the younger lass was more concerned with the realization she was drinking chardonnay at just 10am in the morning. I joked that, "Well, since you've been drinking, you may not have noticed we need to have our tickets out." That got quite the chuckle.
Yesterday, we saw two films at the Institute, and both were rather decent. The commentary tackled the problems and perceptions with women in Ireland. It was filmed in 1987, and the presentation was quite poor. When Dan and Ashley about how bad it was, I reminded them it was made in 1987, to which they remarked, "That's no excuse!" It was on the level of a poorly made student doc, seriously, "The Man from Aran" was better, and that was pure hokum. In one scene the former fashion model on the cover of travel brochures was interviewed in a pub or restaurant of some sort, and the woman's kids are running around in the background playing and shouting. Just a few scenes later, she actually has a baby sitting with her, who of course begins to wail. What the hell?
The shots on some women are just way too tight, and anytime she used b-roll, it was so poorly edited, it looked like bad Power Point. This really distracted a lot of students from the quality or importance of the subject matter, which is truly a shame.
A few days before, Dr. Chown mentioned an author once wrote that Ireland was "the first first world country with a third world mentality." Certainly the discussion of Ireland as represented by Mother Ireland is problematic, and the film addresses this well, despite the lack of technical proficiency.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #7: From the Written Journal...
3:21 June 21, 2011
So we're back at the house, and Connor has decided to knock off of the afternoon, and I want to agree with him. I had chatted with Brid downstairs about our class discussion and how we talked about the potato famine and the history of Ireland. I mentioned my family had immigrated to the United States years before, in the earlier part of the 1800s, before the mass exodus in 1847.
I haven't yet been confronted with a question of my ethnicity. I'm sure I'm known as a foreigner, but I have not yet been marked openly as a Yankee. I will closely watch this during my time here.
3:50pm June 24, 2011
So we're still on the road to Belfast, and since the laptop battery has sort of conked out, I decided to get at least some writing in. I've been quite neglectful of writing, something I'm normally good at on these sort of travels. I've just been so busy with ids and the blogs, that the only other time would be to skip the pubs at night. That might have to happen soon as I have just been burning through money. I'm actually a little scared I'll run out of money!
We had a dickens of a time finding the Irish Film Institute this morning. We (Connor, Dan, me) wandered the backstreets of Temple Bar trying to find that damn place for near 20-30 minutes!! The same thing happened to us the night before at the Abbey Theatre.
But here's the purpose for mentioning the misdirection and misfortune; the Irish are inept at giving directions. Ok, ok, I know that's a bit of hyperbole, but there is a distinct difference in the giving of directions between the States and the Emerald Isle. Only once during our travails did the local give us a distance in measurements; only once was it in terms of a measurable quantity. "Go left for 200 meters." "Take the next road down about half a mile." Things like that.
Instead, the Irish denote all distance by the time it takes to travel that particular distance. Maybe it's that they've always measured distance by the time it takes to walk somewhere. Hell, in the "Quiet Man," they walk 5 miles to town as if it's nothing. Surely, you'd just say it's a 2 hour walk or whatever. why would you frame it in distance when it's just a walk that everyone does. It's these little things I notice, and drive me mad!
So we're back at the house, and Connor has decided to knock off of the afternoon, and I want to agree with him. I had chatted with Brid downstairs about our class discussion and how we talked about the potato famine and the history of Ireland. I mentioned my family had immigrated to the United States years before, in the earlier part of the 1800s, before the mass exodus in 1847.
I haven't yet been confronted with a question of my ethnicity. I'm sure I'm known as a foreigner, but I have not yet been marked openly as a Yankee. I will closely watch this during my time here.
3:50pm June 24, 2011
So we're still on the road to Belfast, and since the laptop battery has sort of conked out, I decided to get at least some writing in. I've been quite neglectful of writing, something I'm normally good at on these sort of travels. I've just been so busy with ids and the blogs, that the only other time would be to skip the pubs at night. That might have to happen soon as I have just been burning through money. I'm actually a little scared I'll run out of money!
We had a dickens of a time finding the Irish Film Institute this morning. We (Connor, Dan, me) wandered the backstreets of Temple Bar trying to find that damn place for near 20-30 minutes!! The same thing happened to us the night before at the Abbey Theatre.
But here's the purpose for mentioning the misdirection and misfortune; the Irish are inept at giving directions. Ok, ok, I know that's a bit of hyperbole, but there is a distinct difference in the giving of directions between the States and the Emerald Isle. Only once during our travails did the local give us a distance in measurements; only once was it in terms of a measurable quantity. "Go left for 200 meters." "Take the next road down about half a mile." Things like that.
Instead, the Irish denote all distance by the time it takes to travel that particular distance. Maybe it's that they've always measured distance by the time it takes to walk somewhere. Hell, in the "Quiet Man," they walk 5 miles to town as if it's nothing. Surely, you'd just say it's a 2 hour walk or whatever. why would you frame it in distance when it's just a walk that everyone does. It's these little things I notice, and drive me mad!
Sunday, July 24, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #6: Galway's My Kind of Town
Mostly though, it gave us a chance experience the country beyond what we simply saw in Dublin. Ireland, by no means diverse as larger countries such as the US or Japan, as a greater degree of variances in culture and tradition than one might expect. The West of Ireland has a distinct flair to it, and Galway, as a town, was quite enjoyable. It was really quite different from Dublin, which at times feels cosmopolitan and generic.
Locals were quick to remind visitors that Galway's a city, not a town. And while 72,000 residents makes it larger than your typical American college town, it feels very similar in nature. Galway as State College or Chapel Hill makes a lot of sense, and not just because the renowned National University of Ireland is located there. Galway just feels like a cool college town. There's a university village home to a number of cool bars, filled with the hipster elite and drunken flirty coeds; a series of ethnic restaurants to please the palate; and while the music scene doesn't feature indie acts like The Frames, there are plenty of places to listen to live music, essential in becoming a future elitist music snob.
Another interesting note about Galway is the slight difference in accents between it and Dublin. While I am no expert on dialects of Ireland, my linguistic background helped make these differences in tongues discernible. The clearest difference in the homogenized accented world, where British and American media rein supreme (no doubt these two forces have dulled the distinctions in the brogues) Galwegians have a tendency to great me with "Hiya," aside from momentarily transporting me to a Scandanavian land, the "hiya" was immediately recognizable in its familiarity. While much of the media we have studied has declared the west of Ireland to be uncivilized "bogmen," I found this general congeniality not to be lacking in class or couth, but to be honestly be far more welcoming than the aloofness I found at times in Dublin. Although they may chafe at this (on both sides) Galwegians filled me with a sense of southern hospitality. They're like Texans and their "howdy," minus the grating gusto and saunter.
Finally, as we often do, when confronted with a new place or new experience, we try to associate the new with the old, previous experience, or with something more familiar. And generally, Ireland's weather has been quite good in our travels here, but our time in Galway was a bit more depressed due to gray skies and intermittent showers. On Sunday, I had saved time for me to do some sightseeing in the city, but the rain hampered this, siphoning my will and doing a walk about searching for nooks and crannies filled with new experiences and resultant journal entries.The rest of the group had had enough, and whilst I tried to make do in finding something else to do on my last day in Galway, my compatriots packed their belongings and hit the bus hours before I rode back with Dr. Chown and Dr. Rank. I'm not saying they missed anything, but it did seem odd that they were in a rush to leave only to arrive a mere 30 minutes before we did in Dublin. The issue of burnout and the impetus of culture shock will be saved for a journal in the near future.
I liked Galway; I really did, and when I return to Ireland, it will definitely be on the list.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #5: Shamrock Cinerati
An academic and professional exercise I discussed in my first blog post about the Galway Film Fleadh was the vast array of friendships I made during the four days we spent in Galway.
The Irish hospitality was expressed in full force as I met kind soul after kind soul, engaging me in conversation about film and even their own works, some of which were on display. Having never attended a film festival before, much less one in a foreign land, the openness and friendliness of everyone was a real joy to experience. Sure there was an element of glad-handing and some sycophants roamed the crowds, but generally, people were there because they loved film, and they loved the culture surrounding showing these films to a rapacious public.
A central place for meeting folks was The Rowing Club, a bar with a picturesque view of Galway Bay which shines with the light of the city. After the evenings films were over, everyone would walk just a few shorts blocks behind the Town Hall Theatre to waterfront. On Friday night, I met Rory and Bruschi there, two film recent film school graduates who premiered the short film Punchline to an appreciative crowd. We exchanged views on cinema and the filmmaking process, and talked about everything from Irish customs, to hobbies, to hurling and gaelic football. The next day we three of us and Dan saw the Samuel L. Jackson narrated African Cats in the Omniplex down the road. There we were, four complete strangers with nothing but film in common, hanging out and enjoying movies together.
I also met the director of Gnarr and former Quarashi bassist Gaukur Úlfarsson on the street while everyone but me wolfed down fish and chips during the program dinner McDonaghs. We talked about Gnarr, his current projects, and what he thought of Ireland and his time at festivals like this one. We also talked about Screaming Masterpiece, a film I was set to see the following day, which Gaukur was actually in scene from Tokyo as a member of Quarashi. We saw each other again on Saturday night after the Cillian Murphy performance in Misterman. I'm no sycophant or hanger on, nor am I foolish enough to think I "made a new friend," but in a way, I did. Where else would that interaction be possible?
Finally, I went and saw Jack Taylor: The Pikemen on Sunday. Not only was the director at the showing, but I ran into both Killian Scott and Nick Lee who star in the film. I didn't drool at the prospect of meeting a "big star," which arguably, neither is, but it was cool to just chat with two lads who were in a movie I just saw. Killian told me about a film he has coming out next year, and Nick and I discussed his stagework and how incredible Misterman was. Sure I could have gotten autographs or pictures with each fellow, but this wasn't the time or place for that. Plus, I didn't want to lose my coolness by acting like just another teenager with Bieber Fever.
I guess the point of all this name dropping is to explain how much I really got into the "festival culture" and enjoyed the experience to the fullest; going to films, meeting people, and taking in the sights and sounds surrounding the Fleadh. I wish everyone else had immersed themselves in the environment as I did, but they're not film nerds like me. It's just a placement of value, some would rather visit the Aran Islands, (which is a fine choice, nothing against that), or go see Cillian Murphy in a play. I can always come back to Ireland and go visit the Aran Isle, in fact, I'm sure I will. But the chance to see an actor's actor like Murphy in a show from esteemed Irish playwright Enda Walsh?
That's a once in a lifetime opportunity, just like the Galway Film Fleadh.
The Irish hospitality was expressed in full force as I met kind soul after kind soul, engaging me in conversation about film and even their own works, some of which were on display. Having never attended a film festival before, much less one in a foreign land, the openness and friendliness of everyone was a real joy to experience. Sure there was an element of glad-handing and some sycophants roamed the crowds, but generally, people were there because they loved film, and they loved the culture surrounding showing these films to a rapacious public.
A central place for meeting folks was The Rowing Club, a bar with a picturesque view of Galway Bay which shines with the light of the city. After the evenings films were over, everyone would walk just a few shorts blocks behind the Town Hall Theatre to waterfront. On Friday night, I met Rory and Bruschi there, two film recent film school graduates who premiered the short film Punchline to an appreciative crowd. We exchanged views on cinema and the filmmaking process, and talked about everything from Irish customs, to hobbies, to hurling and gaelic football. The next day we three of us and Dan saw the Samuel L. Jackson narrated African Cats in the Omniplex down the road. There we were, four complete strangers with nothing but film in common, hanging out and enjoying movies together.
I also met the director of Gnarr and former Quarashi bassist Gaukur Úlfarsson on the street while everyone but me wolfed down fish and chips during the program dinner McDonaghs. We talked about Gnarr, his current projects, and what he thought of Ireland and his time at festivals like this one. We also talked about Screaming Masterpiece, a film I was set to see the following day, which Gaukur was actually in scene from Tokyo as a member of Quarashi. We saw each other again on Saturday night after the Cillian Murphy performance in Misterman. I'm no sycophant or hanger on, nor am I foolish enough to think I "made a new friend," but in a way, I did. Where else would that interaction be possible?
Finally, I went and saw Jack Taylor: The Pikemen on Sunday. Not only was the director at the showing, but I ran into both Killian Scott and Nick Lee who star in the film. I didn't drool at the prospect of meeting a "big star," which arguably, neither is, but it was cool to just chat with two lads who were in a movie I just saw. Killian told me about a film he has coming out next year, and Nick and I discussed his stagework and how incredible Misterman was. Sure I could have gotten autographs or pictures with each fellow, but this wasn't the time or place for that. Plus, I didn't want to lose my coolness by acting like just another teenager with Bieber Fever.
I guess the point of all this name dropping is to explain how much I really got into the "festival culture" and enjoyed the experience to the fullest; going to films, meeting people, and taking in the sights and sounds surrounding the Fleadh. I wish everyone else had immersed themselves in the environment as I did, but they're not film nerds like me. It's just a placement of value, some would rather visit the Aran Islands, (which is a fine choice, nothing against that), or go see Cillian Murphy in a play. I can always come back to Ireland and go visit the Aran Isle, in fact, I'm sure I will. But the chance to see an actor's actor like Murphy in a show from esteemed Irish playwright Enda Walsh?
That's a once in a lifetime opportunity, just like the Galway Film Fleadh.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
MCI Academic Journal #15: Shortsighted
I was most looking forward to the Film Fleadh in Galway. It not only satisfied the hardcore cinephile in me, but surprisingly, the connections I made in Galway will last a lifetime. A number of young professionals I met were involved in the New Irish Shorts program. What an amazing experience for any young filmmaker!
Just as found my first international academic conference in AoIR 11.0 in Göteborg, the opportunity to exhibit something you have lovingly crafted over a number of months and possibly years has to be an exciting experience. It certainly was for me when I chaired my panel on Twitter. I was completely nervous and anxious about the reception, but the applause for a job well-done was a reward beyond any measure. They liked me, they really liked me!
I attended two shorts presentations, a 10:00 am showing on Friday and the 12:00 pm showing on Sunday. The set of presentations were a mixture of the overly ambitious historical drama to the simple yet witty comedic short one might see from a YouTube college comedy channel. Almost all dealt with the epiphany, the one moment where the punchline, the plot revelation, or even the surprising (or unsurprising) twist. I wouldn't call these quite Joycean in nature, but they were epiphanies just the same.
One short that struck me especially was a film shown on Friday titled Still Early. The film contained very little dialogue and very little narrative, just two lovers whose relationship is possibly ending but left rather unexplored and nebulous in the few short minutes we see them. No exposition, no explanation. Yet, the film is shot so sumptuously, with such passion and attention to the smallest visual details, no frame goes unwasted.
But perhaps the most powerful of these was a very well crafted film, The Christening. There was some serious money involved, as the film was shot on location in both Cork and London, and the credits revealed funding was obtained from a variety of film boards and sources. It was superbly acted, and the difference in professional actors and equipment set the film apart from other shorts included in this program. But it's the subject matter that is most striking. Abortion is not an easy subject to make a film about, and in fact, The Christening never uses the word abortion as it portrays the difficult decisions young Ailbhe faces, and the perilous journey she faces in traveling abroad to London to have the procedure. The last shot is the clincher; a harried and unkempt Ailbhe arrives at the church where she is honored as the godmother to her sister's infant. As she holds the baby in her arms, we see the bundle of emotions she has become, a mixture of relief that she made this all-important ceremony in time, love for her new role, and sadness and possible regret for the decision she made not 24 hours before, yet all wrapped in a shell of confusion amongst these varying feelings. It is truly a powerful image.
The movie makes no judgement call about the morality of her decision; it is ambiguous as to reasons why and even as to how she feels upon making it. The larger point is clear: as long as women have to make a decision to leave, morality
surrounding the issue is irrelevant. One source claims nearly 4,500 Irish women a year leave the country to obtain abortions in the UK, a figure, though down from 2001's 6,600, not due to change anytime soon. While in Dublin, a large "rally for life" took place just near the city centre as thousands came out to place voice the pro-life position, despite the European Union deciding Ireland's anti-abortion laws violate civil and human rights protections provided by Ireland's entry into the EU. The Irish government has routinely argued that abortion violates what it means to Irish, citing the “profound moral values embedded in Irish society” as enough to prohibit women from seeking medical care. The Catholic Church, not one to show concern for women's sexuality or gynecological health, has remain even more defiant in its opinion.
We were asked about Ireland and the EU on our final exam, but nowhere is the friction between the two more readily apparent than in this case. A number of Irishmen intimated to me that Ireland is no more European than Martian. The notion was carried by a number of films which dared to suggest the same for Iceland, who like Ireland lies on the outskirts of the EU geographically and socially, for quite diverse reasons, but unified in the idea that a European-identity just doesn't quite fit either island.
This might be an issue to explore at another time, but in conclusion here, it's film festivals like these that ask these important questions through independent and non-commercial films. The Irish Shorts Programme was successful in at least that endeavor.
Just as found my first international academic conference in AoIR 11.0 in Göteborg, the opportunity to exhibit something you have lovingly crafted over a number of months and possibly years has to be an exciting experience. It certainly was for me when I chaired my panel on Twitter. I was completely nervous and anxious about the reception, but the applause for a job well-done was a reward beyond any measure. They liked me, they really liked me!
I attended two shorts presentations, a 10:00 am showing on Friday and the 12:00 pm showing on Sunday. The set of presentations were a mixture of the overly ambitious historical drama to the simple yet witty comedic short one might see from a YouTube college comedy channel. Almost all dealt with the epiphany, the one moment where the punchline, the plot revelation, or even the surprising (or unsurprising) twist. I wouldn't call these quite Joycean in nature, but they were epiphanies just the same.
One short that struck me especially was a film shown on Friday titled Still Early. The film contained very little dialogue and very little narrative, just two lovers whose relationship is possibly ending but left rather unexplored and nebulous in the few short minutes we see them. No exposition, no explanation. Yet, the film is shot so sumptuously, with such passion and attention to the smallest visual details, no frame goes unwasted.
But perhaps the most powerful of these was a very well crafted film, The Christening. There was some serious money involved, as the film was shot on location in both Cork and London, and the credits revealed funding was obtained from a variety of film boards and sources. It was superbly acted, and the difference in professional actors and equipment set the film apart from other shorts included in this program. But it's the subject matter that is most striking. Abortion is not an easy subject to make a film about, and in fact, The Christening never uses the word abortion as it portrays the difficult decisions young Ailbhe faces, and the perilous journey she faces in traveling abroad to London to have the procedure. The last shot is the clincher; a harried and unkempt Ailbhe arrives at the church where she is honored as the godmother to her sister's infant. As she holds the baby in her arms, we see the bundle of emotions she has become, a mixture of relief that she made this all-important ceremony in time, love for her new role, and sadness and possible regret for the decision she made not 24 hours before, yet all wrapped in a shell of confusion amongst these varying feelings. It is truly a powerful image.
The movie makes no judgement call about the morality of her decision; it is ambiguous as to reasons why and even as to how she feels upon making it. The larger point is clear: as long as women have to make a decision to leave, morality
surrounding the issue is irrelevant. One source claims nearly 4,500 Irish women a year leave the country to obtain abortions in the UK, a figure, though down from 2001's 6,600, not due to change anytime soon. While in Dublin, a large "rally for life" took place just near the city centre as thousands came out to place voice the pro-life position, despite the European Union deciding Ireland's anti-abortion laws violate civil and human rights protections provided by Ireland's entry into the EU. The Irish government has routinely argued that abortion violates what it means to Irish, citing the “profound moral values embedded in Irish society” as enough to prohibit women from seeking medical care. The Catholic Church, not one to show concern for women's sexuality or gynecological health, has remain even more defiant in its opinion.We were asked about Ireland and the EU on our final exam, but nowhere is the friction between the two more readily apparent than in this case. A number of Irishmen intimated to me that Ireland is no more European than Martian. The notion was carried by a number of films which dared to suggest the same for Iceland, who like Ireland lies on the outskirts of the EU geographically and socially, for quite diverse reasons, but unified in the idea that a European-identity just doesn't quite fit either island.
This might be an issue to explore at another time, but in conclusion here, it's film festivals like these that ask these important questions through independent and non-commercial films. The Irish Shorts Programme was successful in at least that endeavor.
MCI Academic Journal #14: Congo: An Irish Affair
I had the pleasure of watching another brilliant Irish documentary at the Galway Film Fleadh, Congo: An Irish Affair which investigated the Irish peacekeeping mission in the Congo in the 60s. The Irish were part of the United Nations Force sent into to quell rebellion and civil war in the face of the disintegration of colonization. Beyond my surprise at the revelation that Belgium used to be a tough little bastard of a country, the story had a number of parallels to US military operations in the present and not so distant past.
Taking a relatively straightforward approach, the filmmakers mixed a combination of raw archival and news footage with various media, including newspaper and radio broadcasts of the day, to weave a complex tapestry for their film. Congo: An Irish Affair avoided the problem many historical docs do in relying too heavily upon narration to move the film's exploration and narrative along. There's nothing worse than having a great film ruined by bad exposition through voiceover.
In addition to the excellent archival footage, (from a variety of sources, including the BBC, Belgian and American outlets) very personal and often poignant interviews with a number of veterans were included to added a much needed personal touch to the proceedings.
Before I delve into the subject matter more in depth, I did want to make one stylistic critique. During the interviews, which were set against the backdrop of the UN armament used by the Irish soldiers during their mission in the Congo, the camera would often take a long shot and swivel around the veterans being interviewed. The direction was unneeded and rather puzzling and set me off against the film at points. Here we have a veteran of a vicious and cruel military action, (both for the rebels and the peacekeeping forces) detailing intimate and sometimes painful memories of what went on, and the camera shot and ensuing movement often destroyed that mood. It was counterintuitive. Could the camera have not turned in slightly on a tight close-up, or even just zoomed in on the eyes a la Errol Morris? The effect was jarring and disconcerting, mostly because I was so totally engrossed in the film that it distracted from my enjoyment of it.
That said, the film was great. Most interesting to me was the humility of the men interviewed, not a surprise considering my experiences in Ireland and from a number of films and media we have consumed during the course.
I don't think it's by accident. I think a trope of Irish humility has emerged in a number of films, bolstered by my expectations for it from my dealings within Irish society. When Mrs. Martin's son was relaying his experiences in national judo tournaments and competitions as well as a few anecdotes about his proficiency in local trivia contests while watching a game show at his mother's house, she chastised him for being a braggart, a clear social faux pas in Ireland. Alan is well into his 40s, and here's his mother chiding him for boasting!
Hush-A-Bye Baby had a number of instances where boastfulness was chided, as did Butcher Boy, in a far more cruel and hurtful manner naturally. This isn't quite developed in thinking for me, true, but I do think there's something to this line of thought. If Irish society decries boastfulness, which in a sense is a by-product of being special, or extraordinary in some talent or facet of life, does Irish culture then bemoan those who strive to be different and in effect, special? Are kids hammered from an early age, as they are in Japan, to avoid being special? To avoid being outside the lines of normality?
Unfortunately, I'm writing this on the plane ride from Charlotte to Chicago, so querying an Irishmen at this point to analyze it further is nigh impossible, but I think a film like Congo: An Irish Affair lends credibility to the origin of my inquiry. The men interviewed refused to take credit for a job well-done. They showed solidarity in their praise of their commanding officers and even in their resolve to complete what was in most ways a no-win mission. Some bemoaned the view many outside their battalion held at the time and the public perception that they somehow failed. They bristled at the notion their withdrawal was viewed as a retreat, based in part by no loss of life in their unit. No one died, everyone came home, and treaties were signed. Why wasn't that a job well done?
Like many I spoke with after the film agreed, it was a job well-done and hopefully Congo: An Irish Affair will correct a misfortunate perception.
Taking a relatively straightforward approach, the filmmakers mixed a combination of raw archival and news footage with various media, including newspaper and radio broadcasts of the day, to weave a complex tapestry for their film. Congo: An Irish Affair avoided the problem many historical docs do in relying too heavily upon narration to move the film's exploration and narrative along. There's nothing worse than having a great film ruined by bad exposition through voiceover.
In addition to the excellent archival footage, (from a variety of sources, including the BBC, Belgian and American outlets) very personal and often poignant interviews with a number of veterans were included to added a much needed personal touch to the proceedings.
Before I delve into the subject matter more in depth, I did want to make one stylistic critique. During the interviews, which were set against the backdrop of the UN armament used by the Irish soldiers during their mission in the Congo, the camera would often take a long shot and swivel around the veterans being interviewed. The direction was unneeded and rather puzzling and set me off against the film at points. Here we have a veteran of a vicious and cruel military action, (both for the rebels and the peacekeeping forces) detailing intimate and sometimes painful memories of what went on, and the camera shot and ensuing movement often destroyed that mood. It was counterintuitive. Could the camera have not turned in slightly on a tight close-up, or even just zoomed in on the eyes a la Errol Morris? The effect was jarring and disconcerting, mostly because I was so totally engrossed in the film that it distracted from my enjoyment of it.
That said, the film was great. Most interesting to me was the humility of the men interviewed, not a surprise considering my experiences in Ireland and from a number of films and media we have consumed during the course.
I don't think it's by accident. I think a trope of Irish humility has emerged in a number of films, bolstered by my expectations for it from my dealings within Irish society. When Mrs. Martin's son was relaying his experiences in national judo tournaments and competitions as well as a few anecdotes about his proficiency in local trivia contests while watching a game show at his mother's house, she chastised him for being a braggart, a clear social faux pas in Ireland. Alan is well into his 40s, and here's his mother chiding him for boasting!
Hush-A-Bye Baby had a number of instances where boastfulness was chided, as did Butcher Boy, in a far more cruel and hurtful manner naturally. This isn't quite developed in thinking for me, true, but I do think there's something to this line of thought. If Irish society decries boastfulness, which in a sense is a by-product of being special, or extraordinary in some talent or facet of life, does Irish culture then bemoan those who strive to be different and in effect, special? Are kids hammered from an early age, as they are in Japan, to avoid being special? To avoid being outside the lines of normality?
Unfortunately, I'm writing this on the plane ride from Charlotte to Chicago, so querying an Irishmen at this point to analyze it further is nigh impossible, but I think a film like Congo: An Irish Affair lends credibility to the origin of my inquiry. The men interviewed refused to take credit for a job well-done. They showed solidarity in their praise of their commanding officers and even in their resolve to complete what was in most ways a no-win mission. Some bemoaned the view many outside their battalion held at the time and the public perception that they somehow failed. They bristled at the notion their withdrawal was viewed as a retreat, based in part by no loss of life in their unit. No one died, everyone came home, and treaties were signed. Why wasn't that a job well done?
Like many I spoke with after the film agreed, it was a job well-done and hopefully Congo: An Irish Affair will correct a misfortunate perception.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
MCI Academic Journal #13: Knuckle
Without doing a complete blow-by-blow of the festival films I saw, I did want to share a few highlights in individual academic journals. The first, although the third film I saw chronologically, was the documentary Knuckle, and what an amazing film it was. It was a film for documentary nerds like myself, and the passion and dedication, and in the end, the complete and utter devotion to chronicling these sordid lives of the Irish Travelers director Ian Palmer followed made the film an absolute must-see.
From a technological and cinematic perspective, Knuckle is not the most adept film. It's a shaky one camera that at times bled too much light, wobbled to exhaustion, and had a grainy quality of early VHS. But of course that's not the point, nor is it the sole measure of the film. Nor too is the oft-annoying mugging children who find their way into the frame of Palmer's lens.
What I focused on in my question in the Q & A forum after the showing at the Fleadh in the Town Hall Theatre, and what I think is the most interesting aspect of the film apart from the exploration of the subject at hand, underground illegal bar knuckle brawls between warring Irish Traveler clans, was the role of Palmer in the film itself.
Palmer is most certainly a character in the film, not like James or Michael in the role of protagonist or even that of a minor bystander. Palmer is as much an engine in the film as are the tainting tapes and DVDs the clans send to each other declaring intentions to beat each other senseless. In fact, a number of these "call-out" videos are made from the very same footage Palmer himself shot.
And while Palmer is narrating the action, he's not only showing and explaining the various plotlines at play in the direction, planning, and eventual celebrations before/during/after the fights, but he's letting us behind the curtain of the film-making process. Not as reflexively as the maestro of the boom mike Nick Broomfield, and more than willing to edit in few buttocks in tight jeans shots. But certainly Palmer is a character in the movie, and by sharing the disappointment in not being able to film a fight, or dealing with the secretive and reticent nature of his subjects at times, he is as emotionally involved in the action as he hopes we, the audience, would be.
Palmer declares that the documentary tradition of an unobtrusive, emotionally uninvested observational, cinema vérité style film, is in fact, dishonest. As Palmer says in his answer, "At this stage, I kinda feel there's an element of dishonesty in presenting the subject that way. You're pretending, you know, it's a, it's a, there's something happening invisibly in front of the camera; there's no interaction. Inevitably there is interaction."
Without the interaction Palmer is referencing, Knuckle is not the same movie. As he says in the video from the Q & A, it was an editorial choice, and it was the right one. To be fair, the subject begs for Palmer's approach, it is bare knuckle fighting after all, not a subject for a timid hands-off approach. Just as bare fist strikes against flesh, tearing wounds open and bruising with blunt force, Palmer had to be right in the middle of the action.
The thing that strikes me the most is that Palmer made this as an editorial choice. He let the action dictate his approach, and it was successful, and as such, he should consider himself a smart director. A stoic interview style, with a reporter's interrogatives and intuition, like Errol Morris or Alex Gibney, would have been too abrasive and jarring. A more self-referential or personal film from Michael Moore or Alan Berliner would have drawn too much attention away from his subjects.
Palmer was right; he found truth in this approach, and the result is a film you must see.
MCI Academic Journal #12: Galway Film Fleadh
The Galway Film Fleadh was simply amazing. I once said to Ambi in shivering excitement when visiting the Association of Internet Researchers 10.0 conference in Milwaukee in 2009, "They're nerds just like me!" The Film Fleadh was a complete sense of of deja vu. It was like coming home once again to house full of complete strangers who knew you completely with judgement of pretense. It was awesome for the cinephile in me.
While I'll write about a number of films individually at a later time, I just wanted to write about the Fleadh as an academic exercise. The Fleadh brings together directors, screenwriters, and students from a number of disciplines together is loveliest of cinema. I met directors and stars of films throughout the four days I spent at the festival, but what surprised me the most, and what felt so comfortable in the end, was the comfort I felt in the environment. Everyone knew everyone else, and as one participant told me later, "Ireland's film community is a rather incestuous place. "
What does that mean for the support of filmmaking on the island? Well certainly a ready-made support system is available for new directors and writers who seek it. Talent, expertise, and advice are freely given to those who take advantage of the generosity of such a tight-knit community. But beyond the simply networking principle of meeting other like-minded individuals, the Irish film community is united in an unspoken common cause.
By that, I mean that in this increasingly competitive environment, getting a truly Irish film into mainstream distribution is a monumental task. Even the Fleadh is subject to the whims of the market place, as this year saw a showing of of the yet to be released Cars 2 on the main screen of the festival. The showing obviously drew a big crowd, and casual attendees of the festival may make the premiere of a Hollywood blockbuster a premium ticket. Pixar's track record aside, the original was one of the lesser critical success of the studio's stable, and surely one could argue that of the numerous upcoming "family films" to hit theaters soon, that Cars 2 might be one worth passing on. But for all those attendees unfamiliar with the inner workings of the festival, perhaps a film like this brings them in to cat another solidly told story as Bellflower, a critically approved and quite popular film with attendees shown the night before. Granted, it was clearly shown with a very different target audience in mind.
But in an age of media imperialism, festivals like these are paramount for Irish films to succeed in the marketplace, especially when Hollywood routinely flexes its muscle in the global cinema exchange. A theatre owner is forced to make a decision: Transformers 3 or Knuckle, a small nation/subculture specific documentary I saw on Friday of the film festival (I'll write on this later), clearly and rather unfortunately, Knuckle will never see the mainstream cineplex. It's destined for the arthouse circuit, and since most Irish films are in part funded by the state, and at a reduced cost, it's quite the norm that Irish movies remain undiscovered by the modern filmgoer. Certainly no mainstream franchise theatre in the states will carry Parked, another Fleadh favorite. And unfortunately, as the States go, so goes the modern global market.
So what we often end up with is craptastic big budget shitfests like Transformers 3, my apologies to my friend Dan who somehow(!) thinks is a better film than Irish indie-fave Once. Transformers 3 will make money, lots and lots of it, but at what costs to our souls?
No seriously, films like that take pieces of our souls. We lose heritage every time a good film is not made in favor of greenlighting another one of Michael Bay's explosion-gasms. It's like the 80s all over again. Want proof? Stallone made $100 million and enough to greenlight a sequel do next year. As long as we don't get Cobra 2: Back on the Bike, let's take the victories where we can, M'Kay?
While I'll write about a number of films individually at a later time, I just wanted to write about the Fleadh as an academic exercise. The Fleadh brings together directors, screenwriters, and students from a number of disciplines together is loveliest of cinema. I met directors and stars of films throughout the four days I spent at the festival, but what surprised me the most, and what felt so comfortable in the end, was the comfort I felt in the environment. Everyone knew everyone else, and as one participant told me later, "Ireland's film community is a rather incestuous place. "
What does that mean for the support of filmmaking on the island? Well certainly a ready-made support system is available for new directors and writers who seek it. Talent, expertise, and advice are freely given to those who take advantage of the generosity of such a tight-knit community. But beyond the simply networking principle of meeting other like-minded individuals, the Irish film community is united in an unspoken common cause.
By that, I mean that in this increasingly competitive environment, getting a truly Irish film into mainstream distribution is a monumental task. Even the Fleadh is subject to the whims of the market place, as this year saw a showing of of the yet to be released Cars 2 on the main screen of the festival. The showing obviously drew a big crowd, and casual attendees of the festival may make the premiere of a Hollywood blockbuster a premium ticket. Pixar's track record aside, the original was one of the lesser critical success of the studio's stable, and surely one could argue that of the numerous upcoming "family films" to hit theaters soon, that Cars 2 might be one worth passing on. But for all those attendees unfamiliar with the inner workings of the festival, perhaps a film like this brings them in to cat another solidly told story as Bellflower, a critically approved and quite popular film with attendees shown the night before. Granted, it was clearly shown with a very different target audience in mind.
But in an age of media imperialism, festivals like these are paramount for Irish films to succeed in the marketplace, especially when Hollywood routinely flexes its muscle in the global cinema exchange. A theatre owner is forced to make a decision: Transformers 3 or Knuckle, a small nation/subculture specific documentary I saw on Friday of the film festival (I'll write on this later), clearly and rather unfortunately, Knuckle will never see the mainstream cineplex. It's destined for the arthouse circuit, and since most Irish films are in part funded by the state, and at a reduced cost, it's quite the norm that Irish movies remain undiscovered by the modern filmgoer. Certainly no mainstream franchise theatre in the states will carry Parked, another Fleadh favorite. And unfortunately, as the States go, so goes the modern global market.
So what we often end up with is craptastic big budget shitfests like Transformers 3, my apologies to my friend Dan who somehow(!) thinks is a better film than Irish indie-fave Once. Transformers 3 will make money, lots and lots of it, but at what costs to our souls?
No seriously, films like that take pieces of our souls. We lose heritage every time a good film is not made in favor of greenlighting another one of Michael Bay's explosion-gasms. It's like the 80s all over again. Want proof? Stallone made $100 million and enough to greenlight a sequel do next year. As long as we don't get Cobra 2: Back on the Bike, let's take the victories where we can, M'Kay?
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
MCI Academic Journal #11: Women and the Revolution
As I wrote just a few posts back, the male gender is certainly favored in Ireland, as it is in much of the world. And while women are no longer treated openly as second class citizens or worse, as chattel, there are still a number of reminders that women suffer ignominy in great effect in Ireland.
The same goes for the The Troubles, which may no longer dominate the news cycle in the way they once did, we are asked to consider what is women’s place in the national struggle in the post-Hunger strike era in Northern Ireland? A number of pieces we have seen or read this semester abroad have suggested the answer to this question is up for debate.
Certainly, pre-hunger strike, women were not just discouraged from taking up arms or even action against the British, they were downright forbidden. Pernell disbanded the women's auxiliary of the IRA, ostracizing his sister to the point that she never spoke to him again. In countless other films and stories we've read, women were simply mules or couriers, involved just on the periphery of the fight, but never in the midst.
Yet it's the women who are left to clean up the pieces after the house falls. Some Mother's Son, Hushabye Baby, The Wind That Shakes the Barley … all showed the repercussions of their sons, fathers, and husbands losing lives, coming home maimed, or locked away in some heinous British prison. It is the women who wear the yoke, but yearn to carry more. If it is they who must hold the family together after tragedy, and they who must work to provide a roof over the heads of their children and food on their plate, shouldn't they have a larger stake in the battle for a united Ireland? Shouldn't they have a larger say in the unfinished revolution?
Ourselves Alone by Anne Devlin asks these questions. My initial reading of the play was a completely different interpretation until in the midst of the class discussion, the tungsten wire of cognition was lit in my brain. While I'm no expert on feminist critical theory, Devlin is not as much concerned with the the unfinished revolution in terms of a united republic of Ireland. Her interpretation is of the inequality of women in modern Irish culture.
The last scene in the play confirms this as close friends Frieda and Donna discuss their relevant past and expectant futures. Frieda, desperate to leave a land she has come to resent, informs Donna of her plans to leave, even as unsure of of them as she is.
DONNA: … (Pause) So you're saying goodbye.
FRIEDA: (Nods) I left him sleeping. i walked out just as I am. If I'd taken the suitcase he'd have known and stopped me.
DONNA: Have you somewhere to go?
FRIEDA: England.
DONNA: Why England?
FRIEDA: Why not? It's my language.
DONNA: Why not go South?
FRIEDA: I'm not that kind of Irish.
Frieda reveals a provincial worldview that excludes Ireland altogether. Even though she could move to Dublin or even further south in County Cork or County Wexford, she wants to leave the country completely. It's too constricting, too suffocating, and in her eyes, even with the colonial oppressor England, despite the obvious backdraws, the shared language is enough to satisfy a move.
Just after this conversation, the two young women reflect on happier times back, where just the girls had a grand time at the beach. Free from men, from societal convention, and the rule of law from the church, they stripped naked and swam in the ocean where the luminescence of the stars and the phosphorescence of the waves shone so beautifully. It was just them alone in the dark still waters, free from all that held them back as women; it was liberation. This is the Ourselves Alone of which Devlin writes. And in a sense, it's always been HER unfinished revolution, hasn't it?
The Christy Moore ballad, “Unfinished Revolution,” says it best,
Soldiers kicked down the door,
called her a whore
While he lingered in Castlereagh
Internment tore them apart, brought her to the heart
of resistance in Belfast today
Her struggle is long, it's hard to be strong
She's determined deep down inside
To be part of the unfinished revolution.
She holds the key to the unfinished revolution.
The same goes for the The Troubles, which may no longer dominate the news cycle in the way they once did, we are asked to consider what is women’s place in the national struggle in the post-Hunger strike era in Northern Ireland? A number of pieces we have seen or read this semester abroad have suggested the answer to this question is up for debate.
Certainly, pre-hunger strike, women were not just discouraged from taking up arms or even action against the British, they were downright forbidden. Pernell disbanded the women's auxiliary of the IRA, ostracizing his sister to the point that she never spoke to him again. In countless other films and stories we've read, women were simply mules or couriers, involved just on the periphery of the fight, but never in the midst.
Yet it's the women who are left to clean up the pieces after the house falls. Some Mother's Son, Hushabye Baby, The Wind That Shakes the Barley … all showed the repercussions of their sons, fathers, and husbands losing lives, coming home maimed, or locked away in some heinous British prison. It is the women who wear the yoke, but yearn to carry more. If it is they who must hold the family together after tragedy, and they who must work to provide a roof over the heads of their children and food on their plate, shouldn't they have a larger stake in the battle for a united Ireland? Shouldn't they have a larger say in the unfinished revolution?
Ourselves Alone by Anne Devlin asks these questions. My initial reading of the play was a completely different interpretation until in the midst of the class discussion, the tungsten wire of cognition was lit in my brain. While I'm no expert on feminist critical theory, Devlin is not as much concerned with the the unfinished revolution in terms of a united republic of Ireland. Her interpretation is of the inequality of women in modern Irish culture.The last scene in the play confirms this as close friends Frieda and Donna discuss their relevant past and expectant futures. Frieda, desperate to leave a land she has come to resent, informs Donna of her plans to leave, even as unsure of of them as she is.
DONNA: … (Pause) So you're saying goodbye.
FRIEDA: (Nods) I left him sleeping. i walked out just as I am. If I'd taken the suitcase he'd have known and stopped me.
DONNA: Have you somewhere to go?
FRIEDA: England.
DONNA: Why England?
FRIEDA: Why not? It's my language.
DONNA: Why not go South?
FRIEDA: I'm not that kind of Irish.
Frieda reveals a provincial worldview that excludes Ireland altogether. Even though she could move to Dublin or even further south in County Cork or County Wexford, she wants to leave the country completely. It's too constricting, too suffocating, and in her eyes, even with the colonial oppressor England, despite the obvious backdraws, the shared language is enough to satisfy a move.
Just after this conversation, the two young women reflect on happier times back, where just the girls had a grand time at the beach. Free from men, from societal convention, and the rule of law from the church, they stripped naked and swam in the ocean where the luminescence of the stars and the phosphorescence of the waves shone so beautifully. It was just them alone in the dark still waters, free from all that held them back as women; it was liberation. This is the Ourselves Alone of which Devlin writes. And in a sense, it's always been HER unfinished revolution, hasn't it?
The Christy Moore ballad, “Unfinished Revolution,” says it best,
Soldiers kicked down the door,
called her a whore
While he lingered in Castlereagh
Internment tore them apart, brought her to the heart
of resistance in Belfast today
Her struggle is long, it's hard to be strong
She's determined deep down inside
To be part of the unfinished revolution.
She holds the key to the unfinished revolution.
MCI Academic Journal #10: Joyce and Postcolonial Literature
Another assigned writing topic concerned James Joyce and postcolonial literature. Frankly, without it, I'm not Joyce's work would be possible. His disgust with colonialism and how it has ravaged his country drive him away from home in effect. Joyce is like a drowning rat in Ireland, scratching and clawing his way through the sinking ships timber trying to escape a life of mediocrity and malaise in a postcolonial world.
Joyce, though a non-nationalist and a pacifist, would never have aligned himself with the Republicans who sought to toss the British out on their rears, he certainly would have applauded their efforts should they succeed. Joyce's utter rejection for Ireland, despite all his works being a product of the postcolonial period, are a direct by-product of the despair of the average Irishmen in a nihilistic environment fostered by the colonial oppression of the Irish.
I've noted on a number of occasions that although the Irish seem to walk in a cringe induced malaise, as if when bad things happen, a sigh and a shrug precede the utterance, "Yeah, it's Ireland." Ireland is that great uncle you love; he's funny witty and extremely talented at nearly anything he does, but the boy just can't catch a break. He seems vexed by life, and the flummoxing behavior he engages in is not purely his fault.
Joyce once wrote, "Ireland is a great country. They call it the Emerald Isle. The Metropolitan Government, after so many centuries, has reduced it to a spectre. Now it is a briar patch." He of course is blaming colonialism for the continuing cloud of corruption and incompetence. While there might be a number of sweet succulent berries in that briar patch, one would have to contend mightily with the numerous thorns in order to attain the reward. Joyce viewed the berries from afar; the thorns were just not worth the hassle.
Without these thorns in his way, perhaps Joyce would have never left Ireland, gaining the independence and freed from the confining and suffocating prison he had seen his native land become. When writing Dubliners, he is quoted as, “My intention is to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis.”
But this is often the case with the great writers isn't it? Misunderstood in their own place and time, they emigrate to a distant locale to center themselves and write so lucidly about the very place they feel has choked their art and ambition. Hemmingway, Woolfe, Eliot, all sought an escape from what they deemed an inescapable coffin of creative corrosion. Some authors have even become so synonymous with their new homes, they lose identification as a denizen of their native land. Heck, I just found out Henry James was a Yank!
But escape as he tried, Joyce is clearly an Irish author. He may have left the Emerald Isle in body, but not in spirit, and wonderful pieces like "Abarat" and "The Dead" so consciously express. Could he have written "The Dead" set apart from his youth in a postcolonial time?
I doubt it.
Joyce, though a non-nationalist and a pacifist, would never have aligned himself with the Republicans who sought to toss the British out on their rears, he certainly would have applauded their efforts should they succeed. Joyce's utter rejection for Ireland, despite all his works being a product of the postcolonial period, are a direct by-product of the despair of the average Irishmen in a nihilistic environment fostered by the colonial oppression of the Irish.
I've noted on a number of occasions that although the Irish seem to walk in a cringe induced malaise, as if when bad things happen, a sigh and a shrug precede the utterance, "Yeah, it's Ireland." Ireland is that great uncle you love; he's funny witty and extremely talented at nearly anything he does, but the boy just can't catch a break. He seems vexed by life, and the flummoxing behavior he engages in is not purely his fault.
Joyce once wrote, "Ireland is a great country. They call it the Emerald Isle. The Metropolitan Government, after so many centuries, has reduced it to a spectre. Now it is a briar patch." He of course is blaming colonialism for the continuing cloud of corruption and incompetence. While there might be a number of sweet succulent berries in that briar patch, one would have to contend mightily with the numerous thorns in order to attain the reward. Joyce viewed the berries from afar; the thorns were just not worth the hassle.
Without these thorns in his way, perhaps Joyce would have never left Ireland, gaining the independence and freed from the confining and suffocating prison he had seen his native land become. When writing Dubliners, he is quoted as, “My intention is to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis.”
But this is often the case with the great writers isn't it? Misunderstood in their own place and time, they emigrate to a distant locale to center themselves and write so lucidly about the very place they feel has choked their art and ambition. Hemmingway, Woolfe, Eliot, all sought an escape from what they deemed an inescapable coffin of creative corrosion. Some authors have even become so synonymous with their new homes, they lose identification as a denizen of their native land. Heck, I just found out Henry James was a Yank!
But escape as he tried, Joyce is clearly an Irish author. He may have left the Emerald Isle in body, but not in spirit, and wonderful pieces like "Abarat" and "The Dead" so consciously express. Could he have written "The Dead" set apart from his youth in a postcolonial time?
I doubt it.
MCI Academic Journal #9: Guinness Goes Global
The postmodernist died a little in me during the trip to the Guinness Storehouse, though. A paean to the Black Gold, the Storehouse should represent the pinnacle of Irish brewing achievement. Instead, it is an achievement in the commercial.
Guinness is no longer an Irish company, no more than Sarah plain represents the average Alaskan. Generally, it's American companies, giant behemoths of capitalism and greed which swallow local culture and tradition whole, chewing it into a multinational mash of global consumerism. But what Diageo has done with Guinness is not much different.
In fact, very little in the Storehouse tells you you're seeing an Irish beer being made, even less that you're even in Ireland. Except for an occasional Irish brogue in the video displays and a few spelling differences in the materials, there's nothing that can truly be identified as "Irish." Guinness is trying very hard to be the next international brew of choice; the next draught for drinkers from Dublin to Durbin to Denver should be a Guinness. It's like Budweiser's beefier brawnier older brother; more history, better taste, and a "stouter" identity. (I know, bad pun, but I just couldn't resist.)
Floor upon floor, this Irish institution I cherished was being swept away, from the evangelism of Guinness as a world wide brand, to even cold (COLD!) Guinness on draft, again and again, I saw signs that being Irish just wasn't enough. "We're not Irish," Guinness proclaims. "We've moved on, just like the millions of Shamrockers who've left the Emerald Isle to find their fortune across the seas." The natural emigration of the Irish to far flung lands finds yet another advocate.
But something that sticks in my craw is that Guinness is now served cold. 40 years ago, the American market was a just a fantasy for Guinness and countless other imported beers. the allure was great with millions of American football fans eagerly awaiting a solid brew to quench their thirst on gameday. But these Yanks liked their horsepiss cold, not warm. Room temperature beer could never catch a fancy in the States, and so Guinness started chilling the draft to suit American tastes. Since America's greatest export is her culture, is it any wonder that much of the world drinks a cold frosty brew as well? Beer used to be about taste, now it's about refreshment, once left to lemonade and Sunkist.
As I trudged up escalator after escalator, I became more and more disillusioned at the prospects of witnessing Guinness' decline in multinationalism. I'm sure shareholders appreciate the bonus in dividends expansion the world market brings, but it's a loss of innocence for me and others who look at Guinness as the epitome of Irish beer.
It's a sad day for a pint.
MCI Academic Journal #8: Kilmainham Gaol
Before we set out for the Guinness Storehouse and the Kilmainham Gaol, two disparate tour stops as one could imagine, Dr. Chown asked us to consider the following question: What is postmodern about these two places' representation of Ireland?
Certainly they do represent differing points of Irish history, but mostly I would consider the difference in what they stand for today. This is just too big a topic to chew over in one post, so I will be splitting the two stops into different blog entries. The Gaol represents the horrors of the past, something any Irishman can regale you with in song, prose, or art. The Gaol was a horrific place, better suited for the minds who thought up the Saw franchise of films. I remarked at one point of the uncomfortableness of the place; it was the same reason I avoided touring the concentration camps going through Germany and Poland. I know what happened there, and I have no desire to trudge through that pain as a tourist. There's just something profoundly macabre about the Gaol and other historical sites like it. Granted, I did the tour of the Dunmore caves in Kilkenny where as many as 400 women and children may have been murdered by Vikings who set fire to the cave's mouth to suffocate the hidden survivors of their plundering of the local village. That was as much about the historical significance of the caves as it was about the natural beauty of the caves themselves. There will be an academic post on the significance of the caves from that viewpoint in a little while.
But the Gaol was a very fearsome place, and even touring the defunct facility in the bright of day made it no less loathsome. Several of the girls noted they were chilled to the bone as the stood near the execution ground where firing squads eliminated the leaders of the 1916 Uprising. We visited the small chapel where Joseph Plunkett married the love of his life, Grace Gifford, only to be ripped away just 15 minutes after saying "I do" to be summarily shot in the prison yard. Kilmainham is a place of misery and death, and that it has become the place for foreigners like myself to visit and learn about Ireland's sordid and tragic history is an anathema. It just doesn't make sense.
But that's just my American midst trying to comprehend all this new information. As Yanks, we visit Valley Forge, Gettysburg, and Wounded Knee, as with many various points of military might and loss of life. We travel to Pearl Harbor to see the Arizona, Oklahoma City to see the bombing memorial, and even infamous prisons like Alcatraz are open to tourist inspection. But there's no continual history of tragedy with those monuments. There's a singularity in the events that made those places infamous or tragic.
Conversely, the Gaol has a long history of continual suffering and despair, as the leaders of nearly every Irish uprising against the colonialism of British rule were imprisoned in Kilmainham, suffering with women and children all crammed into the belly of this giant rocky beast. 1798, 1803, 1848, 1867 and 1916. Those are the numbers whose pain is etched upon these walls. The postmodernist questions why we visit; why visit a place filled with such pain and tragedy? What can we learn from a tour here?
Cynically, I'd say that Kilmainham has never closed, despite it cease in operations in the 1920s. It's simply picked up its foundations and moved south to the Caribbean where the US government has it full of terrorists and those "suspected of terrorism" rotting away in Guantanamo. While no one is being sent to Guantanamo for breaking windows and stealing bread as 13 year-old George Keane was in a sentence of one week hard labor in Kilmainham, simply being friends with the wrong person or attending the wrong church is. In case you think otherwise, I know of a taxi driver you may want to learn about.
Certainly they do represent differing points of Irish history, but mostly I would consider the difference in what they stand for today. This is just too big a topic to chew over in one post, so I will be splitting the two stops into different blog entries. The Gaol represents the horrors of the past, something any Irishman can regale you with in song, prose, or art. The Gaol was a horrific place, better suited for the minds who thought up the Saw franchise of films. I remarked at one point of the uncomfortableness of the place; it was the same reason I avoided touring the concentration camps going through Germany and Poland. I know what happened there, and I have no desire to trudge through that pain as a tourist. There's just something profoundly macabre about the Gaol and other historical sites like it. Granted, I did the tour of the Dunmore caves in Kilkenny where as many as 400 women and children may have been murdered by Vikings who set fire to the cave's mouth to suffocate the hidden survivors of their plundering of the local village. That was as much about the historical significance of the caves as it was about the natural beauty of the caves themselves. There will be an academic post on the significance of the caves from that viewpoint in a little while.But the Gaol was a very fearsome place, and even touring the defunct facility in the bright of day made it no less loathsome. Several of the girls noted they were chilled to the bone as the stood near the execution ground where firing squads eliminated the leaders of the 1916 Uprising. We visited the small chapel where Joseph Plunkett married the love of his life, Grace Gifford, only to be ripped away just 15 minutes after saying "I do" to be summarily shot in the prison yard. Kilmainham is a place of misery and death, and that it has become the place for foreigners like myself to visit and learn about Ireland's sordid and tragic history is an anathema. It just doesn't make sense.
But that's just my American midst trying to comprehend all this new information. As Yanks, we visit Valley Forge, Gettysburg, and Wounded Knee, as with many various points of military might and loss of life. We travel to Pearl Harbor to see the Arizona, Oklahoma City to see the bombing memorial, and even infamous prisons like Alcatraz are open to tourist inspection. But there's no continual history of tragedy with those monuments. There's a singularity in the events that made those places infamous or tragic.
Conversely, the Gaol has a long history of continual suffering and despair, as the leaders of nearly every Irish uprising against the colonialism of British rule were imprisoned in Kilmainham, suffering with women and children all crammed into the belly of this giant rocky beast. 1798, 1803, 1848, 1867 and 1916. Those are the numbers whose pain is etched upon these walls. The postmodernist questions why we visit; why visit a place filled with such pain and tragedy? What can we learn from a tour here?
Cynically, I'd say that Kilmainham has never closed, despite it cease in operations in the 1920s. It's simply picked up its foundations and moved south to the Caribbean where the US government has it full of terrorists and those "suspected of terrorism" rotting away in Guantanamo. While no one is being sent to Guantanamo for breaking windows and stealing bread as 13 year-old George Keane was in a sentence of one week hard labor in Kilmainham, simply being friends with the wrong person or attending the wrong church is. In case you think otherwise, I know of a taxi driver you may want to learn about.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #4: Grattan Bridge
Dublin, on the surface, appears to be the same as any other major cosmopolitan city of relative size and scope. Most major cities are essentially the same to a degree, Toronto, New York, London, Madrid, I could go on and on. At certain point, they sort of lose that local identity, becoming part of a greater transpolitan landscape. And while I generally subscribe Dublin to this international group of homogenized cities, I made this video to reflect some of the local flair of the city centre that doesn't quite subscribe to the modern day megalopolis.
Grattan Bridge (Droichead Grattan in Irish, thanks Wikipedia!) lies just off the O'Connell Bridge near the heart of the city. Overlooking the River Liffy, the Grattan is one of a number of bridges for pedestrian and commuter alike. In the video, you'll notice a number of things that I find interesting and relevant to this conversation.
The walled nature of the banks with stoic brick buildings belies the warm and friendly nature of the city. Numerous shops and restaurants crowd the river, enticing consumers to spend a few minutes in their establishments and purvey the city and the bustling streets full of tourists and native Dubliners alike. But at the same time, the closely grouped buildings of imposing stone and mortar give one a strong sense of isolation, closed to outsiders and absent the very warmth its citizens provide.
The buildings also lack the bright colors and vivid spots of allure one might find in other European cities like Venice, Copenhagen, or even Graz, Austria. There are some parts of Dublin that may fit this bill, but even then it's quite muted in comparison. Maybe it's the weather, the disposition, or even the materials to work with, but the reserved nature of Dublin reigns supreme.
That by no means lessen its beauty. Dublin is a gorgeous city, medieval in nature and forged from grey stone and crimson brick, a creamy limestone or marble will appear now and then, but the city is dominated by these materials. Trees line nearly every street, supporting the notion of Ireland's emerald reputation. Dublin is just a great city for the pedestrian, and as you can see from the film, traffic is present, but rarely does it reach the congested levels of Chicago or Nagoya. Dublin doesn't choke its inhabitants or its visitors, and for that, I will sorely miss it in just a few days.
Grattan Bridge (Droichead Grattan in Irish, thanks Wikipedia!) lies just off the O'Connell Bridge near the heart of the city. Overlooking the River Liffy, the Grattan is one of a number of bridges for pedestrian and commuter alike. In the video, you'll notice a number of things that I find interesting and relevant to this conversation.
The walled nature of the banks with stoic brick buildings belies the warm and friendly nature of the city. Numerous shops and restaurants crowd the river, enticing consumers to spend a few minutes in their establishments and purvey the city and the bustling streets full of tourists and native Dubliners alike. But at the same time, the closely grouped buildings of imposing stone and mortar give one a strong sense of isolation, closed to outsiders and absent the very warmth its citizens provide.
The buildings also lack the bright colors and vivid spots of allure one might find in other European cities like Venice, Copenhagen, or even Graz, Austria. There are some parts of Dublin that may fit this bill, but even then it's quite muted in comparison. Maybe it's the weather, the disposition, or even the materials to work with, but the reserved nature of Dublin reigns supreme.
That by no means lessen its beauty. Dublin is a gorgeous city, medieval in nature and forged from grey stone and crimson brick, a creamy limestone or marble will appear now and then, but the city is dominated by these materials. Trees line nearly every street, supporting the notion of Ireland's emerald reputation. Dublin is just a great city for the pedestrian, and as you can see from the film, traffic is present, but rarely does it reach the congested levels of Chicago or Nagoya. Dublin doesn't choke its inhabitants or its visitors, and for that, I will sorely miss it in just a few days.
Monday, July 11, 2011
MCI Academic Journal #7: Some Mother's Son
As often is the case with many of the Irish films we've watched so far during our time in Ireland, Some Mother's Son is greatly concerned with class, a topic I hope to explore in greater detail in my final paper for these courses.
The themes surrounding class and status in these Irish films are rarely bubbling under the surface; they're placed in the front yard of the "old tropes' home" like a pink flamingo in a Wisconsin trailer park. Some Mother's Son sets the stage with the virtual definition of class struggle and stratification with the initial appearance of Maggie Thatcher at the beginning of the film. Thatcher exuded the image of the prim and proper British women, a pitbull in lipstick long before Caribou Barbie and Hillary N' Pantsuits ever entered the national stateside consciousness. Thatcher was a hardline conservative, more stridently to the right than even our much revered/reviled 40th president. Thatcher's policies and extremely staunch stance against the IRA earned her plaudits at the time, but have left her with a limping legacy, maimed from her regime's treatments of the many who relied upon social services to eke by.
Not long after setting the scene as within a "Thatcher's Britannia," the film consciously contrasts the differences in class between the middle class and comfortable Quigley family to the working class agrarian nature of the Higgins family. Their sons, Gerard Quigley and Frank Higgins, are leading the IRA fight against the British soldiers in Northern Ireland. We meet Frank Higgins' heavily brassy mother who stands up to the British occupation of her homeland, and we see Frank’s rural upbringing and sense of family, lacking in the accouterments and the perfectly poached eggs of the middle class status the Quigley family exists in.
This is no more relevant than the scene where the British soldiers invade the farm on Christmas eve. As the family gathers around the dinner table for a hearty traditional meal, we see the importance of their togetherness and the difficulty of lost sons to the Troubles. Gerard's family not only knows nothing of his activity in the IRA, they truly know very little of the struggle against the Brits oppression. While no means affluent or wealthy to be above the Troubles, their status as a middle class and gainfully employed allows the family to ignore the struggles of the Republican cause for the most part.
Helen Mirren plays a woman dropped into a conflict that she not only avidly avoided, but abjectly denied. It was not her cause to take up, until the arrest of their sons forces Kathleen Quigley and Annie Higgins (played with aplomb by Fionnula Flanagan) to form a cooperative union of support and eventual friendship.
For Annie, the struggle against the Unionists is all she has known. She's already lost one son to the Troubles, and she is prepared to lose a second despite the love for her son. By fortune of her working class status, she is a woman with little to lose in the revolution. She's already lost a portion of her soul, and we agonize when Frank passes at the end, knowing the burden she carries for a second time.
It's a wrenching scene when Kathleen informs Annie she has signed the order for medical treatment for Gerard, to which Annie, a confused mixture of sadness, anger, and pride, responds, "Somebody had to do it."
Contrast this with the actions of Cillian Murphy's med student in "The Wind That Shakes the Barley," an Irishmen with such promise, yet dedicated to the cause of the rebellion. He has nothing to gain for joining the fight, but everything to lose, and yet he barrels headlong into a leadership position in the IRA. Kathleen struggles with this process, never fully capitulating to revolutionary impulses that may have arisen to the unjust nature of her son's predicament. She helps the IRA begrudgingly, and eventually rejects them in saving her son, avoiding certain martyr status for him, and a place within the revolutionary halls of history. She is a woman scorned, but reasoned in her path, all while avoiding a path of righteous vengeance.
Lastly this movie effectively uses the rhythms and sounds of traditional Celtic music scene when the eldest daughter is leaving the country (where is never explained) and the haunting tunes of the uilleann pipes rise to underscore her departure, a journey millions have made, fleeing famine, economic depression, or even the Troubles. The music also underscores the idea that the Irish are a morose and vexed population, in love with their land, culture, and traditions, but forced by circumstance to find fortune and sanctuary elsewhere.
The themes surrounding class and status in these Irish films are rarely bubbling under the surface; they're placed in the front yard of the "old tropes' home" like a pink flamingo in a Wisconsin trailer park. Some Mother's Son sets the stage with the virtual definition of class struggle and stratification with the initial appearance of Maggie Thatcher at the beginning of the film. Thatcher exuded the image of the prim and proper British women, a pitbull in lipstick long before Caribou Barbie and Hillary N' Pantsuits ever entered the national stateside consciousness. Thatcher was a hardline conservative, more stridently to the right than even our much revered/reviled 40th president. Thatcher's policies and extremely staunch stance against the IRA earned her plaudits at the time, but have left her with a limping legacy, maimed from her regime's treatments of the many who relied upon social services to eke by.Not long after setting the scene as within a "Thatcher's Britannia," the film consciously contrasts the differences in class between the middle class and comfortable Quigley family to the working class agrarian nature of the Higgins family. Their sons, Gerard Quigley and Frank Higgins, are leading the IRA fight against the British soldiers in Northern Ireland. We meet Frank Higgins' heavily brassy mother who stands up to the British occupation of her homeland, and we see Frank’s rural upbringing and sense of family, lacking in the accouterments and the perfectly poached eggs of the middle class status the Quigley family exists in.
This is no more relevant than the scene where the British soldiers invade the farm on Christmas eve. As the family gathers around the dinner table for a hearty traditional meal, we see the importance of their togetherness and the difficulty of lost sons to the Troubles. Gerard's family not only knows nothing of his activity in the IRA, they truly know very little of the struggle against the Brits oppression. While no means affluent or wealthy to be above the Troubles, their status as a middle class and gainfully employed allows the family to ignore the struggles of the Republican cause for the most part.
Helen Mirren plays a woman dropped into a conflict that she not only avidly avoided, but abjectly denied. It was not her cause to take up, until the arrest of their sons forces Kathleen Quigley and Annie Higgins (played with aplomb by Fionnula Flanagan) to form a cooperative union of support and eventual friendship.
For Annie, the struggle against the Unionists is all she has known. She's already lost one son to the Troubles, and she is prepared to lose a second despite the love for her son. By fortune of her working class status, she is a woman with little to lose in the revolution. She's already lost a portion of her soul, and we agonize when Frank passes at the end, knowing the burden she carries for a second time.
It's a wrenching scene when Kathleen informs Annie she has signed the order for medical treatment for Gerard, to which Annie, a confused mixture of sadness, anger, and pride, responds, "Somebody had to do it."
Contrast this with the actions of Cillian Murphy's med student in "The Wind That Shakes the Barley," an Irishmen with such promise, yet dedicated to the cause of the rebellion. He has nothing to gain for joining the fight, but everything to lose, and yet he barrels headlong into a leadership position in the IRA. Kathleen struggles with this process, never fully capitulating to revolutionary impulses that may have arisen to the unjust nature of her son's predicament. She helps the IRA begrudgingly, and eventually rejects them in saving her son, avoiding certain martyr status for him, and a place within the revolutionary halls of history. She is a woman scorned, but reasoned in her path, all while avoiding a path of righteous vengeance.
Lastly this movie effectively uses the rhythms and sounds of traditional Celtic music scene when the eldest daughter is leaving the country (where is never explained) and the haunting tunes of the uilleann pipes rise to underscore her departure, a journey millions have made, fleeing famine, economic depression, or even the Troubles. The music also underscores the idea that the Irish are a morose and vexed population, in love with their land, culture, and traditions, but forced by circumstance to find fortune and sanctuary elsewhere.
MCI Cultural Journal #3: Home Cookin'
For a country that so identifies with the motherland (Mother Ireland, Cathleen Ní Houlihan, Erin), today's Ireland is still very much favors the male gender. Maybe it harkens back to the days of the agrarian past where large numbers of the male stock were preferred to tend the livestock and till the fields, but it is still quite clear that boys are still the favored gender.
Dr. Chown has mentioned on numerous occasions that boys in the Media and Culture in Ireland program are often well treated as compared to the girls in the program at the same time. The girls often face harsher curfews and other restrictions that just aren't placed upon the boys. To wit, I present the above video as evidence.
Not only are the carnivores getting this divine dinner treatment, but our host mum Mrs. Martin also bought a vegan cookbook so she could specially prepare me meals as well. In another post, I will talk about the food specifically, and my struggles as a vegan, but for now, I just wanted to highlight how good we had it with Mrs. Martin.
Not only do we get great food for dinner every night, but she packs us lunch on the days we're taking day trips, AND does our laundry whenever we need some done. All we do is place it in the hamper, and boom, it's back in a nice sorted pile ready for us to wear or put away. We get to watch TV with her, and she'll even let us work the remote control if we like. We have it good.
The girls on the other hand aren't quite so fortunate. In fact, two of the girls had to share a bed for almost a week. The host father asked Meghan when she showed up whether she knew any of the girls on the trip. When Meghan answered no, he joked, "Well, you'll be quite close after this." Cue vision of just two beds for three girls, (but not in the sick perverted way I was thinking). They've been asked at times what they'd like to eat only to be served the opposite at dinner. Put it this way, I'm glad I'm a man.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #2: Irish Drag(on)
Last Thursday after taking in a performance of Molly Sweeney, I hooked up with some kids from UC-Berkley. They saw Molly as a part of their semester abroad studying theater and arts. I chatted with them about their interpretations of the show, a continuation Dan and I were having about the doctor and husband as colonizers of Molly/Ireland (more on that in a separate entry.) So Dan and I followed them to a gay bar, where the doorman immediately marked us both as heteros slumming with the queens.
With raised eyebrow and a bawdy Irish brogue, “You know there’s a performance here tonight, right, lads?” I answered in the affirmative suspecting we were about to see a burlesque show, (even saying “Yeah, it’s a burlesque show”), but truly unsure of the bar’s clientele or sexual preference. In fact, when I heard the kids talking about a Panti, I just assumed I was in for some Moulin rouge hi-jinks and maybe a few corsets and garter belts. Who knew Panti was the main star attraction in a drag show, and someone the Cal kids studied with during their trip?
That said, Dan ducked out early noting, “Yeah, this isn’t really my scene.” (There went my cab fare split). I wasn’t uncomfortable in the least, and I figured out rather quickly this was a gay bar, and the queens were in high demand. I joined some of the UCB students and got some great video of these dames performing, and it was a riot. They put on one helluva a show, and it was a fascinating cultural experience. I’ll write more on this in another entry.
But what was just as interesting, was the journey home and the conversation with Alix, our French roommate. I caught her as she arrived home after meeting up with Dan and Connor for drinks at another pub. When I relayed that we had gone to a gay bar, she had reacted with such disdain and disgust that I was truly taken aback. Really? Really, Alix, really? You’re French! Your monarchy practically invented cross-dressing! Holding back the urge to chastise her for her dark ages view of sexuality, I suggested I wanted to apologize to Dan if he were uncomfortable, whereupon Alix stated sternly “Maybe he should be” with a very cross expression. Wanting to make sure I caught her neo-conservative bent correctly, I asked her to repeat herself under the guise of not hearing her fully. When she stated it the second time, I simply responded with “Huh, why?” Was I pressing her? Yes. Was I seeking a verbal confrontation? Probably. Did I want to expose her archaic views and produce consternation? Absolutely.
It’s an interesting paradox I’ve encountered so far. Alix as a French woman, and many Irish I meet here, carry strong opinions but a very non-confrontational stance. It’s like snipers, drawing a bead on an intended target in which to stoke a difference in opinions, but shirk the responsibility or negativity despite being clearly marked as both. It’s like criticizing someone through someone else to shield oneself from the ensuing ill tidings or conversation.
It’s one thing to avoid conflict and confrontation; it’s another to be too cowardly to stand behind your words no matter how controversial they may appear to be.
With raised eyebrow and a bawdy Irish brogue, “You know there’s a performance here tonight, right, lads?” I answered in the affirmative suspecting we were about to see a burlesque show, (even saying “Yeah, it’s a burlesque show”), but truly unsure of the bar’s clientele or sexual preference. In fact, when I heard the kids talking about a Panti, I just assumed I was in for some Moulin rouge hi-jinks and maybe a few corsets and garter belts. Who knew Panti was the main star attraction in a drag show, and someone the Cal kids studied with during their trip? That said, Dan ducked out early noting, “Yeah, this isn’t really my scene.” (There went my cab fare split). I wasn’t uncomfortable in the least, and I figured out rather quickly this was a gay bar, and the queens were in high demand. I joined some of the UCB students and got some great video of these dames performing, and it was a riot. They put on one helluva a show, and it was a fascinating cultural experience. I’ll write more on this in another entry.
But what was just as interesting, was the journey home and the conversation with Alix, our French roommate. I caught her as she arrived home after meeting up with Dan and Connor for drinks at another pub. When I relayed that we had gone to a gay bar, she had reacted with such disdain and disgust that I was truly taken aback. Really? Really, Alix, really? You’re French! Your monarchy practically invented cross-dressing! Holding back the urge to chastise her for her dark ages view of sexuality, I suggested I wanted to apologize to Dan if he were uncomfortable, whereupon Alix stated sternly “Maybe he should be” with a very cross expression. Wanting to make sure I caught her neo-conservative bent correctly, I asked her to repeat herself under the guise of not hearing her fully. When she stated it the second time, I simply responded with “Huh, why?” Was I pressing her? Yes. Was I seeking a verbal confrontation? Probably. Did I want to expose her archaic views and produce consternation? Absolutely.
It’s an interesting paradox I’ve encountered so far. Alix as a French woman, and many Irish I meet here, carry strong opinions but a very non-confrontational stance. It’s like snipers, drawing a bead on an intended target in which to stoke a difference in opinions, but shirk the responsibility or negativity despite being clearly marked as both. It’s like criticizing someone through someone else to shield oneself from the ensuing ill tidings or conversation.
It’s one thing to avoid conflict and confrontation; it’s another to be too cowardly to stand behind your words no matter how controversial they may appear to be.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #1: Love at First Pint
It's kind of hard to travel to Ireland and not enjoy a pint, it really is. Ireland is as synonymous with alcohol as China is with tea. You can be a teetotaler as a visitor, but that tactic doesn't always sit well with the locals. I'm actually not much of a drinker, there's a Goose Island that's been in my fridge for almost two full years, and I rarely drink to excess. I'll probably drink more on this trip in a month than I will the rest of the year, wedding and other celebrations included. Maybe it's because I didn't drink until I was of legal age, or just that I'm a persnickety beer snob, but I don't drink just to get smashed, never have, never will.
Ireland is famous for its beer, none so more than Guinness, which will get its own cultural/academic journal at a later time, and is perfect for beer snobs like me. My favorite Irish beer has always always been Kilkenny, the creamier and muter version of Smithwick's. I knew my first beer in Ireland would have to be one of the two, there's plenty of time for Guinness later.
So after arriving and meeting up with Dan at our host mother Mrs. Martin's house, we met up with Meghan and Ashley and headed down to O'Connell street, the main commercial and cultural thoroughfare near the city centre. We tucked ourselves into our first pub and all sat down to have our first pint (of many) together.
There's nothing quite like that first experience of something in a new land, whether it's something mundane like going to the post office or eating at a noodlebar, to the completely cultural unique like staying in a capsule motel or attending a bullfight. I'd place having a beer in the mundane category, certainly not on the level of the sublime, except beer is so integral to understanding and enjoying Irish culture. Forgive the phrase, but Irish culture is soaked in beer.
I was profoundly disappointed that my first pint was in the Miller Genuine Draft glass though. Every time I think I'm out of America, they just pull me back in. Look, I understand that American culture has inundated the world, there's a damn Mickey D's and Starbucks everywhere, but do you have to ruin my beer too? Can't I have at least one good thing in life to enjoy free from American imperialism?
The beer was fantastic and the environment even more so. We were among regular folks with soccer on the TV, (Yes, they call it soccer here!), enjoying our pints. There was a familiarity and warmth within the environment even though we'd been there just hours. No "you boys ain't from around here" or uncomfrotable stares telling us to leave their little corner of the world, just "hey, you like good beer, you're welcome here." My kind of country.
Ireland is famous for its beer, none so more than Guinness, which will get its own cultural/academic journal at a later time, and is perfect for beer snobs like me. My favorite Irish beer has always always been Kilkenny, the creamier and muter version of Smithwick's. I knew my first beer in Ireland would have to be one of the two, there's plenty of time for Guinness later.
So after arriving and meeting up with Dan at our host mother Mrs. Martin's house, we met up with Meghan and Ashley and headed down to O'Connell street, the main commercial and cultural thoroughfare near the city centre. We tucked ourselves into our first pub and all sat down to have our first pint (of many) together.
There's nothing quite like that first experience of something in a new land, whether it's something mundane like going to the post office or eating at a noodlebar, to the completely cultural unique like staying in a capsule motel or attending a bullfight. I'd place having a beer in the mundane category, certainly not on the level of the sublime, except beer is so integral to understanding and enjoying Irish culture. Forgive the phrase, but Irish culture is soaked in beer.
I was profoundly disappointed that my first pint was in the Miller Genuine Draft glass though. Every time I think I'm out of America, they just pull me back in. Look, I understand that American culture has inundated the world, there's a damn Mickey D's and Starbucks everywhere, but do you have to ruin my beer too? Can't I have at least one good thing in life to enjoy free from American imperialism?
The beer was fantastic and the environment even more so. We were among regular folks with soccer on the TV, (Yes, they call it soccer here!), enjoying our pints. There was a familiarity and warmth within the environment even though we'd been there just hours. No "you boys ain't from around here" or uncomfrotable stares telling us to leave their little corner of the world, just "hey, you like good beer, you're welcome here." My kind of country.
MCI Academic Journal #6: Translations
Dr. Rank jokes that our group will all be Brian Friel experts after all the material we'll read and have read so far in class, and after seeing the first of two stageplays from him, I certainly felt rather confident in that assertion, and even more so after watching Molly Sweeney, which will have its own post later.
Reading the text by Friel is a far more enigmatic experience than the stage show, for obvious reasons. Every director and every actor who does the show will offer a different interpretation of the text, which I am sure Friel expects as a playwright. The text is in black and white, with the shades of grey created by a particular performances' nuance provide a concreteness that the subtlety the text lacks. And just as the lack certitude in an actual translation, Translations as a text deftly plays with ambiguity.
Just as Superman has his Smallville, Friel has his fictional town of Baile Beag (small town) in County Donegal. Not only does the town represent the "everytown" akin to "Smallville, Kansas," it serves well as the setting for a play about the natural ambiguity of translation. We often discussed the idea of "no true synonyms" since culture is as inseparable from language as breathing is to living. It is impossible to have one without the other, and both are dependent on the other in order to survive.
This is no more clear than when Yolland and Máire escape the local dance and perform a beautiful yet sometimes painful exchange of the tussle of emotions that happen upon love at first sight. Infatuation, passion, confusion, and frustration are all rolled into a complicated scene that requires the dexterity from actors performing the scene. The text layers this is a melancholy sadness filled with wont and determination to forge this blossoming love, yet the staging we watched at the theatre two weeks ago was played for uncomfortable laughs. Yolland repeatedly explodes in joy, ecstatic to be in Máire's presence, perhaps combining his infatuation for the Ireland with the beautiful farm girl who has captured his imagination. The uncomfortable laughs were as much about laughing at this ridiculous Red Coat in his fumbling affections as the innate sense that perhaps this isn't meant to funny.
It's much like the scene in Pulp Fiction when Marvin is shot in the face. You laugh, but feel uncomfortable in doing so as you realize you're laughing at someone's demise; it's a bit disconcerting really.
In class we talked at length about the representations of Cathleen Ní Houlihan in the play, the notion of what is civilized, and generally what bastards the English were.
Reading the text by Friel is a far more enigmatic experience than the stage show, for obvious reasons. Every director and every actor who does the show will offer a different interpretation of the text, which I am sure Friel expects as a playwright. The text is in black and white, with the shades of grey created by a particular performances' nuance provide a concreteness that the subtlety the text lacks. And just as the lack certitude in an actual translation, Translations as a text deftly plays with ambiguity.Just as Superman has his Smallville, Friel has his fictional town of Baile Beag (small town) in County Donegal. Not only does the town represent the "everytown" akin to "Smallville, Kansas," it serves well as the setting for a play about the natural ambiguity of translation. We often discussed the idea of "no true synonyms" since culture is as inseparable from language as breathing is to living. It is impossible to have one without the other, and both are dependent on the other in order to survive.
This is no more clear than when Yolland and Máire escape the local dance and perform a beautiful yet sometimes painful exchange of the tussle of emotions that happen upon love at first sight. Infatuation, passion, confusion, and frustration are all rolled into a complicated scene that requires the dexterity from actors performing the scene. The text layers this is a melancholy sadness filled with wont and determination to forge this blossoming love, yet the staging we watched at the theatre two weeks ago was played for uncomfortable laughs. Yolland repeatedly explodes in joy, ecstatic to be in Máire's presence, perhaps combining his infatuation for the Ireland with the beautiful farm girl who has captured his imagination. The uncomfortable laughs were as much about laughing at this ridiculous Red Coat in his fumbling affections as the innate sense that perhaps this isn't meant to funny.
It's much like the scene in Pulp Fiction when Marvin is shot in the face. You laugh, but feel uncomfortable in doing so as you realize you're laughing at someone's demise; it's a bit disconcerting really.
In class we talked at length about the representations of Cathleen Ní Houlihan in the play, the notion of what is civilized, and generally what bastards the English were.
Though the play is set in 1833, there are still reverberations of the colonists actions in Irish culture today. One of these ways is with the remnants of class, very much an English institution. In traditional Irish culture, everyone plays a part in the household or the community, yet is never derided for fulfilling their role. There's a sense of liberty in everyone doing what they must to complete the tasks at hand and for working hard for the betterment of society.
In Translations, we have a highly educated group of people in an agrarian state, but derided as foolish farmers and hicks because they do not speak English. It's not just that the English are egotists and brutes for holding a sense of superiority, that's far too easy an assertion. It is compounded by the fact the Irish have a civic pride, but yoked with a healthy sense of inferiority. It's an odd duality, and I am just starting to process this idea as a thesis for my cultural experiences here. More on that in a later blog. Thanks for reading.
One Rotten Apple
My friend Dan, who is on the Ireland trip with me, said something very interesting just a few days ago. According to him, (and I am readily starting to agree with this assertion), there are two kinds of people on this trip: those that want to unite the group and do activities together, and those that seek discord and disruption to break apart the group to do separate activities.
While Dan's assertion might be a little harsh, he does have a point. One of the girls in the group, Leah, has done just such a thing, and admittedly, I lost my patience with her today. We were on our way to another historical site after visiting the Hill of Tara and stopping for lunch in the sleepy burg, Kells. Dan and Dr. Chown were discussing something about car accidents and I began to relay a story from my youth when my father and I happened upon a car accident where the driver had met a grisly end on the door frame and his windshield. Its not a happy story, but that wasn't the point of mentioning it.
Leah without participation in the conversation, and without really turning to address me, moans, "Can we please not talk about this?" She'd have a point if a) she was actually engaged in the conversation, or b) respectful about interrupting; but she was neither. I stopped the story, and said quietly to her, "Frankly, I don't really care what you think." Then without looking at me, she mutters under breath, "Well that was inappropriate." To which I quickly retort, "Not as inappropriate as telling me to shut up in class." She then lied and said she didn't, and I quickly disengaged from the conversation. It just wasn't worth it.
During a class discussion during the first week, Leah loudly shushed me because she thought we were being too loud while she was pontificating. Never mind she's not the professor, but hey, who's quibbling? In another discussion a week later, she interrupts me, criticizes me for blathering, and generally makes an ass of herself. All this is after she has pronounced herself as an expert of all things Irish. Just ask her if you have any questions about living here.
She has her own set of friends who provide more "intellectually stimulating" conversation, and she does most things apart from the group. The most pathetic part about it is that she's alienated herself. No one wants anything to do with her, and she's too dumb or aloof to get it. (I'm siding with the former.)
I've told a few people that I get it, I've done that before. Back when I studied abroad in Germany, I was a presumptuous ass myself. And you know what? I had no friends. No one wanted to hang out with me. If I wasn't such a know-it-all bastard, maybe I would have had more people to hang out it. But the difference is, I learned from that, and made a lot of friends by the end of the trip.
Somebody's going to let Leah know this… soon. And I think I just may have.
So here's the second part of the story. I kick up my laptop and start up Angry Birds. The sound is on, but it's barely noticeable. So Leah gripes, "Can you turn that down or off?" No. Keep in mind, she's not complained about Connor's music heard through his headphones, or the conversation between other students, just my game of Angry Birds. She asks again, "Can you turn that down or off?" No. (Then this is where it gets good.) "How old are you? Seriously! Why can't you just be respectful of those around you!" Without looking at her, I deadpan, "I lost my respect for you a long time ago."
She moved seats.
While Dan's assertion might be a little harsh, he does have a point. One of the girls in the group, Leah, has done just such a thing, and admittedly, I lost my patience with her today. We were on our way to another historical site after visiting the Hill of Tara and stopping for lunch in the sleepy burg, Kells. Dan and Dr. Chown were discussing something about car accidents and I began to relay a story from my youth when my father and I happened upon a car accident where the driver had met a grisly end on the door frame and his windshield. Its not a happy story, but that wasn't the point of mentioning it.
Leah without participation in the conversation, and without really turning to address me, moans, "Can we please not talk about this?" She'd have a point if a) she was actually engaged in the conversation, or b) respectful about interrupting; but she was neither. I stopped the story, and said quietly to her, "Frankly, I don't really care what you think." Then without looking at me, she mutters under breath, "Well that was inappropriate." To which I quickly retort, "Not as inappropriate as telling me to shut up in class." She then lied and said she didn't, and I quickly disengaged from the conversation. It just wasn't worth it.
During a class discussion during the first week, Leah loudly shushed me because she thought we were being too loud while she was pontificating. Never mind she's not the professor, but hey, who's quibbling? In another discussion a week later, she interrupts me, criticizes me for blathering, and generally makes an ass of herself. All this is after she has pronounced herself as an expert of all things Irish. Just ask her if you have any questions about living here.
She has her own set of friends who provide more "intellectually stimulating" conversation, and she does most things apart from the group. The most pathetic part about it is that she's alienated herself. No one wants anything to do with her, and she's too dumb or aloof to get it. (I'm siding with the former.)
I've told a few people that I get it, I've done that before. Back when I studied abroad in Germany, I was a presumptuous ass myself. And you know what? I had no friends. No one wanted to hang out with me. If I wasn't such a know-it-all bastard, maybe I would have had more people to hang out it. But the difference is, I learned from that, and made a lot of friends by the end of the trip.
Somebody's going to let Leah know this… soon. And I think I just may have.
So here's the second part of the story. I kick up my laptop and start up Angry Birds. The sound is on, but it's barely noticeable. So Leah gripes, "Can you turn that down or off?" No. Keep in mind, she's not complained about Connor's music heard through his headphones, or the conversation between other students, just my game of Angry Birds. She asks again, "Can you turn that down or off?" No. (Then this is where it gets good.) "How old are you? Seriously! Why can't you just be respectful of those around you!" Without looking at her, I deadpan, "I lost my respect for you a long time ago."
She moved seats.
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