CHAPTER 1
SITUATING FRIEL
Our secret desires fester inside us, to be what we are not! So! We perform! Performance! [. . .] Do you know what thatâs like? To be able to change? To have an endless appetite to perform?
â Thomas Kilroy, Henry (after HENRY IV), in Pirandellos: Two Plays (Gallery Press, 2007)1
Putting down the Markers
It is commonplace to remark that with the premiere of Philadelphia, Here I Come! at the Dublin Theatre Festival in 1964, Brian Friel (born in 1929) made his grand entrance into world theatre. Huge international success was to follow. Friel is the author of twenty-four published plays (plus three apprentice pieces, unpublished), together with eight published adaptations or versions (beginning with Three Sisters in 1981). If success alone supplied the narrative, the history of Frielâs career would be commonplace: failure tests the lasting reputation of the best writers. But over what is usually termed a lifetime in the theatre the successes, measured as much by critical appraisal in books on Friel (15 monographs, plus 2 forthcoming), collections of articles on Friel (at least 6), books with chapters on Friel (at least 12) and monograph articles (in the hundreds), as by frequencies of production and performance on the international professional stage, have stood out so consistently that Frielâs name is assured in all the histories of twentieth-century drama. So much is already well known about this achievement that it must be questioned if much more remains to be said.
Nevertheless, a great writer who has proved his mettle over the years and whose work holds the stage commandingly is usually so many-sided as to justify a fresh commentary, a new angle of vision. Further, it is my belief that, in recent years, the focus in Friel Studies has been predominantly political and that this emphasis now threatens to overwhelm the commentary. To the contrary, it has always seemed to me that Friel is a Proteus figure, who, like the sea god, is constantly changing his shape in an effort to escape categorisation, being identified with any one theatre, any one style or set of beliefs. No sooner has Friel been lauded on Broadway as the comforting bearer of the Irish tradition than he takes off in another direction to assert his independence. A deceptively cosy Philadelphia is followed by a powerfully experimental Loves of Cass McGuire, a heart-warming Dancing at Lughnasa by a surprising spiritual lesson such as Wonderful Tennessee. No sooner has a critic decided on the road map than Friel is off over the hills working on some counter-statement. A play like The Freedom of the City is followed by a Gentle Island, a Translations by a Communication Cord which you pull at your peril. My inclination is to see Friel as chameleon-like. He confounds definition. The short-story writer (The Saucer of Larks, 1962, The Gold in the Sea, 1966) is father to the playwright: each narrative stands alone, finds its own shape and maintains its own secret. Although there are stories he mined again for plays, such as âThe Foundry Houseâ for Aristocrats (1979) and âThe Highwayman and the Saintâ for the second part of Lovers (1967), Friel has always insisted that the playwrightâs technique is âthe very opposite of the short-story writerâsâ because of the audience and its âcollective mindâ.2 Just as he moved on from short stories to stage plays, so Friel moves on from one play to another.3
Interpretation of the work is possible only in partial, contextual terms. âIf the mask fits, wear it, I say,â Friel makes a character say in his version of A Month in the Country (1992), and the witticism speaks to his own stance: like T. S. Eliot before him, he is the invisible poet.4 Likewise, Friel believes that nowadays the playwright âcannot appear to exhibit the same outrageous daring that the painter showsâ: he is necessarily more âdeviousâ in his revolutionary purpose.5 If the playwright is âof his timeâ, however, truly clued in and in some sort of symbolic relationship to the art and culture of his time, as Oscar Wilde saw himself,6 then the difference with the painter vanishes because then the playwrightâs âfluxâ will be, in Frielâs words, âas integral but better camouflaged, his groping as earnest, his searching as sincereâ.7 These terms provide the justification for interpretation at a deeper level than Frielâs nonchalance seems to authorise. But there can be no last word, no definitive answer to the complexity of Frielâs oeuvre. Instead, Frielâs eclecticism continues to offer opportunities for new provisional attempts to approach the texts as texts and the productions as attempts constantly to renew meanings.
At this stage of Friel Studies, the approach I adopt is to view the plays with a few convictions firmly in mind. The first is that Friel is a committed artist of the theatre; he wishes a play to be successful but he is not disturbed if it fails on stage when he is convinced it answers to his artistic intentions. Friel resembles Beckett in that respect. Failure is but another kind of success. He has from the outset measured himself against the best. It follows that he is best interpreted in that context. Accordingly, my reading of a Friel play is both text-based and holistic in the sense of interpretation of content and form as unified achievement. So far so old-fashioned. But allied to this analysis, I offer a comparative, contextualising method on the basis that âNo poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone.â8 I frequently frame a Friel play with one by another author. Even Shakespeare does not escape, for what Anglophone dramatist does not carry echoes from the great tradition? I have always thought that the shadow of Hamlet falls across Philadelphia, Here I Come! and that Faith Healer owes a lot to Macbeth. But sometimes the textual friendship is closer to home: Philadelphia is aware of a now nearly forgotten Irish play to be discussed in the next chapter, while Molly Sweeney and several other Friel plays are indebted to Synge and the Abbey tradition. I would insist that this critical method is only a strategy to facilitate interpretation of a writerly writer. He is extremely well read. Frielâs awareness of Eliot, for example, is noteworthy and extends from Eliotâs major essays, such as âTradition and the Individual Talentâ, through the poems, especially Four Quartets, and the plays, Murder in the Cathedral and The Cocktail Party in particular. The intertextuality Eliot himself made part of the modernist discourse runs deep in Frielâs writing.
The core of Frielâs artistic strategy lies in a lifelong commitment to style. He is a very good writer because he takes care to be one; one does not become a favoured author at the New Yorker unless one is committed to the discipline of style. It has not been noticed that at St Patrickâs College, Maynooth, which Friel attended from 1946 to 1949, there was in the English Department a lecturer (professor from 1948) who took the matter of style or âElocutionâ seriously. Friel would have received a good grounding from Neil Kevin (1903â53), an avid admirer of Walter Pater, whose Appreciations, with an Essay on Style (1889) he put on the syllabus as soon as he took the chair.9 Kevin had written his M.A. thesis on Matthew Arnold. As late as 2012, Friel could still recall his book No Applause in Church (1947), recommended reading, one assumes, for the small class taking English for B.A.10 Other alumni have had much to say concerning Kevinâs interest in literary style. A contemporary of Friel remarked: âI believe Paterâs Appreciations was his [Kevinâs] favourite book. He seemed to spend half the lectures of one year mulling over itâ; adding, âIf I learned anything at all about style I learned it then.â11 Kevinâs successor to the chair of English at Maynooth in 1954, Peter Connolly, a year ahead of Friel as student, put it another way: âfor theory, he [Kevin] had a weakness for Pater and Victorian aesthetes.â12 Early in his career, Kevin published a series of articles on âEnglish in Irelandâ. In one of these he stressed the need to develop âa style of writing, remarkable for its exactitude and delicacyâ: two qualities Friel certainly exhibits in his prose. Kevin also emphasised nonchalance, another Frielian attribute, âthe power of concealing effortâ or âthe art of gaining our effort by under-statementâ.13 The better writers (and speakers) put âreticenceâ before âimpressivenessâ. The worst fault a spiritual writerâs style could manifest is âa straining after the infiniteâ in expression. Here the giveaway word, âthe word which includes defeatâ, would be âineffableâ.14 Readers of Friel will recall Frankâs use of the word in Wonderful Tennessee (1993) in an attempt to describe âwhat is beyond language. The inexpressible.â15 In that play, it takes a dancing dolphin to teach a would-be author (Frank) his lesson on style as jointly a moral and linguistic discipline.
The commitment to style was lifelong for Friel. At the start of his career he wrote a weekly column for the Irish Press. George OâBrien sees the sixty pieces as sitting âuneasilyâ beside Frielâs early âartistic attainmentsâ and âan unusual departure from themâ.16 Not so. They are part of Frielâs artistic DNA. OâBrien calls them âtrial piecesâ; the columns show Friel inventing himself through style. Now that he was a full-time writer, having resigned his position as a schoolteacher in Derry in 1960, he needed extra money; knowing himself to be an artist, he at the same time could only write a weekly humorous column if it offered a challenge. What if â and this is mere speculation â one Saturday morning, having scanned the humorous column by John D. Sheridan (1903â80) in the Irish Independent on his way to the book reviews, Friel asked himself âwhy notâ try a similar piece in the more politically favourable Irish Press?17 Why not test the Wildean proposition18 in mock earnest that âIn matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thingâ? Perhaps it all depended on what is meant by âvitalâ.
John D. Sheridanâs vitality lay in his productivity. No fewer than ten books were published from his weekly columns. They had lively titles such as I Canât Help Laughing (1944), Funnily Enough (1956) and Joking Apart (1964). One of them was titled Half in Earnest (1948) but mostly Sheridan stuck to self-effacing, simple absurdity. Frielâs first column, âMeet Brian Frielâ, in April 1962, had the general heading âThe Lighter Side of Lifeâ, as if in blatant competition to Sheridan. It was almost insolently autobiographical â he even gave details of his bank account â as if Friel were intent on subverting expectations by overdoing the facts. The âLighter Sideâ was dropped as heading, but the column was never in fact serious. It described the trivial mishaps and embarrassments of a Chaplinesque but middle-class anti-hero. The humour is deadpan. Only one piece (23 March 1963) gestures towards Wilde: âThe Importance of Being Frankâ, a piece referring to The Francophile, his preferred title for the 1960 play A Doubtful Paradise.
Negotiating Wildeâs dichotomy between style and sincerity, Frielâs mentor Neil Kevin remarked: âA lively, though not insidious, form of insincerity is a flair for exaggeration.â19 This nicely describes the style of the Irish Press columns. They are, as OâBrien says, both âperformativeâ and âthe projection of a personaâ.20 They are playfully insincere, a feature of Irish storytelling, nowadays more a feature of the stand-up comedian. Sincere people, wrote Kevin, âhave a bark that is the equal of their bite, but they are distinguished by neither. Their way has no drama in it, so that they remain unadvertised.â Yet these are the âreally valuable ones among our acquaintancesâ because, âmotivated by an absolute sincerity, their style, like all good style, is inconspicuous and restrained: it does nothing for effect, it shrinks from show, it bides its time for ever.â21 This is Brian Friel encapsulated. The short stories are sincere. The plays may be said to fuse the press columns and the stories, combining âinsincerityâ in the performative sense and style in the sense of pursuit of the right words to meet the dramatic occasion. In a programme note for a revival of Molly Sweeney at the Dublin Gate in 2011, Friel chose to write about language: âThe tools that are available to the playwright to tell his story are few enough â words, action, silenceâ but âwords are at the core of it allâ. Yet language in drama is not mere words, because the playwrightâs words are âscoredâ for âpublic utteranceâ so that an audience hears his public and private voices, a âduetâ that âmakes the experience of theatre uniqueâ.22 Friel knew how to make ordinary language sing while at the same time shaping ordinary speech with precision and rhythm. Here I differ sharply from David Krause, who, in his challenging article, âThe Failed Words of Brian Frielâ, included in Chapter 10, argues that Frielâs style lacks the poetic force of Synge and OâCasey.
Denis Donoghue defines style as âthe dancing of speechâ concerned with âways of being free, or enjoying the exhilaration of feeling freeâ.23 Such a gloss allows us to make a connection between Frielâs commitment to style and the tension between tradition and...