The Culture Nonsense

Last night marked the screening of a film documenting the life and work of acclaimed Belfast born poet Derek Mahon, entitled Derek Mahon: The Poetry Nonsense. In attendance was the poet himself, accompanied by the film's producer and director Roger Greene, who shot the movie over a three month period in 2008 and 2009. Following Mahon as he leads us from his childhood home, on Salisbury Avenue in Belfast, to Dublin and London where he spent his formative years as a writer, and later New York and Kinsale, Greene manages to maintain the delicate balance of illuminating an elusive figure, who shuns publicity and media intrusion, without eradicating the mystery of a life born of a poet's life's work. One of the great failings of modern cinematic storytelling is the homogenisation of a story until we are left with a bland grey pulp. Seen through the lens of Roger Greene, Mahon remains enigmatic and singular.

Though not reticent, Mahon at most offers us a rough sketch, which is flecked with insightful contributions from Seamus Heaney, Michael Longley, Gerald Dawe and Peter Fallon. With a running time of sixty-two minutes it is just long enough to be considered a feature documentary and as I was to discover, beyond the limit that my posterior can comfortably sit still in the J.M. Synge Theatre in The Arts Block of Trinity College, where the screening took place.

From it's opening scene in the Northern Irish seaside town of Portrush through to the cobbled stones of Trinity College's front square The Poetry Nonsense does its work like fine sand paper rather than the revelatory and often damaging hammer and chisel.

Proceeding the film's screening, which was attended by approximately fifty people, the film maker expounded the idea that there is a dearth of informative, intelligent programming shown on the state broadcasters of this island, namely RTE and BBC Northern Ireland. Mr. Greene spoke of the vacuous programming that comprises television schedules and bemoaned the inherent dangers to our cultural identity and the risks posed by the vapid celebrity culture which is now pervasive in our society. If this film is shown on t.v. at all, it is likely to be the subscriber channel BBC 4, he said. If RTE show it, it is likely to be past my bed time.

In a previous post I posited the question: Is RTE a commercial organisation bent on profit-making and personality? Or is it, as the national state broadcaster, a custodian of our cultural heritage? I fear I have my answer.

Grand Slam

I started writing this blog all those months ago discussing the launch of the 2008 Six Nations campaign. The 2009 tournament has just ended, in a manner that will go down in sporting folklore, as one of the most dramatic endings to a rugby match ever witnessed. The contrast is marked. Ten months or four blog postings later and the Irish team have written themselves into the history books. Sixty-One years ago a team led by the mercurial Jack Kyle led Ireland to its first Grand Slam triumph. Mr. Kyle watched from the stands of the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff as Ireland’s ‘Golden Generation’ finally lived up to it’s billing.

In 1994 my father took me to see my first rugby international. Ireland beat England that day and I was enthralled by the physicality, the commitment of the players, the pride with which they wore the famous green. The shade of green may have changed in the fifteen years since then but not much else has. This was one of the great displays in Irish sporting history, undoubtedly the finest collective performance, but also one where individual performances rival that of McGuigan, O’Sullivan, Carey, Coughlin and Harrington in the Irish pantheon. To that list add the names O’Driscoll, O’Connell and O’Gara.

My memory of the game itself has been condensed into moments of despair coupled with elation (Though John Hayes on the right wing offloading with quick hands is an indelible recollection.) I left the room when in the 80^th minute, the Wales out-half Stephen Jones struck the penalty that could’ve spiralled the nation into depression, contemplating the possibility of 62, 63, or 64 years. Or worse. I made it back in time to see Geordan Murphy touch the ball down and boot it into the timelessness of touch. Ireland: Grand Slam Winners.

I watched with disbelief the replay of that faithful kick for the first time on Sunday. Knowing that the kick fell short did nothing to alleviate the sense of surprise when it dropped under the goal. For forty-seven of its forty-eight metre journey, it looked to me like the crushing blow we all feared. To watch it live might just have killed me.

Ireland dominated the game, scoring two tries to Wales’ none, dominating the lineout, gaining parity in the scrum and making numerous line breaks. So it wasn’t just the result that swells the bosom. The manner of the performance matters too. If not for Wayne Barnes, Ireland’s victory would have been more comfortable. The penalty count was 15–5 in favour of Wales. Ireland, who have been on paper at least, the most disciplined side in the Six Nations were penalised three times more than their opponents. If that stataistic was merely a reflection of Ireland infringing more than there opponent one could accept the penalty count (particularly in the latter stages of the match when nerves played their part) but throughout the match the referee's performance was strewn with inconsistency.

Yesterday (Sunday 22^nd March) to mark the homecoming of the Grand Slam Champions. Thousands of supporters cheered the team on Dawson Street in the Capital, where the players, coaching staff and management were received in the Mansion House. O2, the Irish team’s shirt sponsor, distributed branded flags to the joyous masses. RTÉ erected a stage, large screens and a speaker system to facilitate the thousands who were the length of the street from the focal point. They failed in that endeavour as the video feed and sound were out of synch and what little sound emanated was barely audible. Those who cheered merely did so, mimicking the crowds further up the thoroughfare.

I would like to think of this as a beginning for this team. But if it is to be another 61 years to our next Grand Slam, I can now at least, rest in peace, thankful that the Millennium Stadium roof was open, the cooler, fresh air perhaps offering more resistance than the warm air an enclosed arena may have. They say in international rugby that the difference between winning and losing can be millimetres. For Ireland on Saturday evening, it was probably about a thousand of them.