The Lir, Ulster Bank Dublin Theatre
Festival
Oct 8-16
My review of The
Blue Boy coming up just as soon as I make sparks ...
Two days ago I
was driving in the car with my mother. I was leaving Galway and moving back
home for school. I told her I was going to The
Blue Boy and I asked her if she had known people who were incarcerated in
industrial schools.
She told me a
story about some children who had come home after school and found their mother
dead on the floor from a brain haemorrhage. My mother doesn’t know if it was the
two nuns who arrived in a black car the next morning or society in general that
deemed their father, a kind man, unsuitable to raise his children by himself.
They were taken away to a school, except for the youngest; a small baby who was
hidden and raised by neighbours fully aware of the atrocities occurring in industrial
schools. I was shocked to hear that the Church could tear apart a family like
that, and I was relieved to hear that individuals back then felt the same way.
My mother found
the actions of the Church in those times unnecessarily cruel and
life-destroying but also emphasised that it wasn’t just the priests and nuns
that failed children in Ireland. After
talking to Feidlim Cannon and Gary Keegan I researched the industrial school in
Artane, a suburb Keegan himself hails from. In an institution originally
established to take in orphaned, abandoned and criminal boys, it has been
stated that only five percent of those incarcerated where indeed orphans, a
statistic said to be common to all industrial schools in the country. This
suggests that a lot of children did not lose their guardians but rather were
disposed of by them. “It didn’t have
much to do with God”, said my mother. “But it wasn’t just the church; it was
all of us. We were all mad”.
To be a young
person in those environments must have been terrifying. I felt sad for our
history, how as a community we failed to protect our youth. At the same time I
felt thankful for the time I have lived in, for the opportunities I have been
allowed here, that I can go to school. As one of the contributors to The Blue Boy optimistically says at one
point: young people can see the whole world by the time they’re twenty one now.
Things are better
than what they were but cases of child abuse still exist. We all know that. And
legally, the necessary steps to fully prevent that past from returning have yet
to be taken. In the time we have been waiting for a date to be set for a
referendum on child protection laws, one of the Brokentalkers has become a
father. When I think of their past work I think of that bravery that makes the
lonely strangers of In Real Time or
the celebration of manhood in Silver
Stars incredibly precious. The Blue
Boy is no intent to find beauty in something delicate or precious.
The Blue Boy is the Brokentalkers angry.
In introducing
the show Keegan shows us a fold-up yard stick which he played with in his
grandparents’ house when he was young. Putting it to use either as a guitar or
a saxophone or a dinosaur, he didn’t imagine that his grandfather actually used
it in his profession as an undertaker to measure bodies for coffins. He often
had calls to Artane Industrial School. Keegan talks about scaring his little
brothers with the local ghost story of The Blue Boy, a child who had died in
the school under suspicious circumstances.
In a conversation
which has been disturbed and exhausted by controversy after controversy what
else is there we can say? Brokentalkers wisely take a movement-based approach with
Eddie Kay’s startling choreography mangling, crushing and shaking bodies
onstage. The performers, small and slight, wear distorted masks with faces frozen
with fear, their dark eyes twinkling through the narrow sockets. Lights flash through
the darkness like search lamps, catching the petrified beings and sending them
crashing into Lucy Andrews and David Fagan’s hard white tiled set. Chalk and
steel scratch wooden benches. One performer holds a sacred heart above proceedings,
its glow empty of warmth or salvation. Amongst it all, a child-sized mannequin sits
small and defenceless, witnessing the horrors, and in one of the few beautiful
moments of the piece is picked up and protected. Séan Miller’s musical arrangements
build to frightening heights with haunting harmonies from musicians in balconies
high above. A trumpet howls like a hound against the angelic vocals of Lucy
Andrews and Kim V Porcelli which resonate with sad beauty.
As with their previous
work, Brokentalkers gives us the stories of those silenced, played here in
voiceover. A man recounts how he ran away from a school to the police for help
but they beat him and sent him back, where he was beaten again upon arrival. “No
one listened to you” he says. A woman remembers having to make rosary beads for
hours on hours and how pearls were the worst supplied material for doing so
because they cut your hands if they break. Sometimes she was so hungry she ate
the beads.
Among the
documentary material is a video clip of a Seventies talk show where Brother Joe
O’Connor talks about the Artane Boys Band. When asked about the treatment of
children there he casually dismisses the insinuation, saying his time there has
been the happiest of his life. The presenter then asks the boys themselves, all
of whom smile awkwardly. He quizzes O’Connor about his hobby of breeding hens,
to which he replies that he can tell if a hen is interested in another or not,
the same way of telling if someone is lying, by the look in their eyes. Looking
into his eyes at this moment I felt angry. I felt hatred, which is an emotion I
do not give into easily. It’s a malicious manoeuvre by Brokentalkers but a
completely necessary one to remember the deceit, the cruelty.
The Artane Boys
Band becomes realised in The Blue Boy in
an explosive sequence of blistering movement and roaring sound, dragged along
by the loud banging of a marching drum. Performers scatter desperately for
safety but there is nowhere to hide. They crash, kick, crush. It’s completely
horrific. But as the show goes on we take what is harrowing and turn it into
rage. A rage over a very obvious and fatal flaw in our society that is being
ignored. Sometimes art is made by silenced voices, sometimes it’s made by someone
suffering injustice, and sometimes it’s made by a father who simply wants to
ensure the safe future of their child.
By the end,
Keegan, much like how he scared his little brothers, has given us all Blue Boys
to go home with. Right now the show will stay with you as a ghost, but what
furies it instils will hopefully shape a better future. We can pray that someday
we can look on that ghost as something else.
Someday,
hopefully, we can look on that ghost as a blessing.
What did everybody
else think?
Great review, Chris!
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