Fascinated with traditional languages and cultures, I was drawn to see Brian Friel's Translations at the National Theatre. The play begins in a 'hedge-school' in County Donegal, where tutor Manus is encouraging Sarah, a mute, to pronounce her own name. This is a poignant starting place for a play which sees the native Irish tongue being displaced by English, an operation which threats the language and identity of its central characters. Yet despite this, Sarah is not the focus of the play, and is swiftly pushed to the peripheries as a detachment of English soldiers barge onto the scene. From the very beginning, things begin to slip away, an erosion which continues until the final scene. Here's my thoughts.
'And why do we call it Tobair Vree? I've tell you why. Tobair means a well. But what does Vree mean? It's a corruption of Brian (Gaelic pronunciation) Brian - an erosion of Tobair Bhriain. Because a hundred-and-fifty years ago there used to be a well there, not at the crossroads, mind you - that would be too simple - but in a field close to the crossroads. And an old man called Brian, whose face was disfigured by an enormous growth, got it into his head that the water in that well was blessed; and every day for seven months he went there and bathed his face in it. But the growth didn't go away; and one morning Brian was found drowned in that well. And ever since that crossroads is known as Tobair Vree - even though that well has long since dried up. I know the story because my grandfather told it to me. But ask Doalty - or Maire - or Bridget - even my father - even Manus - why it's called Tobair Vree; and do you think they'll know? I know they don't know. So the question I put to you, Lieutenant, is this: what do we do with a name like that? Do we scrap Tobair Vree altogether and call it - what? - The Cross? Crossroads? Or do we keep piety with a man long dead, long forgotten, his name 'eroded' beyond recognition, whose trivial little story nobody in the parish remembers?'
(Translations, Act 2 Scene 1)
It feels important, at the beginning of this review, to include the above monologue spoken by Owen to Lieutenant Yolland. Their task, to translate the Gaelic place names of Ireland into an Anglicised form, has begun to unsettle the Englishman, who feels it to be 'an eviction of sorts'. Owen, a native of Baile Beag, is still at this moment supportive of the standardisation work they are undertaking. In the above speech, he opposes Yolland's suggestion of something being 'eroded', telling the tale of the obscure origin of the name Tobair Vree to illustrate the need for clarification and modernisation. Yet, what it does is highlight the very erosion Yolland is concerned about - that a place, whose name holds so much history and memory, might lose its identity if it is renamed as 'The Cross', a name more 'trivial' than the meaningful yarn Owen has just spun.
Erosion is at the centre of this play. This is evident immediately from the main set, the hedge-school of Baile Beag, held in a disused hay shed attached to the house of Hugh and Manus, the father and son who act as tutors to the parishioners. Acclaimed designer Rae Smith respectfully paid heed to Friel's extensive stage directions, which described the set in great detail: evidence of the building's previous use ('a cart-wheel, lobster pots, farming tools, a battle of hay, a churn'), as well as its re-purposing as a schoolroom ('stools and bench-seats which the pupils use and a table and chair for the master'). The only real change is that, in order to cater to the Olivier auditorium's fan-style seating, the hedge-school has no walls, doors, or ceiling; the audience look on it from above, a outline of stone foundations which, hunkered on a bank of peaty turf, echoes the wind-swept skeletons of homesteads we still see on mountainsides today. The entire scene is bleak, desolate - but for the people who move about and make use of its space.
Yet, even these characters are somewhat eroded, each one caught in some kind of rift which sees them growing ever more lost and anchorless. The schoolmaster, Hugh, is absent for much of the start of the play, his once fervent attitude towards learning and scholarly practice now diluted in drink. He relishes being called Master, casting out questions to his unexpecting pupils; but he also admits he is 'weary of you all' and seeks to leave the profession, suffixing his book's title 'without the Help of a Master'. His sporadic neglect of the classes means that Manus takes on the role of tutor, fiercely devoted to the pupils of Baile Beag (going above and beyond, evident in his helping Sarah to speak), but also thrilled at the opportunity to leave and found his own hedge-school. His potential departure causes a rift for Sarah, who without Manus to aid her and translate her motions into words, her newfound 'voice' will once again be lost.
As for Maire, her rift comes through a conflict of love. It is unclear as to whether she and Manus have been, or still are, romantically involved; that Manus 'stands awkwardly, having being caught kissing Sarah' when Maire enters seems to suggest so, as does their reciprocal concern over each other's lives (Manus' occupation, Maire's emigration). When Manus is given a job in Inis Meadhon, he automatically assumes Maire will be coming with him, asking 'how will you like living on an island?' The subject of marriage appears to have been breached between them before, as Maire scolds Manus for speaking of such before becoming financially stable. Maire, however, holds little affection for her life in Baile Beag, and is immediately drawn to the English Lieutenant Yolland, who represents something something new, progressive, liberating. Yet, both Maire and Yolland are caught in their own rifts - one unable to understand English, the other unable to understand Irish - the only way they can overcome this barrier is to meet halfway, and use the language of place to forge some kind of connection.
Owen's speech about Tobair Vree shows us how the language of place can preserve a life, long after that live is over. Maire and Yolland's dialogue through the town names of Norfolk ('Winfarthing - Barton Bendish - Saxingham - Nethergate - Little Walsingham - Norwich - Norfolk. Strange sounds aren't they? But nice sounds') shows us how language can fortify love. Later in the play, after Yolland's disappearance, the place names around Baile Beag become a language of threat. Convinced one of the parishioners is guilty, Captain Lancey dictates the escalating punishments which will be dealt until the officer is found. Threats against livestock, evictions from houses, and demolition of entire towns reveal how the once purely administrative presence of the English in Ireland, is now becoming a military operation. Lancey speaks down to the parishioners as if they were uneducated savages - even Owen, who has hitherto been counted amongst the sappers, is cruelly commanded to translate the condemned places for the benefit of the townsfolk. Each announcement deals a double blow: firstly, that these beloved places have become unrecognisable to their inhabitants in their Anglicised forms; and secondly, with Owen's translation comes the knowledge that these places are under threat. Gone is the eager, creative energy Owen expressed in his early scenes, as he speaks every Gaelic name with a fierce protectiveness, ready to defend the home he now recognises to be eroding away.
Owen may be late to recognise this threat, but for audiences taking in the action as a whole, there is an ever-present threat which haunts the play throughout. Jimmy Jack's enchantment with the gods and goddesses of Greek mythology might provide moments of humour, but it also highlights something darker - there are no gods watching over the people of Baile Beag. In their crumbling, windswept home, they are anchorless and alone, and the play ends badly for each and every character. The pupils at the hedge-school may learn Greek and Latin, but it does not protect them from the danger lurking closer at home. The 'sweet smell' and threat of a potato famine plagues their minds, and the fragility of their life is tragically illustrated in the death of Nellie Ruadh's baby. The only 'godlike' figures in the play are the mysterious Donnelly twins. When their absence from the hedge-school is noted, characters such as Doalty and Bridget become uneasy, the atmosphere becoming 'silent and alert'. Questions about the Donnelly twins are left unanswered, but from slips of the tongue, we gather that the twins have stolen horses from the English soldiers and fled. Later in the play, their names are brought up with the matter of Yolland's disappearance: Owen asks if 'they [were] about last night' at the dance, alluding to their elusive nature; when contemplating how they will survive the scourge, Doalty tells Owen that 'the Donnelly twins know how' to defend against an army. The twins hold almost mythic status amongst the community, rumoured to return now and again, and to be dwelling in hiding on the periphery of the town. If they do have something to do with Yolland's death, they too might be a threat - the play ends before we find that out.
Translations begins with Sarah overcoming her struggle to speak, and ends with Hugh's language beginning to deteriorate and erode away. With his son Manus on the run for his implication in Yolland's disappearance, and with a community in danger and disarray, Hugh retreats to the Greek texts he has found solace in all these years before. The tale he recites harks back once again to the gods, but this time, speaks of Juno's inability to protect her beloved city against an approaching threat. But Hugh forgets the words, asking 'What the hell's wrong with me?', before beginning again - a cycle of construction and erosion which reflects the fate of Baile Beag, and many Gaelic places after it.
Translations was a fantastic play - I realise now I have not commented much on the quality of the production, other than Smith's set. I find the story (which I did not know before seeing this production), and the text so intriguing, I felt more compelled to write about this. The production was great, well deserving of the four- and five-star reviews it received, and Colin Morgan gave a stand-out performance as Owen, conveying the mix of childlike glee and quiet passion his roles on TV have demonstrated. Unfortunately, the production has finished - look out for encore performances, or buy the text to read, I highly recommend it.
Photo credits:
Photograph of Translations set in Olivier Theatre, found here.
Photograph of Adetomiwa Edun as Yolland and Judith Roddy as Maire, found here.
All other production photographs by Catherine Ashmore, found here.
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