—The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words home,Christ,ale,master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young man.
Strange to think that this was written somewhere in the region of a hundred years since Translations is set. Watching the twilight of an ancient language knowing full well its future was fascinating and sad, though I could not forget the irony of this play's being performed in the conquering English.
I'm not really in a mood to review tonight's performance, it was a great production of a great play. I only wish I had had this piece of work in my repertoire when trying to explain the differences between Irish and English people, and these people to demonstrate it for me! So many people would have been spared my mildly inebriated gesticulations and vaulting speech.
The cast grapple well with the tough Donegal accent, and perform the doubly impressive feat of declaming Lating and Greek like those whose first language is Irish. This should be praised, as I can't imagine how I'd go about that. They also capture for me the hard-edged eloquence and verbal deftness I recognise in my memories of my grandfather, who learned Irish as a foreign language but retained its capacity for imagery.
The drama of every day life is there too, the fights and songs and cheers and dancing withing which the English are alien and totally separate. I thought we were wondering into 'allo 'allo' territory at one point but mercifully the production steered clear of any awkardness with regard to the common use of English. The love story between Moira and George was truthful and touching, bringing to life the power of language in love.
The set I thought slightly too much, it seemed to have enough books to fill the schools of county Donegal for one hedge school with less than ten students. I would have liked more on the lighting and sound front, particularly at the end.
These are quibbles really. I left the theatre relishing the walk to the bus as I was brimming with thoughts and ideas. The lights reflected in the river were brighter than I'd seen before, and the smell of the water filled my head as I drew it in. This is how I feel after a really good piece of theatre, it's why I go again and again, show after show, because in all the poor and mediocre nights there is that one that stimulates the mind and makes me want to make things happen.
That's quite enough from me for one night. Here's a nice picture to end with.
Strange to think that this was written somewhere in the region of a hundred years since Translations is set. Watching the twilight of an ancient language knowing full well its future was fascinating and sad, though I could not forget the irony of this play's being performed in the conquering English.
I'm not really in a mood to review tonight's performance, it was a great production of a great play. I only wish I had had this piece of work in my repertoire when trying to explain the differences between Irish and English people, and these people to demonstrate it for me! So many people would have been spared my mildly inebriated gesticulations and vaulting speech.
The cast grapple well with the tough Donegal accent, and perform the doubly impressive feat of declaming Lating and Greek like those whose first language is Irish. This should be praised, as I can't imagine how I'd go about that. They also capture for me the hard-edged eloquence and verbal deftness I recognise in my memories of my grandfather, who learned Irish as a foreign language but retained its capacity for imagery.
The drama of every day life is there too, the fights and songs and cheers and dancing withing which the English are alien and totally separate. I thought we were wondering into 'allo 'allo' territory at one point but mercifully the production steered clear of any awkardness with regard to the common use of English. The love story between Moira and George was truthful and touching, bringing to life the power of language in love.
The set I thought slightly too much, it seemed to have enough books to fill the schools of county Donegal for one hedge school with less than ten students. I would have liked more on the lighting and sound front, particularly at the end.
These are quibbles really. I left the theatre relishing the walk to the bus as I was brimming with thoughts and ideas. The lights reflected in the river were brighter than I'd seen before, and the smell of the water filled my head as I drew it in. This is how I feel after a really good piece of theatre, it's why I go again and again, show after show, because in all the poor and mediocre nights there is that one that stimulates the mind and makes me want to make things happen.
That's quite enough from me for one night. Here's a nice picture to end with.
Hello!
ReplyDeleteI'm Aislinn, the one who did this: http://fuckyeahnothingmuch.blogspot.com/2010/06/another-small-attempt-to-cheer-up-mark.html
Sorry to leave a comment completely unrelated to your blog, but I saw your comment on Mark Watson's blog and thought I'd get in touch to partly say a) thank-you! and b) if you/friends want to add a picture, I'll stick it in the blog and also in the book version that's going up to Edinburgh and will, hopefully, be given to Mark himself.
If you're up for it, you can send a picture my way via e-mail (ohmygodshaun@hotmail.co.uk) or a comment on my blog, or facebook (/breakforcake) or twitter (@ashy99). it'd be greeaaaatly appreciated! messages for the book are also more than welcome.
ash xx