McCarthy's Bar

'McCarthy's Bar' is an odd book.  The title makes one think that the author owns a bar named for himself.  Not true.  McCarthy has a penchant for visiting bars of that name.  The beginning of the book is rife with frat boy-like drunkenness, to the point where I almost gave up on it.
But then it starts to get interesting.  McCarthy was born in England, though he thinks of himself as Irish, and he starts picking apart exactly what that means, as he explores Ireland's west coast.  (I cannot call it the 'Wild Atlantic Way'-  that just sounds silly.)  He also explains the difference between English and British.  If a white man commits a crime, he's British.  If a black, Asian or Irishman commits a crime, he's English.

It is well worth the read, but I can give you the highlights.  McCarthy stumbles upon a Famine memorial in Skibereen, with victims buried beneath it.  He considers why it was so rarely spoken of by his relatives, and comes to the conclusion that it was shame.  He guesses how many victims were in the pit-  maybe a few hundred?- and is astonished to read that it held 9,000.

McCarthy travels with William Makepeace Thackeray's 'Irish Sketchbook,' if only to not look like everyone else, clutching their copies of Lonely Planet.  He is impressed by the settled-ness of immigrants in Ireland who swear they feel very Irish.  In the midst of a religious pilgrimage on one of the Aran Islands, one of his companions says:  "It's an easy place to be at home in, in Ireland.  I notice, watching the different nationalities on the mountain, the fluidity of interaction the Irish people have with the visitors, and with each other.  It's a skill that's less developed in other nationalities, and it's so instinctive, it doesn't even look like a skill."  

The Magdalene Sisters

Years ago, I saw an expose of the Magdalene Laundries on 60 Minutes. My friend Jeff saw it, too (we lived across Second Avenue from each other then). He thought I should try to get the U.S. rights to it- that it would make a great play. I told him I thought they were gone (which they were). In retrospect, I think of the revelations about the Magdalene Laundries as the beginning of the implosion of the Catholic Church in Ireland.
But it wasn't until this week that I saw writer/director Peter Mullens' film "The Magdalene Sisters." The usually whimsical Geraldine McEwan stars as Sister Bridget, the nun in charge of this asylum. The film follows the fates of three women incarcerated in the asylum. By the end of the film, two escape, and one is in an insane asylum. Also on the DVD is Sex in a Cold Climate, the documentary that the film is based on. One statistic I made note of is that an estimated 30,000 women passed through these laundries in the course of their existence. It didn't take much to get put one; one character gets sent to the laundry from an orphanage because she's just too pretty.
Even one of these films (I watched both in one night) is a lot to take. I couldn't have lived with any of this long enough to write a play about it. The screenplay is great, and the performances are good. But half an hour into it, I was overwhelmed with the despair and grief and oppression that these women lived with. I wouldn't advise watching it unless you're not feeling at all depressed.