The Question and The Answer
11
ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE.
The Town had no theatre or playhouse. Amateur drama had not come to rural
Ireland yet. If there were amateur drama groups they were few and far between.
Unlike today we had none in Ennis. The schools put on yearly productions.
In the schools. The young ladies of the Convent put on Gilbert and Sullivan
every year. Our Theatre was the “Fit-up”. The travelling companies.
Irish and English. The Town Hall fleapit Cinema was their venue. That’s
where I made my debut in M. S. Pinafore.
I can remember only two occasions when the Gaiety Cinema was used. They
weren’t strictly drama or comedy. Although in real life the participants
of one production could have qualified. It’s worth recounting. Movita,
Mexican Hollywood film star was married to one Joseph Aloyphonsus Doyle.
Otherwise known as Jack Doyle. Boxer and singer. It was said that if Jack
could have boxed as well as he sang he’d have been world champion.
They must have been on their uppers. It was during the War/Emergency. They
came to Dublin with their entourage. Did a concert there. Went to Cork,
Belfast, Limerick and Galway. One night stands. Then decided to captivate
the hearts of rural Ireland. They started in the Gaiety Cinema-Ennis.
Picture it. A beautiful Summers evening. Arm in arm they strolled down
O’Connell Street from the Old Ground Hotel to the Gaiety Cinema. He,
Godlike in a tuxedo and bow tie, she dark petite and Mexican. Exotic. Dressed
in a sequinned silver lame gown. Jack smoking a large fat Havana cigar.
The Ennis crowd went wild. “Ooh, Aah”. It was like a loyal procession.
Under the stage lights, with arms around one another, they warbled “We
are in love with you, my heart and I “. The cinema erupted. It was
out of this world. Its likes would never be seen again. Curtain after curtain.
The town would never forget this. Then the magic was over. The Town went
home.
The following morning ugly rumours spread. She was Mexican. A spitfire.
He was Irish. A great big good-looking rogue. Sure, he drank a bit more
than was good for him. It was said she could match him. Breakfast in the
Old Ground Hotel. They quarrelled. Normal. Words. She hit him across the
face with the fried fish from her plate. (The Town wallowed on that one
for a couple of weeks). I don’t know whether or not he gave her a black
eye on that occasion. He subsequently gave many a black eye to women. The
blackguard.
The “Gorgeous Gael” of wrestling fame in the late fifties and
early sixties and Movita were divorced. She later married Marlon Brando.
For a Couple of years. She must have been years older than him. That’s
Entertainment. The second effort was Question Time. I’ll explain later.
“The Fit-Ups”. The Strolling players of old, they preferred
to be called. The travelling Theatre. Their stint was one week. We got from
“Othello” to “Murder in the Red Barn”. “Died and
never called me mother”. Or was that “East Lynne”? We weren’t
sophisticates. We revelled in it. Real Theatre, Real Actors and Actresses.
The pictures were O.K. But this was live Theatre. The list of companies
had honourable names. I don’t remember the English ones. There weren’t
many of them. Among the Irish I remember Anew Mc Master and Louis Dalton.
They certainly brightened our lives when they came to the Town. We had a
long history of such theatre.
Question Time. An institution from 2 R.N., which had become Radio Eireann.
The Question master was another Institution. Joe Linnane from Lahinch Co.
Clare. Every Sunday Murphy was regliously switched on at six o’clock
for the news and the market prices for the week. He was turned off until
eight o’clock for Question Time. Broadcast from a different Town every
Sunday. It went on until nine o’clock. Then we had the Sunday Night
Play. An Irish one. I remember a particular one. Louis Daltons “The
Rugged Path” in two parts. I can even remember one of the lines;- “If
I don’t get me rightful share of the farm, I’ll niver darken these
doors agin”
Question Time was a countrywide competition. First an inter town quiz,
within the county. Then inter county to reach provincial finals. Finally
provincial finals to reach the all Ireland. It came to Ennis. Our rivals
were Kilrush. It was broadcast from the Gaiety Cinema. My eldest sister
was picked for the Ennis team. My Mother and Father got complimentary tickets
to the contest. My Father wanted me to take his ticket. I said no; I had
forebodings. They went. The rest of us listened to it on Murphy. I was right.
It happened. She missed the six marker that would have meant that Ennis
were the County champions. That’s the only night we didn’t listen
to the “Sunday Night Play. My Mother and Father said nothing. We said
nothing. The shame of it passed away.
My Father was an odd man, in many ways. He took fads. One was to go to
the pictures on a Monday and Wednesday night. The programmes were Monday
and Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, Friday and Saturday, then Sunday. Thank
God he didn’t pick Sunday. He wouldn’t go to the pictures on his
own. My Mother professed no interest in pictures. I was delegated to accompany
him. I should have known. The pictures during the Emergency couldn’t
be even classed as B Movies. Rather E or F Movies. Mostly shot on set. In
semi-darkness. With at least half a dozen murders. For the first half an
hour my Father would be quiet. Then after the fourth murder, he would declaim
in a loud voice “That fella was killed a quarter of an hour ago”.
Thank God not many went to the pictures on a Monday or a Wednesday. I’d
start to slide down in my seat. In a strangled whisper it’d hiss “I’ll
explain when we get home”.
Not a hope. As the blasted movie progressed, more and more comments.
Each one more and more derogatory. By the time it was over you couldn’t
see the top of my head. The last remark was always the same. All declared
at the top of his voice. “Yerra these Talkies are a load of auld rubbish.
Nothing to the silent films”. Going to those films was sheer agony.
Thank God the fad only lasted two months. One Summers evening Vincent G.
and I were cycling on a country road near Barefield. A couple of miles outside
the Town. In the country. It was getting on towards night. We switched on
our lights. Rounding a corner we heard peculiar sounds. It sounded like
a faulty engine. Above it the yells and whoops of Red Indians. The rattle
of gunfire. In the light of our lamps we saw it. A large tent in the middle
of a field. A spluttering diesel generator. The sound track of a Western.
The proud banner at the entrance proclaimed “Scannain na Sionnan”
“The Shannon Pictures”. . . . The Wild West had come to Barefield.
They were simple entertainments. No harm was done to anybody. The core
pastime of the Town was talk. Gossip. My Father had a great friend, Father
E., a Friar. He’d meet him outside the Friary. They’d stand chatting.
Suddenly Fr. E. would catch him by the sleeve. ”Come on Michael, lets
move. This no place for two honest men. Here come the ten o’clockers”.
He preached on this subject many times off the altar. People said he had
a bee in his bonnet. The daily ten o’ clock Mass goers streamed out.
They stood in the churchyard, er, talking. Pure poison. Love thy neighbour.
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