LIKE
Oscar Wilde before him, Brendan Behan arrived in America with the Irish
writer’s license to be different. Like Wilde, Behan arrived with a quip. When
it was observed at Idlewild Airport (now JFK) in New York in 1960 that, being
so famous, he would be used to the police escort, Behan reported that his reply
was, “Yes, though usually in handcuffs”.
What
Wilde said about his own career is also true of Behan’s: he put merely his
talent into his work, but his genius into his life. Sadly, Behan’s genius was
for shirking the responsibilities of his talent, and for creating a persona
that allowed him to do so in a way that played up to the expected national
stereotypes.
Of
course, being an artist and making art are very different things, and as
Behan’s indulgence of the role of drunken Irish writer took over, his days of
an artist came to an end. A powerful and original writer failed to live up to
his potential and ended up dictating dull, pretentious name-dropping accounts
of his sad adventures among the famous names of his day: Elizabeth Taylor,
Jackie Gleeson, Norman Mailer, Arthur Miller, Groucho Marx, Bob Dylan, and so
on.
Behan
in this later period of his life was cementing his legacy in sound bites. It is
they that live on now, plastered on cards and the walls of pubs; he is an
advert for drinking culture, when he should be a warning against it. To watch
him in his Faustian pomp, on US chat shows of the early 1960s, is to see a
boring drunk. He left New York for the last time in 1963, and was dead mere
months later, at 41.
It
is difficult to detect in this declining Behan the subtleties of Anthony
Cronin’s portrait in his memoir Dead as Doornails, from the early years
when Behan was still an occasional tradesman: “You could not in fact have a
better companion in a day’s idleness than Brendan. He was a kaleidoscopic
entertainment, but he was also fecund in serious ideas. He had a line in
bemused wonderment about the activities of the world which was only partly an
affectation, for he was genuinely naive in certain ways and genuinely full of
questioning.”
Cronin’s
portrait is of a “sensitive, intelligent and over-imaginative” person; someone
“bound to make a hames” of his development. In Behan, that “hames” was the
irreconcilable difference between a know-all public persona, and a private self
that struggled with what Cronin calls “difficulties and bewilderments”. With
the benefit of hindsight, Cronin pinpoints the core of Behan’s dilemma.
Writing, he says, “as a way of sorting himself out through the rigours,
honesties and ironies of art, was largely useless to him”.
But
whether or not Behan’s art was useless to him, his talent did produce one
masterpiece, Borstal Boy. It was typical of Ireland at the time that, while the
drunken caricature of Behan was deemed acceptable, the book, which charted his
development from IRA reactionary to independent thinker, was duly banned. The
Behan who wrote that book sorely needed his country’s embrace, but did not get
it; his country sorely needed to follow him down the same road, but did not —
with deadly consequences.
Official
Ireland has now literally given Behan the stamp of approval, via An Post, but
it turned its back on him as a playwright as well as a memoirist. His first
play, 1954’s The Quare Fellow, was rejected by the Abbey Theatre and the Gate.
It was staged by the brave couple Alan Simpson and Carolyn Swift, at the Pike
Theatre in Dublin.
The
Quare Fellow paved the way for Behan’s exit from Ireland. He followed it with
his Irish play, An Giall, which he eventually adapted as the successful The
Hostage, which opened in Stratford in 1958. In the play, a Cockney soldier is
held by IRA men above a boarding house, his fate to be determined by that of an
IRA prisoner set to be hanged. The English version of the play is long and
loose and self-reflexive, full of bar-room garrulousness, rowdy choruses and
bad jokes. Behan said of it: “The music hall is the thing to aim for to amuse
people and any time they get bored divert them with a song or a dance.” Yet all
the vaudeville mugging and capering cannot fully mask a dear-held political
morality. Behan takes neither the English nor the Irish side. For him,
political extremism is inhumanity; “liberators” can soon turn oppressors. If
anything, he takes the part of the Cockney in The Hostage, his Border-campaign
republicans cast as a Gestapo in green.
Both
An Giall and The Hostage have their flaws, but in them, and in Borstal Boy,
Behan became one of the most important things a writer can be — an intelligent,
informed critic of his society’s received wisdom, a slayer of its sacred cows.
We
would do well to heed Behan’s hard-won scepticism of political violence as we
approach the centenary of this state’s deeply problematic foundation myth. And,
while his plays may not have the lingering power of O’Casey, there is surely
something for an enterprising director to approach between An Giall and The
Hostage — two imperfect works that, with some judicious editing, could offer
much potential for revival. Now that would be a fitting tribute on the 50th
anniversary of his passing.
By Alan O’Riordan
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