Monthly Archives: August 2016

Wastepaper Basket Part II: Les Mortes

***Health warning: I’m putting this here because I realised it’s unpublishable, and I’ve recycled the good parts into a different thing***

Les Mortes

There’s a football match on tomorrow. Or a rugby match the day after. There is a sporting event of some kind to be staged in the near future, of this I am certain. The occasion itself is unimportant though; the result is that the pub is empty. The yuppies are conserving their testosterone in their settlements on the commuter belt, rather than crowding the place, by their stances making even standing, or holding a drink, seem like contrived things to be doing. The bartender is leaning easy, either against the bar, watching the newsreader’s mouth flap, or against a wall behind him, polishing a glass. I sit at the bar and I order a coffee. Drinking coffee after five is what writers do, in lieu of getting drunk and going mad.  

I spend forty minutes being dissatisfied with what I’m writing, watch my ideal gather itself into existence, maybe just for a moment, before slipping again into just a crust of ink left on a page, over which I gibber in apologetics. I scribble, doodle idly, rage against the feckless muse stewing herself in some lake. I can see her now in a hushed glade blasted by yellow light. I wonder what she’s waiting for.

Eager for distraction, I watch the threshold of the public house; I feel its presence to be tinged with an accusation, like a blank page setting its mute face in mine. I wonder who will be the next person to walk through that door.  Whoever it is, perhaps they can redeem me, redeem all this, the differengenera in ink into a fluent jaunt. I wait with the bartender, my unwitting accomplice in the itch of expectancy, for ten minutes, before a young-ish woman walks in.

If she is older than me it is not by a wide margin. Some inferior novelist might refer to her as ‘willowy,’ ‘lithe’ or ‘svelte.’ She makes an enquiry of the barman before sitting or ordering: have you a socket around that I could use? He says that he does and after settling herself in the corner, she orders a glass of red wine. I watch all this happen while giving the impression that I am absorbed in the first volume of Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu. In the original French of course. Have I neglected to mention that I’m reading Proust in the original? I rarely do.

The woman types intermittently, leaning into the screen and then sitting back to consider. The screen’s light illuminates her face bluely and makes her expression of placid disinterest seem improbable. She has disturbed the library air of the pub; it smells like outside now. With a sadness that breaks inside me, tectonically, I realise that she is quite beautiful. I would attribute it to the light from her screen, it is autumnally – no, wait, it is, soothing, perhaps oceanic in ways. But this impressionistic crossword of description is tedious, I’ll confess that I noticed her attractiveness already, when she first came in, I just didn’t mention it at the time, it would’ve been uncouth. Courtships are much more admirable before they’ve happened, before all the dithering starts.

I get excited for a moment, realising that my sadness might yield something worth recording, something that could be wrung out. The pen is ready, but the feeling doesn’t give anything up, it just sort of, sits there in the chest, obstinate and fat. I order a beer.

Unreason, or the rude stupidity of jumping the gap into action, is something that has to be done. One cannot think one’s way into doing. This is because the mind is a catastrophiser, an enemy of acts. It is a poor compatriot. It is in tribute to this turncoat, thought, that of my doing, I will remain silent.

The conversation is in its moderate, early stages. Where she works, what her name is, these sorts of things. Noticing my book, she produces her own, a slim novel. But I am not deceived, it is one that I have read, one of my favourites.

—Do you like it?

—Yeah, I love it. It’s so good.

She places it, cover down on the table.

—It is a little grim though.

—Grim?

—Yeah, just, a bit too close to the bone sometimes.

These are astute enough, not incorrect observations. Seeing this line of enquiry reach its natural end, I point to her computer.

—What are you working on at the minute?

—I thought you’d never ask. Breakthrough stuff.

She turns the laptop around so that I can see the spreadsheet that she’s authoring. I look at it without reading, for as long as I assume it is polite to look at a spreadsheet.  

—Looks heavy. I can’t deal with that stuff myself.

—Oh, it’s not too complicated, there’s no functions or anything.

—Doesn’t look that way. These cells here are overflowing.

She laughs.

–No, really, look, they’re just long because they’re full addresses.  It is a list of the constituency offices of sitting TD’s.

—That is exciting. Why would you be working on something like that?

—Because I am competent enough for my boss to trust me with the most important job in the whole company, to verify the addresses that we send our branded calendars out to at the end of the financial year.

—Must be complicated to keep track of that many, I say, letting her go out of focus as I take a drink. The liquid has reached a point a little past the glass’ half-way bulge.

—Yes and no. It’s all on Google after all. The only thing is I have to make sure that I have their old addresses in there.

I make my face register puzzlement, just a dash.

—Old addresses? Why’s that?

—Well, I’m, dead, and that makes it a bit more…difficult.

—Oh.

She looks at me.

—Is that a problem?

—No. Course not, why would it be?

—Because of the way you said ‘Oh’ like that. Like you thought I was…weird or  defective or something.

—No, no, I don’t think that.

Her gaze is still on me. If I couldn’t see it, I’d be able to feel it. It might be time to concede.

—Really, I don’t. I was a bit surprised. …this’ll sound bad, but you are the first dead person I’ve ever spoken to.

She raises her glass,

—Well you could start by maybe not using the word ‘dead,’ thanks.

downs it.

—I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend. ‘Person of post-living’ isn’t it?

—Yes. It, is.

I don’t think I’ve ever met a person-of-post-living. There was a PPL society around campus when I was in college, running mixers and balls and such. And I’ve read a take about how Goths who wear pale make-up are appropriating necro-culture for its cachet, without having to deal themselves with any of the structural oppression that comes of being a person-of-post-living. Is there something in that for a conversation? I don’t really want to find out – I’d rather get us away from all this in truth.

—How, how is it?

—Being dead?

—Well, yes.

She sighs, looks tired and past me, regarding the empty glass and the news beyond it.

—You don’t have to, and it must get annoying to have idiots like me ask, but I’d like to know. What do you do all the time? You don’t sleep, right?

—We can. We just don’t really need to.

The conversation is bereft now, it’d almost make you wish the match was on, to have some man screaming advice at an athlete, maybe have the edges taken off the silence.

—Since I am still here, rather than somewhere else, wherever somewhere else is, I must have made some sort of mistake while I was alive. Since I spent so much of my time in the office, I think it must’ve been some oversight in work, somewhere. So I go in every day, take care of a couple of new things, then, after closing my boss lets me use the place to go over old paperwork, spreadsheets, adjusting the gutters in some of the documents on my old computer, scan old paperwork to adjust my spelling, grammar and,

She taps her laptop.

—checking addresses.

As she runs over her tedious itinerary, counting them off on her fingers, she over-enacts how her surplus of tasks outnumbers the fingers she can count them off on, with a jollity that mocks me slightly. I like it.

Another article I read broached the idea that persons of post-living exist in order to right a wrong during their lives was morally toxic and propagated the idea that the post-living must be in servitude to the living and to their prior selves. I decide not to tell her this, no lifesplainer I.

—It must be hard to keep track of everything that you could have made a mistake in. Do you have some kind of system of rotation?

—No…I just have a feeling about this spreadsheet. It was the first thing I did when I got the job. It used to be for the interns but my boss had me do it every year as a sort of, in-joke.  

—Lucky you.

She smiles in acknowledgement.   

—What if, what if your mistake isn’t around anymore?

—Pardon?

—Well, you said you’re looking at paperwork going back. Isn’t some of that stuff shredded by now, or, haven’t the computers been replaced since you were there?  

She thumbs the table’s edge.  

—I guess, I try not to think about that sort of thing.

—Would you like another drink?

I pull out my wallet and we both look at it. There’s something obscene about it in my hand, it looks like something that should be sheathed out of decency.

—No. No, I better be…getting off soon. Thanks anyway.

But she doesn’t move, and we sit there for a while, roasting in the quiet. I start to panic, and make the promise to help her with her spreadsheet, send it along. Sure I know my way around Excel. She laughs and says that she will, but she isn’t sure whether someone else rectifying her mistake would work. So I say, with a lack of tact that I blame on the beer, that the history of literature has many examples of the dead enlisting others’ help to correct their mistakes. Hamlet was one. She thought about it and agreed that I was right. She would send me the file. My phone gave an obedient ping. (Ping!)

This little exchange was the last one of note and I began to gather my affairs about my person. She began shutting down her PC. I, jacketed (Ping!), sort of hovered at the table, at the door, outside, depending on her progress. She wore a thick box-coat, belted at the waist with a furred hood. I kept noticing these details, because I was quite out of my mind in panic over what to do next.

Whoever moved first, we were kissing. I’d wondered what it would be like to kiss a person of post-living, to kiss her, whether her mouth would feel differently from someone who was alive. So I was too reflective, more in interior monologue than the physical, trying to quantify the difference. But there was none to be detected. I allowed my mind to numb, and waited for it to be over.

I left her, she walking out of town, me having to go back through. I opened the email while rounding Merrion Square’s first corner, and appreciated the tree branches that crowded through and over the black railings, protruding over the gutters in my sight into the park. Because I did not stop to take my glances, I allowed myself to enjoy the filmic intermittence with which the foliage parted, the way it swam past, or turned into itself, like tar being churned. The emptied square seemed grand in the dark. The spreadsheet looked in order, but I wouldn’t be able to check the back-end till I get to a desktop. I probably won’t, I realised. Male desire is a tragic thing.

Wastepaper Basket Part I: Sunday Miscellany: A Tribute/Parody

[somnolent horns in a regal manner for about fifteen seconds. it dissolves into asynchronous and discordant cataclysm]

Woman’s Voice: Time now for Sunday Salmagundi, a showcase of the finest prose, poetry and essays currently on offer in the land of saints and of scholars.

Second Woman’s Voice: (Speaks plodding, primly) I have always found myself to be spurred by a deep and profound love for the invasive species of the wild boar, sosis scrofula, a recent visitation on this little island in the middle of the Atlantic that we, and now happily, the boar, call home.

I can still remember the first time I made the acquaintance of this noble animal in my back garden. It was a gorgeous summer’s day and my dear husband was just getting ready to attend to the pesky weeds that had sprung up in our garden.   

—Won’t be a mo, he said merrily, already donning his thick gardening gloves, packing his trusty trowel into his sturdy steel bucket with a noisy clang. 

I watched him pulling the weeds up by their roots from the kitchen window, while washing the dishes left over from breakfast. They were the fine bone china plates that my grandmother left me, when she passed away so tragically, only the year before last. I looked at the beautiful patterns that ran along their outsides, made of little Celtic Crosses weaving in and out of themselves, like a mysterious tapestry from long ago. When I see them, I think of the big mahogany cabinet my granny kept them in when I was a little girl, and how big it seemed to me at the time, looming far above my head when I visited her with my mummy and daddy. I didn’t know then how fast the years would pass me by. I can still remember the hazy morning sunlight slanting through the cabinet’s glass door, making the plates shimmer like virtual reality.

I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I didn’t see the boar step out inquisitively from the hedge on my husband’s side, and gear up to charge at him. The first thing I noticed about our little visitor was how quickly he moved, his feet were like little brown rockets, a far cry from the stubby little implements that you’d mistake them for at your peril. His shiny white tusks aren’t just for show either though, as my husband found out when the little fella dug an eight centimetre hole in his thigh.

-Ah! Ah! Jesus, Cathleen! Ahh, Christ, my husband said, struggling to his feet. With his injury, he was finding it difficult to move quickly and ward off the animal at the same time. A big red wound was clearly visible, as the boar had inconsiderately torn my husband’s pair of jeans. The wound was a deep passionate crimson colour, like the first rose of summer.

I could see the boar was locking onto him to make another charge. I tapped at the window angrily to ward him off.

—Cathleen! Cathleen! Jesus, help, oh god, ah,  he said.

Just as the boar was about to make a run and gore my husband’s leg for a second time, he stopped and looked up at me through the window. His eyes looked into mine, and I had then a strange moment of sympathy and understanding with him. Even though we were from different worlds, and the boar was unlikely to have a memory like the ones that filled my head up to the brim like those of my granny’s china cabinet, were we really all that different? It was almost as if we knew each other well, that we were old friends from our school days. 

The boar then took a run and smashed himself into my husband’s ankle, knocking him to the ground.

—Ohohohogggohrbna, he said.

The boar then beat

his retreat

so I watched him depart

with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

John McGahern’s ‘Creatures of the Earth’

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John McGahern’s ‘Creatures of the Earth’ is in many ways a typical McGahern short story. It represents a family, touched by tragedy in rural Ireland (albeit off the mainland in Achill), it touches on the darker aspects of human behaviour and the prose remains quiet and unfancy throughout. It even contains a quotation from Jane Austen that might serve as a thesis statement for McGahern’s oeuvre in general. So what is it that distinguishes it from the other short stories in the collection, also entitled Creatures of the Earth? Not a whole lot, either thematically or technically, apart from the title, and it is this, and how it relates to the larger work, that I will now explore in depth.

The text introduces the Waldron family in the aftermath of Mr Waldron’s death. Mr Waldron worked in a hospital, and finds that once he falls ill, his colleagues about town begin to shun him: “They work with sick people and they are not ill. They are outside and above all that. They loom like gods in the eyes of these poor creatures. Now that I am sick I am simply no longer a part of the necessary lie that works. I have to be shut out.”

Here we have the first instance in which the word ‘creature’ is used in the narrative, in the almost endearing sense of ‘poor creature,’ in such a way that acknowledges their fallibility, and perhaps even pities way, for the amalgamation of social snobbery and anxiety about their own deaths that motivates them. Of course, these ‘creatures,’ are not the only ones that appear in the short story, we also have the far more abiding creature, the cat Fats, who waits out Mr Waldron’s illness at the foot of his bed. The other creature, in the conventional sense of the term, is Tommy McHugh’s border collie. Both animals are black and white. This seems important. Eileen Waldron, making use of the now empty house for her work, begins to avoid local character Tommy McHugh, as seeing the dog under his neglectful and cruel ownership distresses her, in much the same way that the hospital staff avoided Mr Waldron once he fell ill. Albeit of course, for completely different reasons.

At one point, Eileen recalls a local doctor named Doorley, who, believing in the healing powers of tar, tarred his children once a year. All of them grew up to be ‘disturbed,’ the narration (the word ‘narrator’ seems to imply a greater degree of agency than one can detect in a McGahern text) informs us. Two have committed suicide.

McGahern’s attention to detail regarding the foibles of human behaviour and to implicitly link these two manifestations of it, almost as if there was a case to be made for their similarity, is what allows him to credibly advance larger, almost cosmic truths in conjunction with the ‘mere’ pastoral realism. The spoonful of pessimism helps the medicine go down too, of course.

The cruelty of people remains a strong fixture in ‘Creatures of the Earth,’ two drifters abduct Fats on a whim and drown her. Tommy McHugh later casually mentions the fact that he threw the border collie off a cliff.

It’s a testament to McGahern’s vitality and consistency of tone as a writer that interpreting him can sometimes feel like over-reading, but there must be something to the persistence of the black and white. One could think of it as McGahern’s version of the Ted Hughes’ view of the natural world, which reveres animals for their animality or apparent simplicity. The cat’s instincts, which incline her to trust people, doesn’t lead her to suspect danger until its too late.

The final paragraph, in which Tommy ominously declares that Eileen is ‘on her effing way out,’ to the ‘absent collie’ offers us this interpretation, it is a peculiar being indeed that can conjure up a prosthesis for an animal they themselves killed in order that they may serve as a sympathetic auditor to justify their own mad theories about another person. It also returns us to the petty behaviour of the medical staff: (“he declared to the absent collie in a voice that sang out that they alone among the creatures of the earth would never have to go that way,”) each and all engaged in a perpetual denial of their own deaths.

The title, at first glance, is a very forensic, apparently objective one, but there is an implication of community in it too, the community of the earth’s inhabitants, at least together and of a part, even if so much of their actions towards the earth, and its other creatures, are destructive. Like the good doctor Waldron of course, there is a sympathy present there too.

Dylan Moran’s Radio Play, Flann O’Brien and Samuel Beckett

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I’ve been a fan of Dylan Moran’s stand-up for as far back as I can remember, since I saw his first stand-up special Monster. I think I was about twelve, and Moran’s misanthropic and depressive whimsy got lodged deep into my world view, and influenced me to try stand-up the few times that I did, aswell as slur the way I speak infinitesimally. I’m not sure if the way I speak now is my actual voice. I would obsessively Google clips in the hopes of finding bootleg gigs, as Moran has always been quite good modifying and improvising local and topical material unlikely to turn up in his one-hour specials, the best example of which is his commentary on the 2011 Irish presidential election in Roísin Dubh, Galway.

It was during one of these excursions into the vortex of ‘Related Videos’ that I turned up a radio play that Moran wrote for the BBC, entitled ‘The Expedition,’ in which the protagonist, Aidan Clarke, addressed his absent girlfriend Isabel, in a series of recordings. Their relationship seems to be reaching a breaking point, but nevertheless, Aidan updates Isabel on his progress on a hike with her brother Leonard, though, in the same manner of Eminem’s ‘Stan,’ it is uncertain how the protagonist will get the recordings will make it to her, and why also, he renders them episodically, if it is the case that he will play all of them to her when he returns from his hike.

I would be surprised if Moran didn’t have the drama of Samuel Beckett in mind here. The most obvious parallel is his 1958 play Krapp’s Last Tape, in which an ageing man, apparently a writer, pores over a directory of recordings that he has made on every one of his birthdays, and makes a new one. Rather than dwelling on the details which his young self imparts with most fervour, his aesthetic realisations about life, love, art and all that, Krapp is most interested in returning to recollections of his bygone sexual conquests. Krapp’s Last Tape is far more engaged with the medium in which the recordings are contained than Moran is; the only signal we have that what we are listening to is the imprint of a magnetic field is the click-click noise that each monologue begins with.

Like Krapp’s Last Tape, however, it does chart the decline of its protagonist, from getting nippy and passive aggressive with his partner to succumbing to psychosis and delusion in the play’s second half. Albeit psychosis with comedic intent. It is in these sections that the whimsy that characterises Moran’s act enters the play, the marrying of surreal situations, such encountering a camel in a blizzard on a mountain, with the quotidian experience of being a tourist out of water, trying to amiably make chat with a local. His increasingly choppy and erratic syntax, as well as his estrangement from conventionally expressed emotion may well recall Beckett’s later, scatty prose works: ’I want to say that I want to go home, the wind. The wind.’

It is a cliché generally observed in Irish comedy journalism that such acts driven by their loquaciousness and absurdist perspectives be compared to Flann O’Brien, in who’s writing we see similar things. And this is fine, Moran probably read him and I think Tommy Tiernan is a fan, but it ignores the fundamental aspect of stand-up, and what makes it a form worth discussing on its own terms; the performative element.

Moran’s comedy is primarily character-based; we respond to his material in ways that if another, more Apollo Theatre type stand-up were to make them, we wouldn’t, because he is, in a very short period of time, capable of conveying to an audience what kind of comedian he is. His coming onstage stage in Monster for example features a glass of wine, extravagant arm gestures, a half-hearted audience greeting, and a spot of bother with the mic stand.

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This affectation of partial incompetence or world-weariness is what makes his observations on boozing and drugs in his first special, and his take on family life in his second and those thereafter so good. In the former we see that he’s probably the type to have partaken his fair share of intoxicants. In the second, the absurdity is compacted, as he hasn’t quite shaken off the image of the perpetually drunk sexily dishevelled raconteur. In saying so, I don’t demean character-based stand-up. Stand-up, as traditionally practiced, requires repetition of material, glossed with the illusion of spontaneity.

Flann O’Brien is a very different creature. I’ve sometimes been at odds with his current critical reputation, which seems to me to depend more on his columns than his novels, The Third Policeman, At-Swim-Two-Birds and An Béal Bocht. Seeing him as an anticipator of contemporary Irish stand-up seems to miss how withdrawn he is as an author from his work, how hermetic and alienating his writing style is. In The Third Policeman for example, the bicycles seem more animated than the allegedly human characters, who barely seem to have advanced beyond the sentience of Syngean automata. Fintan O’Toole has spoken well on this peculiar sense of rootlessness in O’Brien’s writing, and wondered how it is possible for such an archetypal postmodern stylist to emerge from a society which hadn’t quite entered modernity yet.

This impersonal note sounded in O’Brien’s fiction is almost antithetical to the notion of comedy as practiced by Moran, who’s stage persona manages to be vital, even when channeling Beckett.

Declan Kiberd at the Theatre of Memory Symposium

Declan Kiberd giving a rather brilliant talk on the state of Ireland, memory and its relationship to culture. Great readings of Yeats, Joyce and the revolutionary generation abound, albeit greenwashed slightly. Also has a dig at the revisionist historians, which I would make more of if it wasn’t for his great idea for a new, radical arts policy.

Colm Tóibín, Fintan O’Toole & Colm Tóibín in conversation

I am an unabashed fan of learned old men having conversations about stuffy subjects, though microphone hogging makes me deeply uncomfortable. This one might be the gold-standard, with Roy Foster speaking on his book Vivid Faces indebtedness to the novel form, Colm Tóibín’s indebtedness to the craft of the historian, with Fintan O’Toole directing it all.

Two Scenes from Steve McQueen’s ‘Hunger’

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For about seventeen minutes, we have the same shot of Michael Fassbender and Liam Cunningham on either side of a small table in a private room in Prison Maze. Fassbender is leaning forward for most of it, sitting back only at one point, when Cunningham accuses him of political nihilism and criticises his political strategy for its insufficient valuation of his life and those of his fellow Republican prisoners. Other than that, motion is minimal; it is only the blue smoke from their cigarettes that provide any sense of movement, whirling about in the darkened room in the infinite number of slightly haunting ways that smoke does, only serving to highlight the men’s static, almost silhouetted, figures.

From a thematic perspective, representing the two as mostly immutable has the effect of visually stating the irreconcilability of their viewpoints, Fassbender representing Bobby Sands’ commitment to starve himself, the rock to the hard place of Cunningham, as Father Dominic Moran, advocating the nitty-gritty, unsexy work of community building. It could be said that what we have here is a visual thesis and antithesis, an argument between life and death.

The metaphor never stultifies the scene of course — the most notable thing about it is its dynamic exchange of dialogue, which is naturalistic and casual. For its first half it is devoted to what resembles mere patter or small talk, as the two spar over their early lives in the two very different Northern Irelands that they grew up in. The scene is uncompromising for potential outsiders to the conflict and its history; casual references to Northern Irish geography and the various factions within the IRA and the British state abound.

The shot change, when it does eventually come, results in a close-up of Fassbender, in which, over the course of four and a half minutes, he tells a story from his childhood. His narrative involves putting dying foal out of its misery in front of a number of boys taking part in a cross-border cross-country running initiative. He tells the story as a means of impressing upon the priest his level of commitment to the cause, and his justification for refusing to compromise. Once the camera has followed Fassbender’s cigarette, it once again becomes still, and remains fixed, and Fassbender looks at a point just beyond it. The fixity of his gaze is starkly unstinting, at only one point at the start of the story does he look away, point having misspoken.

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The consequence of having such a tight focus on Fassbender, particularly wearing the expression that he does, is that we are brought right into the remit of his intensity. The immovability of his gaze, the taunting angle of his eyes, just bisecting the camera, and by association the viewer, makes clear the irrelevancy of circumstance to his character and his strength of will. The shot is intended to cow us, as is attested to by the countershaft that contains Cunningham. He does not maintain his gaze as Fassbender does, but looks around, turning over the implications of the narrative, his realisation of his inability to change Sands’ mind. His capitulation is just as haunting as anything else in the scene, “Couldn’t have that on my conscience, no.”

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He also doesn’t speak any dialogue in his close-up, Fassbender dominates his frame, but Cunningham seems trapped, uncomfortable.

Another scene of significance to the film, and our understanding of Sands, is the polysemous ending, in which Sands dies, which appears to be interspersed with fragments of memory from the cross-border cross-country running he tells Father Moran about. But there is a problem of interpreting the scene as just a manifestation of Sands’ memory, or merely an instance of life flashing before his eyes. For one, would the priest that beat Sands for drawing the foal have allowed him to participate in the event afterwards, second, his friends aren’t singing pop songs, as Sands remembers, but a Belfast variation on the ’Everywhere We Go’ song. We could put this down to Sands’ faulty memory, the loss of a somewhat unimportant detail, but it seems like a slip that shouldn’t be ignored, based perhaps off the vividness of the foal episode.

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Next we have Sands running through the Goath Dobhair countryside, apparently by himself, having long outrun his friends, referring to his speed in his conversation with Father Moran. The overt connection of Sands in a darkened wood, following unclear path with his death shouldn’t require too much unpacking, but what could have been a very of-itself closing sequence rises to something a lot more evocative and almost supernatural, when we recall Sands’ belief that in his next life, he’d find himself closer to the land in some way, and that Gaoth Dobhair is, in his eyes, paradise.

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The sudden looseness of the camera, the quick edits from the birds on the tree to their departure and sudden drunken veering in the night sky, not to mention the apotheosis and abrupt bathos of the score, is probably beyond my ability to wholly digest and reproduce, and it is in the resonance of the inferences and loose ends that the power of the shots reside.