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    The armalite and the ballot box: election results could vindicate Sinn Féin’s electoral strategy.

    Via violence to contempt to abstentionism to normalisation perhaps to government. By Dan Haverty. It is difficult to exaggerate the magnitude of Sinn Féin’s electoral performance in the Irish general election. Once the political wing of the paramilitary Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA), Sinn Féin took down a political establishment that had been in power since the state’s foundation in 1922. It won the most first preference votes of any party, topping the poll in a shocking 24 out of 39 constituencies. It secured its place as the leading voice of the Irish left, probably marking the definitive end of the Labour Party’s 108-year run as a relevant force in national politics. Although it only ran 42 candidates across the 39 constituencies (thus ensuring it didn’t win even more seats), pundits agree that Sinn Féin is now one of the dominant forces in Irish politics. For outside observers, the results mark a dramatic realignment of Irish politics that began with the financial collapse in 2008. For republicans, Sinn Féin’s historic performance brings a highly controversial four-decade-old internal process of politicisation close to final vindication. The modern iteration of Sinn Féin emerged out of a split within the republican movement in 1970. The ‘Provisional’ faction of the movement (from which modern Sinn Féin emerged) opposed the ‘Official’ faction’s move toward electoral politics, choosing instead to pursue the full unification of Ireland through violence. Born in a culture of absolute contempt for party politics, Sinn Féin’s role was minimal, serving as little more than a mouthpiece for the far larger and more active Provisional IRA. Sinn Féin began to take on a more important role in the movement’s activities as tensions between authorities and republican internees in Long Kesh prison worsened in the late 1970s. In 1976, the British government chose to revoke political status from paramilitary prisoners in its attempt to “normalise” and “criminalise” the security situation in Northern Ireland. This sparked a spontaneous prison-wide protest among republican prisoners, culminating in the high-profile hunger strikes of 1980 and 1981. The republican leadership on the outside had little control over the direction of the protest movement, and rather than try to assert authority over its living martyrs, it opted instead to organise a grassroots campaign to support them. Sinn Féin was at the forefront of directing the day-to-day activities of the so-called Anti H-Block committees, organising street demonstrations and fund-raising campaigns that generated a renewed interest in—and sympathy for—the republican struggle. The campaign escalated sharply in March 1981, when independent Fermanagh and South Tyrone MP Frank Maguire died of a sudden heart attack, forcing a by-election for his seat. Sinn Féin was initially reluctant to contest the seat, fearing a loss would undermine support for the prisoners. But it ultimately decided that a strong enough loss would still serve its wider purposes, and it chose to stand lead hunger striker Bobby Sands on an Anti H-Block ticket. A groundswell of support followed, which Sinn Féin carefully channelled into electoral points for Sands. Sands won the election, sending shockwaves through both the British and Irish political establishments. Two more hunger strikers were elected to the Irish parliament in the general election in June of that year, convincing a large section of the movement that a well-organised, grassroots campaign in support of republican objectives could deliver tangible political results. In the aftermath of the hunger strikes, Sinn Féin opted for a new strategy combining armed struggle with electoral politics. But by the middle of the 1980s, the Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness-led leadership decided a more comprehensive electoral strategy was needed to advance the struggle. They wanted to build a political movement in the Republic to support the fight for freedom in the North, but they knew this required an economic and social programme independent of the struggle that could appeal to Southern working-class voters. This necessarily had to include a commitment to take their seats in the Irish legislature, an institution Sinn Féin had never previously participated in because it was viewed as a British-imposed body with no legitimacy in Ireland. The ensuing debate over whether to end abstention from the Irish legislature opened a chasm within the movement, pitting traditionalists against reformists over the soul of republicanism. Abstentionism was first employed in the 1910s in an attempt to render the British parliament inoperable, but it was elevated to principle status after the revolutionary period of the 1920s. Traditionalists argued that it embodied their rejection of British-imposed institutions and thus justified the armed struggle. On a strategic level, traditionalists always argued that violence was the only force capable of pushing the British out of Ireland. If a political strategy was adopted, its needs would supersede the needs of the armed struggle, and the IRA would have to be restrained and eventually disbanded, thus depriving the movement of its cutting edge. Once defanged, the need to win votes would lead to ever increasing compromises which would push republicans to soften their political aims, thus neutralizing any meaningful threat to the state. But by the mid-1980s, the conflict was nearing two decades old and was seemingly in a stalemate, and the reformists privately arrived at the conclusion that the moment for armed struggle had passed and they could no longer achieve their aims militarily. They feared that if they did not change their tactics, they risked losing the tremendous wave of sympathy generated by the hunger strikes. They concluded that the conditions were ripe enough to move Sinn Féin and the IRA fully out of war and into politics. The reformists won out, and in 1986, the IRA made the historic decision to drop abstention from the Irish parliament and allow elected Sinn Féin representatives to take their seats. It followed an emotional (and deeply divisive) debate within the movement, leading a faction of traditionalists to leave and form their own breakaway group. It still took decades for Sinn Féin to build a respectable following in the Republic, but the change freed it to

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    General Election 2020 Editorial: Vote Left and green

    In 2016  (and 2011, actually) Village editorialised, “You would think from our recent history of some of the most notoriously bad governance on the planet, that we would have learnt that our political classes need to be replaced. In fact, this election time we see no new ideas”. Sadly democracy in Ireland needs an overhaul every bit as much now as it did in 2016 and 2011. Village remains disappointed at the quality of politics, across the range.  The parties are again fairly easily characterised: Fine Gael is a centre-right party with an obsession with observing the rights of property that has failed to establish an enticing vision, especially socially and environmentally, of Irish society.  In nine years in government it has failed abjectly on housing where there are 10,000 homeless and health where there are more than 500,000 on outpatient waiting lists. It has a tendency to indulge nastiness against the most vulnerable on issues from social welfare to immigration rights. Though heralded as economically competent it is not clear that it was wise for it to facilitate a hard Brexit. Labour never does what its progressive manifestos promise. Worse, a number of its senior TDs appear ideologically jaded. Because of the elasticity of its conscience Labour has long attracted the wrong type of representatives. Fianna Fáil is tainted by its reckless and corrupt past and the incoherence of its platform. It believes serving the people, parish and business in equal measure is viable. It has an attractive leader in Micheál Martin though one who only belatedly seemed to demur from the shenanigans of Charlie Haughey and Bertie Ahern under whom he served. Its centre-left incarnation disguises regressive and socially conservative tendencies. Sinn Féin’s manifesto commitment to a Left agenda is impressive but precarious bearing in mind its preference for irredentist nationalism over ideology, its centrist pragmatism in the North and especially its willingness to coalesce with Fianna Fáil or even Fine Gael. It has been ambivalent about democracy and transparency, and its leaders lie casually about its, and the IRA’s, past. It has not fully accepted an environmental agenda. Village has had a weakness for the Social Democrats, whose mild but sensible platform is essentially the same as Labour’s, but it has probably blown its chance by personality frictions and policy divisions between an old guard centred on quality of life and a younger cohort focused on identity politics. The radical Left offers the huge appeal of integrity and seriousness but its opposition to property taxes is inexcusable, and its focus on opposition to the loathed water taxes rather than a broader anti-inequality platform, including opposition to the iniquities of Nama, corruption and the resurrection of the developer classes wasted time and energy and diverted its revolutionary ideology. As Oisín Coulter’s piece shows it may be happy avoiding power. The Green Party’s policies are often radical, and its agenda mature, but it is not hard-minded and the implications of its failure to realise how little it achieved the last time it was in government means it is difficult to be enthusiastic. The Independent Alliance (or whatever it’s called, formerly Shane Féin) is utterly incoherent of policy and membership; and appears moribund.  Village believes promoting equality of outcome, sustainability and accountability are the most important policies; and it is difficult to be optimistic about their immediate Irish prospects. A radical new venture is needed. Against this backdrop, we would again not presume to advise readers precisely where to direct their votes. However, we can say the non-ideological, non-visionary parties of the pragmatic centre hold little appeal, even when the non-vision seems to be a slightly left-of-centre non-vision. A coalition of the parties of the Left, radical Left and the Greens would, as always, best promote Village’s agenda, if no doubt imperfectly.

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    Leo Varadkar, dicing with nastiness

    Taoiseach Leo Varadkar is viscerally and divisively right-wing, socially and economically; but hides it behind incoherent and inept policies and a now-suspect nice-guy media persona.    By Michael Smith (February 2020).  A famous 2010 Après Match sketch has Ireland’s Taoiseach Leo Varadkar openly admitting he’s plotting to knife his party leader Enda Kenny while gratuitously denying, in a mid-Atlantic nasal twang, that he’s going to set up an elite party which of course suggests he is in fact intending to do just that. A stage-Vincent-Browne with an impossible wig wonders whether he was bitten by a lizard, a snake or an eel. Though the elite party isn’t part of the revealed agenda he’s an exotic and cosmopolitan proposition no doubt; young and attractive, hipsterish, agnostic; a half-Indian, gay, charming and articulate doctor; a star-turn on the international stage.  Over the last decade the satirist Oliver Callan has characterised Varadkar as an image-fetishising, gym-obsessed dude, increasingly cold to the downsides of his austere policies, the Teesh in a cabal of unpleasant elitists.  The Varadkar who presented at the first leaders’ debate on 22 January 2020 had clearly been briefed to project an image of humility, emotion and modesty.  Two and a half years into his premiership, scrutiny, the pressure of office and the relentless exposure of the policies and failures of his party are undermining his nice-guy credentials as his empathy becomes an election issue. And, as Village has always wondered, is there any beef?  Varadkar is young and attractive, hipsterish, agnostic: a half-Indian, gay, charming and articulate doctor’  Background  Varadkar was born in Dublin in 1979. the youngest of three and the only son of Ashtok and Miriam Varadkar. His Mumbai-born father had moved to England as a doctor in the 1960s. Miriam comes from a Fianna Fáil family; Ashtok considered himself a socialist and voted Labour. His Dungarvan-born mother met her husband while working as a nurse in Slough. Later they lived in Leicester and India, returning to Dublin in 1973.  Leo, it seems, was the perfect son. His mother has said: “He was too good to be true, actually. Everyone adored him. He was adorable, a gorgeous baby and then he went into  Fine Gael. And that’s it. He never said it. We just found out”. So little Leo wasn’t born a Fine Gaeler.  But he soon made up for lost time.   Varadkar was brought up Catholic and educated at the St Francis Xavier National School in his home of Blanchardstown before attending the liberalising fee-paying Church of Ireland King’s Hospital School in Palmerstown, where his classmates included the future excitable-presenter Kathryn Thomas. He obtained a wagon-load of points in his Leaving Cert. It was during his secondary schooling, debating and all that, that he joined Fine Gael.   After an abortive few weeks in the Law faculty, he got a points-upgrade and studied Medicine at Trinity College Dublin, graduating in 2003. He spent several years as a junior doctor in Connolly Hospital before qualifying as a general practitioner in 2010. He often worked 36-hour shifts as a doctor, missing a night’s sleep; but rather than finding it stressful, he has said: “I quite liked the buzz of being busy”. Nevertheless, in 2016, he declined an invitation by the Irish Nurses and Midwives Organisation (INMO) to work a 12-hour shift alongside them in an A&E because “they never formally asked”.  Around this time Varadkar was singled out for greatness by the Washington Ireland Program, which prepares ambitious young people for future leadership roles. Party grandee Nora Owen recalls him as overweight and Thatcherite around this time when he came to her attention.  In 2004 the tyro’s ambition began to find expression as he was co-opted to Fingal County Council, serving as deputy mayor.  Varadkar was first actually elected to Fingal County Council later on in 2004, drawing 4,894 votes, the highest in the State; there was a niche in Fingal for at least one meaty Thatcherite.  He won a Dáil seat in 2007 and was immediately elevated by Enda Kenny to frontbench Spokesperson on Enterprise, Trade and Employment, remaining in this position until a 2010 reshuffle when he became Spokesperson on Communications, Energy and Natural Resources.   In Government  Transport  When Kenny led Fine Gael into Government with Labour, Varadkar served as Minister for Transport, Tourism and Sport, from 2011 to 2014. He presided over ‘The Gathering’: the largest and most successful tourism initiative ever held in Ireland though one that left little in the way of a long-term imprint. He took the decision to link Dublin’s two independent Luas lines, opened up more bus routes to competition, restarted development at the National Sport Campus, and gave independence to Shannon Airport. He also developed a new Road Safety Strategy and a National Ports Policy.    These are petty enough achievements for a three-year Ministry.   He was already burnishing his lack of interest in the environment and did little to implement Noel Dempsey’s typically progressive ‘Smarter Travel – a Sustainable Transport Future’. He obtained government funding for its commitment to the €550m 57km public-private partnership of the egregiously over-scaled Gort-Tuam motorway while cancelling the necessary Dart Underground and Metro North underground plans, and again deferring Metro West, in Dublin.    ’ These are petty enough achievements for a three-year Ministry’   Health  He was then promoted to Minister for Health (2014-16) where he secured a controversial €1bn increase in the health budget, introduced free un-means-tested GP care for all children under six and seniors over 70, in what were iniquitous policy lurches. He published Ireland’s first ever National Maternity Strategy and secured funding and planning permission for the shifted National Children’s Hospital. He also introduced innovative public health legislation to regulate alcohol pricing and marketing and sought a 20% tax on sugar-sweetened drinks.   Health is never an easy gig but he did not do anything dramatic beyond disposing of his party’s clearest policy – the promise to create a universal health care system, to move away from the invidious “two-tier” health system. Remarkably, he never had to explain what he was replacing it with. It’s not evident he even thought that the particular principle, or indeed having a principle, was of any significance. The issue is only now being addressed under the fangled ‘Sláintecare’, though with a long horizon.   The HSE too, in accordance with policy, was supposed to be abolished by 2020, though beyond a “healthcare commissioning agency” it was not clear by what it would be replaced. This did not happen, anyway, and it remains very much with us, a blotch of redundancy for a regime that fancies it is business-like. Some months ago, Minister Simon Harris announced it is to become a strategy and standards body supplemented by six regional health boards, not unlike those that predated the HSE’s establishment.   Varadkar also seems to have had little problem with the entitlements of professionals and, as Minister, announced the restoration of €12,000 for consultants who backed the Haddington Road and Lansdowne Road agreements. Of course, the indulgence of the entitled elite really re-emerged when complacency about the economy set in a few years later.  In late 2019 Health Minister Simon Harris proposed that hospital consultants be offered a salary of up to €252,150, a significant increase on the rates currently applying to post-2012 consultants, under a new public-only consultant contract which prohibits private practice either on or off-site. It seems reasonable

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    Protesting and sublime.

    Review:  Derek Jarman at IMMA. By Noelle English. Derek Jarman was a bombshell in the 1980s.  As an artist, filmmaker and gay activist, he made music videos for The Smiths, Marc Almond, The Pet Shop Boys and others.  His film ‘Jubilee’’s representation of punk so outraged Vivienne Westwood, one of its progenitors, that she designed a t-shirt in protest.  In the face of tabloid homophobia, he worked to educate and normalise the discourse about gay sex. He won Alternative Miss World in 1975 and was the first public figure to openly battle HIV and at a time when AIDS patients were still vilified and feared.   The most surprising thing about the PROTEST! exhibition of Jarman’s work currently showing at IMMA is that the artist’s fame as filmmaker and as activist is outweighed by the sublime impact of his lesser-known paintings.  In an interview with John Cartwright shortly before his death, Jarman said that he was a painter first and a filmmaker by accident: I never thought of myself as a film director I have to say that.  Canvasses are much more private and it was great to paint but every now and again it was more fun to have a lot of people around and so the element of having a party in my filmmaking is very important and anyone would come along and I would try to give them a good day.  It’s happy work. The quiet beauty of his 1960s geometric landscapes of Avebury Henge testifies to this painterly instinct.  These contrast dramatically with his series of Black Paintings from the early 1980s when, in the face of Thatcherism, Jarman’s anger and defiance explode through the widespread use of black pigment, this time over gold leaf to create a chiaroscuro effect in an explicit celebration of his sexuality.  His scathing rejection of homophobia and his campaign to educate the public about homosexuality is exquisitely articulated in NRLA (Third Eye) Installation where we see a buoyant Jarman leading the audience through his own 1989 exhibition in Glasgow. .  Most remarkable and moving, however, are the ‘Slogan Paintings’ which were commissioned by the Manchester Art Gallery in 1993, when Jarman was very ill and almost blind.  Here, we see a merging of  art as public protest with the artist’s private reflections on suffering and mortality.  Language and meaning are sublimely brought together in this tactile series of paintings, with each painting’s title scrawled across its surface.  Luscious, fingered swirls of white paint over red in ‘Infection’ are an eloquent depiction of the body under attack.   There are angry, hacking scratches of black and red paints over a series of tabloid pages in ‘Morphine’, playful daubs of green and blue in ‘Dizzy Bitch’, a romantically naïve heart-shape outlined over the title of ‘Queer’, and a bitterly ironic joke driven home in the repeatedly overwritten ‘Fuck Me Blind’.   In the iconic painting ‘Death’, a cross and circle create an archetypal form with words partially hidden underneath its layers of paint, as painter and sloganeer find equilibrium.   In the interview with Cartwright, Jarman said that he was too sick to make any more films and with a sad dignity had resolved to spend the rest of his life painting landscapes. I am much happier painting now.  Karl and I can sit in this room which is a very nice room.  The paintings are just as interesting as the films so it’s not as if one’s taking second best. Derek Jarman PROTEST!, Irish Museum of Modern Art until February 23rd.

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    Electoral fickleness in liquid modernity.

    Change melts political loyalties so parties such as Sinn Féin can only, strategically, aim to generate temporary commonalities. By Ronan Doyle. “The old guard can have yesterday”, tweeted Sinn Féin the day before the general election. “Tomorrow is ours. Vote for change. Vote for Unity”. On that particular morrow sufficient votes were returned to push a post-election narrative that is now centred on political, social and economic change. As for the place of unity, it remains to be seen. Consciously or unconsciously, change is something that we have been prioritising, individually and collectively, for quite some time. Consider the perspective on change afforded Irish citizens currently in their seventies or above: in 1945 two out of three Irish homes did not have electricity or a piped water supply; in the 1946 census 94.3% of citizens in the Republic identified as Roman Catholic, while 97.8% of the 32-county population had been born on the island of Ireland; in 1949 a woman from County Laois was sentenced to death (subsequently commuted to life imprisonment) for poisoning her brother with strychnine – in 1949 this was Ireland’s solitary murder.  The profundity of change that has been implemented and absorbed within living memory sees a twenty-first century Ireland  where the private car, mobile phones and the internet are now effectively ubiquitous; where divorce, same-sex marriage and abortion have been legalised; where kids don’t know how to run or play spontaneously, where, perhaps, the public are being desensitised to violent crime; where the country’s extensive network of water pipes is falling to pieces, in a home to the most dynamic global ‘tech’ companies, one of the richest countries in the world.   All changed utterly. So what exactly is different about the change we’ve been experiencing more recently? The principal difference is seen in the ever-increasing rate and complexity of change: things change much faster than they used to, and more things are changing all the time. With dramatic and continual technological advancements enabling both this escalation and proliferation, many of our most basic value prioritisations are also quite naturally being reshaped.  Not so long ago the institutions of church, state, capitalism and tradition were the bedrock upon which a nation’s people might ‘settle down’, ‘stick to the task’ and individually realise the collective ambition of the pensionable job and a house (or a mortgage) for life. Today, stability and durability betoken a certain stasis: the paralysis of being old-fashioned or incapable of moving with the times, of failing to adequately upskill, upgrade and improve. To be ‘settled’ now can suggest an inability, no matter how unfair, to take proper advantage of the present conditions or to escape situations – professional, social or personal – that have become unsatisfying.  The instability that many of a certain age were conditioned to repel is now something to be nurtured. The most ‘successful’ people now tend to be its most mobile: that is, those with the least restrictive ties; those who can move most easily between spaces, markets and jobs, between people and morals; those, in other words, who are most adaptable to change, as well as their own fluctuating wishes.  The theory of liquid modernity, developed by Polish philosopher and sociologist Zygmunt Bauman, offers an interpretation of contemporary societal conditions that keeps the processes of modernising change at its mutable core. It is not a theory that makes particularly good reading for politicians or, perhaps, for those who elect them to office. On many levels the politician, as stereotypically conceived, would seem preternaturally made for liquid modernity. However, as the rate and complexity of change has increased, so too has the instability inherent in our erstwhile solid socio-political institutions, as well as the necessity for increased mobility to respond to that instability.  If access to data and financial capital denote contemporary power, then power is already flowing away from the old institutions, from Parliament. Borders and boundaries, previously demarcating economic, socio-cultural and political territories, are becoming increasingly porous and inconsequential. There is little to stop the flow or instantaneous movement of power – and the free market does not want it stopped.  For Bauman, as a consequence, power now primarily exists in the largely borderless electronic networks that connect the liquid-modern world.  All of which means that our politicians, and their politics, have  become more bark than bite. The escalation and proliferation of change has also seen an intensification of our very modern tendency toward individualism, including as voters. With the traditional public space increasingly undermined, our personal ambitions and our wishes are now most clearly defined by our own uniquely individual and private circumstances and expectations, which are themselves subject to continual change.  Bauman’s theory suggests that, with things as they are, the kind of collective public unity that Sinn Féin are hoping to mobilise, is actually impossible to develop. The elector, essentially, has become as fickle and unreliable as the elected representative. While the days of inherited loyalty to Fine Gael or Fianna Fáil may well be over, it may also be that the days of sustained loyalty to any political party are over. Rather than wasting time trying to develop faithfully reliable constituencies, the liquid-modern political strategist will identify commonalities that bring people ‘together’ at just the right time – and for just the right amount of time – to deliver results, before the same people disperse again like participants in a Twitterstorm or a brief, collaborative Open Source project.          A concluding reference to The Communist Manifesto seems timely:  “All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses, his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind”. The emergence of a mature left alternative in Ireland will require time. But with the rate of change so fast and so erratic, and with more solids melted than Marx or Engels could ever have predicted, time is the commodity that today feels in shortest supply. It may not be possible to know where change is

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    Review: Hansel and Gretel charms without enchanting

    This production by Theatre Lovett, the Irish National Opera and the Abbey Theatre is fun and artistic, but the opera’s libretto is lost in the woods By Rory O’Sullivan Engelbert Humperdinck (not that one, I’m afraid) produced the opera Hansel and Gretel from four songs he wrote to accompany a puppet show his nieces put on at home. Their mother, his sister, wrote the libretto, and it all premiered in 1893. It was conducted by no less a musician than Richard Strauss, the prelude to whose Also Sprach Zarathustra is instantly recognisable to everyone as the theme of 2001: A Space Odyssey. The opera was a hit and is now the main thing for which Humperdinck is remembered, though he had a full life besides and was an important part of the European musical scene. That said, like virtually every composer of his generation, he wrote in Wagner’s shadow. The music of Hansel and Gretel is mostly a deepening or reworking of folk-themes (e.g. ring-a-ring-a-rosey), but nearly always for Humperdinck to deepen something means to make it sound more like Wagner. The music all has a roundedness, a confidence that the instruments were made expertly by somebody and will sound good if only allowed their full range. Sometimes he makes them wild and dissonant, foreshadowing composers like Schoenberg whom he influenced. When he doesn’t know what to do – usually, in the rare moments when the music is secondary to the libretto – he backslides into Baroque primness: difficult, staccato-y stuff which is impressive in its own way but can feel like the aural equivalent of motion-sickness. In this production Carolyn Dobbin gives a commanding performance as the Witch, but everyone sings well.  The most fundamental problem with Hansel and Gretel as an opera is that, while the score is really very high-brow, the libretto can’t quite find its way up there. This translation by the British librettist David Pountney is usually successful, but the lines rhyme and occasionally they rhyme at all costs. When Gretel (Amy NÍ Fhearraigh) warns Hansel (Raphaela Mangan) against eating the candied-house they have just discovered in the woods, he says “Don’t be a tease / I eat what it sees”. The story, which everyone knows anyway, is so bare-bones that there is not much for the characters to say. ‘We are hungry’, Hansel and Gretel spend too long telling each other at the beginning; then, after they have left, their parents come out and say the same thing. That was most probably why the directors of this production, Muireann Ahern and Louis Lovett of Theatre Lovett, invested much more in the coherence of its atmosphere than its story. It is a co-production of them, the Irish National Opera and the Abbey, but it is they who add the professionalism and the know-how to make it a rewarding piece of theatre. For example, the whole set is the exterior of a dingy, run-down hotel on the edge of the story’s forest. It’s a dangerous conceit, since it involves forcing Hansel and Gretel to sing about being in a forest when they are obviously still in front of a hotel. But it creates a mood, and allows the show to take on a few themes: emotional and atmospheric arguments that challenge the audience intellectually.   For example, there is nearly an entire second play arranged around the opera, a dumb show between the scenes and set to music. It is often better than the opera itself because of its sense of atmosphere. In the Abbey’s Directors’ interview, Louis Lovett says that the show tries to “straddle the world between the fairytale and the modern”: that is, that it is all a mystery. But performers rarely understand that something can never be ‘about’ mystery, since ‘mystery’ is simply the thing you experience and never the thematic or emotional label for it. The dumb show therefore is really about exploring how it feels to encounter what you do not know, and its answer as varied as the notes of a violin.  The whole opera is supposed to be child-friendly (or as child-friendly as an opera can be) and sometimes that leads the show too easily to the blank feeling of ‘wonder,’ but more often it lets the music draw its own complex shapes, and there is an arc of reason and emotion in those. The slow-reveal at the beginning where the musicians walk out, take up and begin playing their instruments is the sort of thing that’s often-done and usually tedious. Here it isn’t: it’s absorbing, and atmospheric, livened by the performance of Raymond Keane as the silent “Night Watchman”. He arranges everything in the background with an air of supernatural mystery and some jokes. Every scene in the show is better for his being in it. But my sense is that even with all these complications, Hansel and Gretel lets everyone off too easily. The witch comes along and is effortlessly dispatched; her past victims are resurrected amid confusion; Hansel and Gretel’s parents find them, and all are suddenly a happy family. Nothing much ever feels like it is at stake in the opera, and without that its power to affect any audience is shackled. But overall, this particular production is clever and genuinely works as a piece of art. I’ll await the day Theatre Lovett decide to do Tosca.

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    Review: Medea’s incomprehensible crime

    The new production at the Gate makes Medea’s children more than mere victims By Anna Mulligan Like the play itself, the set for Oonagh Murphy’s Medea walks the line between the mundane and the mythic. The children have a teddy bear named Hercules, and the play takes place in a bedroom whose sloping sides, rising inwards, give the impression of an attic or a crawl space. At the apex is a kind of hovering wooden grid, as if the technicolour bedroom is not an attic but a dungeon, an oubliette, where Medea’s two children have been forgotten.  This might be a reference to the eyes of the gods, watching as they might in Euripides’ play, from a safe distance. It’s hard to know; the play draws on its myths indirectly in ambiguous flashes of memory, as when Medea’s children (played on this particular night by Oscar Butler and Jude Lynch) loosely re-tell the contours of their father Jason’s adventures, passing the time in their locked bedroom. Murphy’s new version of Medea is effectively a retelling of the old story from the children’s point of view. While we wait in the locked room for the play’s titular character, the boys summarise, speculate about and replay the story of their parents. At one point, while fighting, the younger brother uses magic to escape the boundary of “his side of the room” and play keep-away with the golden fleece, until the elder makes a false promise to take it back, his fingers crossed. Medea and Jason’s magic and betrayal come up in their spat, but not in the children’s telling of the parental love story, which one boy says was a “win-win” – Jason got the fleece, Medea got to leave home, they both found love. No harm, no foul. The two young actors shine from the beginning of our time with them, when they act out a series of death games. First they try to play dead, quietly, for as long as possible, and then they take turns choosing their own death – shot by a nerf gun, mauled by a bear, hit by an arrow and then dead of a seizure. The games are edgily acted, comic and unnerving without being heavy-handed in their foreshadowing of the deaths that the audience knows are coming anyway.  There were times in this early section when I thought I was waiting for Medea, as the titular character and one who generally dominates any story she populates, but the strength of the script is that I was not. When Medea did arrive, there were times when I felt she was a distraction from the main event of the brothers’ story, which is a testament to the reframing achieved by Mulvaney and Sarks. The play returns in the meandering of the children’s reflections towards death, and whether dead things count; towards being small, and whether small people count. The adults in Medea are playing games with the children, but the play itself takes them seriously on their own terms – their skills, their questions, the deaths they choose for themselves, which are for laughs. Over and again the boys run full tilt into the locked door, rattling the handle, showing us that they are not by choice narrative footnotes. Not long before the climax of the plot, they have a contemplative conversation about the meaningfulness of being small – as small as specks, compared to the glow-in-the-dark stars papering their ceiling – but when they have drunk Medea’s poison, as instructed, she won’t let them lie back down in that corner, and die looking at the stars. It’s at this point that Eileen Walsh’s character of Medea breaks through her lyrical and sentimental register into a rage until they stand up and allow themselves to be dressed and staged by her, so that they die in her arms. Medea’s character is a difficult needle to thread; the play struggles with her. We meet her dressed for distress in her pyjamas, dishevelled, telegraphing her tortured love for her children, her bitterness with Jason, her despair at the prospect of returning home to her father. None of it rings true: her singsong declarations of eternal love for them do not feel authentic, but neither do her moments of stagey bitterness and resolve in planning the death of Jason’s new love seem any truer at their core. Her moment of rage when the children resist her cajoling is a moment of clarity – but what does it mean? The crime no one can make sense of is still the crime no one can make sense of. Walsh’s Medea tries on different motives, but does not commit. Is she turning to murder to avoid returning to Colchis? Is she destroying the thing – the people – that she thinks Jason wants and cares for the most? Is she attacking the evidence of her life with Jason, now destroyed? Is she bored? She stages the crime for Jason by taking the children from their contemplation in the dark among the stars to a beam of light from the finally open door, locked for so much of the action. She’s not hiding them; they are to be displayed. In this way, the play’s conclusion is intentionally inconclusive; neither she nor the audience get to see the look on Jason’s face when he understands whatever it is she wants him to understand. Jason’s absence is deeply felt in the bedroom, where his golden fleece – now a purloined jumper that still smells of him, kept in a drawer – is lovingly cradled.In Jason’s absence, the children are not needed outside the bedroom; Medea visits them to update them on their status in the acrimonious separation. This is the thematic heart of the new Medea; the children, forgotten, are trapped by the weight of our captivation with heroes and demigods like Jason and Medea, whose children are pawns and cannot escape. The contemporary framing – the bickering of the shared bedroom, the word

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    The election’s unspoken issue

    Many reproductive rights will depend on who is in power for the next few years By Neasa Candon General Election 2020 has seen almost no discussion about how to build upon last year’s Yes vote and achieve equal access to free, safe and legal abortion services for all living in Ireland. In the lifetime of the next government, the incoming Minister for Health will review the legislation currently regulating abortion services in Ireland, the Health (Regulation of Termination of Pregnancy) Act 2018. Consensus  analysis of polling data suggests that, without a left-swing strong enough to win the 27 seats needed for a broad-left coalition, there is a high chance that the emerging government will be led by Fianna Fáil. Given the large proportion of anti-choice voices in Fianna Fáil, the junior party, or parties, of a coalition government would face significant resistance to the much-needed furthering of  access to abortion care. Resisting Repeal Although Micheál Martin advocated a Yes vote in the lead-up to the referendum to repeal the Eighth Amendment, he has spoken publicly of his personal conflict in abandoning his long-standing anti-choice stance. Martin’s decision caused conniptions in Fianna Fáil, which had voted to retain the Eighth Amendment at its 2017 Ard Fheis. Fianna Fáil continues to allowed freedom of conscience on the issue of abortion. The withholding of the party whip was probably a strategic decision by Martin, given that 31 of the 57 Fianna Fáil TDs and Senators campaigned against a Yes vote in the 2018 referendum. If elected Taoiseach, it is very uncertain that Martin would introduce any measures facilitating access to abortion care, which would further destabilise his leadership. Fianna Fáil’s one hundred and fifty-two page manifesto sees only one reference to reproductive healthcare, as distinct from maternity care: it is about ensuring the availability of anomaly scans in all maternity hospitals. This one commitment does, at least, feature on the National Women’s Council of Ireland’s (NWCI) ‘Feminist Ireland Manifesto 2020’, and is echoed by Sinn Féin, which  promises staff and equipment along with access to foetal anomaly screenings in all hospitals. ‘No one left behind’ In choosing the theme ‘No one left behind’ for the September 2019 March for Choice, the Abortion Rights Campaign (ARC) drew attention to the large number of people in Ireland who, despite the legalisation of abortion, still cannot get access to a termination. The homogenised, top-down ‘Together for Yes’ campaign arguably reduced both the terms and the outcome of the Repeal referendum to a vague ‘right to choose’. Moralised debates in mainstream media, led by politicians and public figures in place of grassroots campaigners, failed to address the provisions necessary to overcome specific barriers to accessing healthcare. As a result, the Health (Regulation of Termination of Pregnancy) Act 2018 has instituted a ‘right to choose’, without the provisions, additional supports and legislative nuance required to ensure that this right can be vindicated by all. In campaigning for Repeal, and reproductive justice more generally, activists highlighted the distinct barriers to travelling abroad for abortion imposed by a person’s ability, medical needs, legal status, poverty, race/ethnicity, and rural location. Most, if not all, of these barriers have persisted since the legalisation of abortion. The suggested policy responses to each of these barriers, as detailed in party manifestos, are discussed below.  Direct Exclusion The wording of section 62 of the Health (Regulation of Termination of Pregnancy) Act 2018 is deliberately restrictive in promising abortion services to those “who are ordinarily resident in the State”. Undocumented migrants are excluded from the category of ‘ordinarily resident’, despite the fact that, like the large population of undocumented Irish in the US, most undocumented migrants have lived in Ireland for several years. Complex visa regimes cause many people to become undocumented, and may result in significant periods of time spent in precarious legal situations. The activist group, Migrants and Ethnic Minorities for Reproductive Justice (MERJ), were recently contacted by a pregnant woman in the process of renewing her visa, who was afraid to contact her GP as she was undocumented during that time. While awaiting visa renewal, she passed the 12-week limit for abortion access in Ireland.  Undocumented people are caught in a triple-bind. Seeking medical assistance can risk exposure and legal ramifications, including deportation; the cost of an abortion and other healthcare in Ireland is uncertain; and their legal status restricts their ability to travel. The overlap between health and migration policies here further demonstrates that manifesto policies cannot be read in a vacuum. For example, while Fine Gael refer to the National Intercultural Health Strategy 2018-2023, and their commitment to “enhance access” for “those from diverse ethnic, cultural and religious backgrounds”, this would not remove the ‘ordinarily resident’ criteria. The party pledge to consider the regularisation of undocumented children only. Despite committing to healthcare “free at the point of use” for “everyone”, Sinn Féin then makes reference to “entitlements to health care for citizens”. Regularisation of undocumented migrants is not mentioned in the party’s manifesto, and so it is unclear whether the ‘ordinarily resident’ criteria would be relaxed.  The Green Party and Social Democrats support regularisation for all, while labour support regularisation undocumented migrants who are children or ‘adult workers’. People Before Profit commit to a single-tier healthcare system “free at the point of use”, the eligibility criteria for which are not outlined. Fianna Fáil make reference to ‘integration’, but their manifesto lacks a right-based framework, and makes no reference to undocumented migrants. Safe Access Zones Along with contraception, Fine Gael’s only other reference to reproductive healthcare, as distinct from maternity services, is the introduction of ‘safe access zones’. However, the Irish Council of Civil Liberties (ICCL) have criticised Fine Gael’s delay in enacting this legislation, noting that Safe Access Zones were first promised by Minister for Health Simon Harris in December 2018.  Safe access zones legally restrict activities, such as protests or displays of distressing imagery, outside abortion service providers. Following demonstrations outside Holles Street maternity hospital on New Year’s day,

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