Reading Brendan Behan, by John McCourt

Earlier this evening, I had the great privilege of launching a new book about Brendan Behan, edited by John McCourt and published by Cork University Press. The launch happened as part of this year’s IASIL conference, which is happening at Trinity College Dublin.

I’d put together some speaking notes beforehand and have written them up here in the hope of letting more people know how important and timely this new book is. Obviously these were written to be read aloud (and were promptly ditched once I reached the podium) but I hope they’ll do some justice to it.

Image result for behan cork university press


It is probably uncontroversial to say that we think that we know a lot about Brendan Behan the man – and that, as a result of our familiarity with him, we also think we know a lot about Brendan Behan the writer – or, as he called himself, Brendan Behan the drinker with a writing problem.  The eleven essays in this book show us that we’re wrong on both counts: we need to look again at the biographical details of his life but we also need to look past them, so as to see the value of his writing in new ways.

The book also shows that despite his fame, or his infamy in the eyes of some, Behan has become a neglected Irish writer. We have continued to see plays about Behan, such as Brendan at the Chelsea with Adrian Dunbar. And his work continues to be staged in smaller venues. Nevertheless, it is important to observe that the last production of The Quare Fellow at the Abbey was in 1984, and of The Hostage in 1996. The last full-length book on his work was John Brannigan’s study from 2002, and while Behan has not been ignored in subsequent years, nor has he been essential in the way that someone like Flann O’Brien has become. And given how much the study of Irish literature has changed in the last 20 years – and given also how Irish theatre practice has changed during the same period too – this feels like a very regrettable oversight.

There are many ways in which the authors in the book set out to rectify that oversight, but I’d like to highlight just a few of the things that I most appreciated.

The first is that several of the essays explore the persistence of a confusion between Behan the man and Behan the character – something that was a problem even within his own lifetime. Derek Hand points out that, from an early stage, Behan was a character not just in his own memoir The Borstal Boy but that he was also appearing in other people’s books, The Ginger Man being possibly the earliest example.

Paul Fagan makes a similar point when he gives a detailed account of how Behan appeared in Flann O’Brien’s Cruiskeen Lawn columns – a highlight of which was a fake presidential campaign in which Behan went up against Myles na Gopaleen for the presidency of Ireland – a set of writings that, in their absurdity, seem  prescient of our own times, when all manner of people can become presidents or prime ministers.

As John McCourt states, Behan’s writing is autobiographical, but treacherously so – and for this reason it’s particularly valuable to encounter Maria diBattista’s chapter, which calls for us to read Borstal Boy as we would a novel, something she does herself, teasing out its links with Woolf’s Orlando and Wilde’s De Profundis.

In fact, Oscar Wilde figures prominently in the book as a touchstone for Behan, and this points us towards a second reason to appreciate it. In the study of Irish theatre, the theme of homosexuality has been explored in great depth during the last decade, particularly as a result of the work of Fintan Walsh. But our awareness of Behan’s sexuality – and of his conception of himself as what we might now call a queer writer – has not caught up with the scholarship. Again the essays on Borstal Boy are fascinating here, in particular one by Michael Cronin that is directly focused on sexuality in that book. I was also intrigued by Riona Ni Fhrigl’s reading of Behan’s rish language poetry in terms of sexuality: she notes, for example, that he characterizes the Irish language as male rather than female in one of his poems, something that can be viewed as deliberately transgressive, and which can be seen as representing a coded homoeroticism that is evident elsewhere in his writings.

We also need to think again about how to situate Behan as a writer, while also being mindful of the fact that he resists categorization. It’s become perfectly acceptable for us to see Beckett as both European modernist and as enamoured of the Irish Music Hall tradition but we haven’t often seen a willingness to do the same for Behan. Here, several of the essays mention the importance of Paris to Behan, both personally and aesthetically: in a wide-ranging essay, John Brannigan points out his interest in existentialism, for example, while also revealing that Behan’s The Big House played at the Pike in a double bill with a play by Jean Paul Sartre. That essay also shows that there’s more to be said about Behan’s republicanism too.

In a similar vein, Deirdre McMahon calls for us to see Behan’s writing as an example of late modernism – something that the book’s essays on Flann O’Brien and James Joyce also make clear. Implicit in this argument is a way for us to think about producing Behan again. As Deirdre points out, Behan’s plays have become trapped in a style of naturalistic representation. A focus on their modernism, or even their postmodernism, could make them feel new for audiences – but might also give us more faithful versions of the plays. The same can be said of the prose; Derek Hand makes the case that the popularity of kitchen sink realism in the 1950s has overdetermined our understanding of The Borstal Boy.

We could also think again about what we mean when we talk about “Behan’s plays”. Michael Pierse offers an important essay that shows that the script of Richard’s Cork Leg that has been handed down to us is not necessarily the best version of the text. We also have two excellent essays that address the long-running question of the relationship between An Giall and The Hostage, and both essays resist the idea that the Irish language version is an authentic original that The Hostage betrays. I was very grateful for Cliona Ni Riordan’s suggestion that both plays can exist side-by-side, while Michael Mac Craith compares An Giall with L’Aube by Ellie Wiesel as works that subvert the notion that the English soldier must always be the enemy, thereby showing the possibilities offered by a comparative approach.

This book wants us to look at the full span of Behan’s writing, in both Irish and English, and displays the benefits of doing so. It also shows that we need to reconstitute our sense of that oeuvre. We need a new edition of the collected plays, a new edition of the Irish language poetry, and more. We also need to start staging the plays more often.

I want to congratulate Cork University Press for doing such a great job with the production. As always, it’s beautifully produced, competitively priced, and easy to read – and unlike almost every other academic publication I have read recently I could find no typos…

I also want to congratulate John McCourt for his exemplary editorial work. His contributors come from a range of career stages, from PhD to retired, and from a variety of national, linguistic and disciplinary contexts. While all of the essays show their authors’ distinctive styles and preoccupations, it’s a peculiar strength of the book that it can be read and enjoyed from start to finish as a coherent study that will be equally useful as both an introduction to Behan and as a detailed critique for those of us who think we know his work well. It’s also a fine example of John’s continuing willingness to shed light on neglected writers, something we’ve seen in his work on Anthony Trollope.

So I  warmly recommend it, and look forward to seeing its impact on scholarship and production during the years ahead.


The other books being launched, by the way, were Faith Binckes and Kathryn Laing, Hannah Lynch 1859–1904: Irish Writer, Cosmopolitan, New Woman and Benjamin Keatinge, ed., Making Integral: Critical Essays on Richard Murphy

Shakespeare and the Modern Irish Theatre

Staging Anglo-Irish Relations from the Easter Rising to Brexit (Spring 2019 Burns Lecture, Boston College)

Earlier this year, I had the great privilege of acting as the 2019 Burns Visiting Scholar at Boston College. As part of my visit I gave a public lecture on Shakespeare and the Modern Irish Theatre – my suggestion being that performances of Shakespeare have been used throughout our history as a way of thinking about the relationships between England and Ireland. It’s a wide ranging lecture that includes references to everyone from Yeats and Gregory to Orson Welles to Fiona Shaw and beyond.

Thanks to the Burns Library for posting the lecture online – as below:

Room by Emma Donoghue at the Abbey

So last night I attended the opening of Emma Donoghue’s Room, the stage adaptation of her 2010 novel which later became an Oscar-winning film. It’s an interesting production, one that allowed me to pull together a lot of thoughts about this year’s Abbey season, while also raising issues in its own right.

When the Abbey’s new programme was announced, it was generally greeted with excitement, I think. The stage was being opened out to other Irish companies, there were interesting new productions to look forward to, and there was also the prospect of work by major artists like Lisa Dwan and John Tiffany. So all very good.

But there were reservations evident here and there, mostly on social media, and mostly asking one question: why were there so many adaptations? From No’s Knife to Room and on to Let the Right One In, we’re seeing plays being created out of works that existed in other media first – a development that  follows on from Marina Carr’s Anna Karenina at the Abbey last year, while also being mirrored in Selina Cartmell’s first programme at the Gate, which includes adaptations of The Great Gatsby, The Red Shoes and The Snapper. And the implication in some of those comments was that we were losing out in some way by being presented with such work.

But I’ve never really understood the prejudice against adaptations, which, apart from anything else, seems to ignore a lot of the history of Irish theatre. From its inception, the Abbey staged plays that took stories from one medium and placed them in another: even on its opening night it gave us On Baile’s Strand, an adaptation of Irish legend – followed later by Lady Gregory’s versions of Moliere, Yeats’s Oedipus, and many other versions and adaptations. We might also argue that what Synge did in writing Shadow of the Glen was a form of adaptation: he took an oral folktale and refashioned it for live performance. So I don’t think we should see this year as representing a major departure from the norm. Yes, it’s probably unusual that 2017 will pass without a play by Friel or Murphy or O’Casey or Synge at the Abbey. But we haven’t been starved of work by those writers and presumably haven’t heard the last of them either.

Internationally, there seems to be a much greater acceptance of adaptations, albeit that their prominence is driven partly by producers’ desire to manage risk by giving audiences already familiar stories. So right now we have 1984 on Broadway, for example – not to mention the multiple musicals that bring so-so Hollywood movies to the stage. But we can also point to companies like Shared Experience or Elevator Repair Service, which have found ways of giving theatrical life to well known novels. So there doesn’t seem to be quite the same level of resistance to adaptations elsewhere in the English-speaking world. (I should add here that there are many examples of adaptations on our own stages too at present – CyclopsThe LadykillersOnce the Musical and other productions.)

I also think there is an interesting coherence to this year’s Abbey programme, which, it’s becoming increasingly evident, focusses on the theme of entrapment. There’s a link to be drawn between Walsh’s Ballyturk and Arlington on the one hand and Room on the other: indeed, the conclusion of Ballyturk drew direct comparisons with Room when it premiered, and both can be linked back to the Fritzl case in Austria. But that theme of entrapment runs through the other productions: it’s there in Godot (“we’re not tied?”) and No’s Knife, and also is an important presence in Katie Roche and Let the Right One In. Even Ulysses is about entrapment: it’s about Molly in the bedroom, about the nets that Stephen needs to fly past, about the nightmare of history that he wants to awake from, about the idea of Dublin as a kind of Room that Bloom and Stephen keep circling,  like the double act in Ballyturk. The idea of marriage as a trap also runs through these plays (especially in Ulysses and Katie Roche), and it will be interesting to see how the presentation of Katie speaks to the performance of Molly Bloom when both characters appear at the theatre.

And perhaps in this programme there’s a subtle declaration of intent in relation to the Abbey itself. Enda Walsh’s various rooms have always seemed like metaphors for the theatre itself, the sense of entrapment felt by the characters acting as emblems of Walsh’s  willingness to push against theatrical form. It’s interesting that the first year of the new directors’ Abbey programme is all about the frustration of being confined to one space. The opening of Jimmy’s Hall in Leitrim and the national tour of Two Pints can be seen as evidence of a desire to get out of the Abbey in much the same way that many of the characters on the main stage this year are seeking to break free of their own boundaries.

Or maybe I’m reading too much into things.

But in any case, Room feels at home at the Abbey, both thematically and in the context of the theatre’s history and its possible futures. It is, it’s important to say, an international co-production, with lines delivered in English accents – and so there isn’t quite the sense of a community being in conversation with itself that was evident with, say, Ballyturk (which in its Galway premiere drew immediate comparisons to the Tuam Babies case). Instead, we are introduced to interesting non-Irish voices in the acting company – while also encountering the work of two excellent international designers in Lily Arnold and Andrezej Goulding. But the production does hit home (in all senses of that phrase) in another way: it’s a play by a female Irish author on our national theatre’s main stage. It would be great if it led to a re-evaluation (and revival) of Donoghue’s many stage plays, which are known less well than her novels.

But the key question for any adaptation is whether it is a success in the new medium in its own right  or whether it seems derivative of the original. What’s interesting about Room is that there are times when it is both of those things.

I’m sure somebody somewhere has probably written about the difficulty of adapting novels written from a first person point of view for the stage (as opposed to adapting third person narratives such as Anna Karenina or Les Miserables). The simplest and most common way of doing this is simply to put an actor on stage and have him or her tell the story directly to us. This is how Beckett’s prose has been performed, and it is what Annie Ryan did for A Girl Is A Half Formed Thing, for example.

But adapting the narrative is a major challenge for Room, which in the original is told from the point of view of the five-year-old boy, Jack, who is trapped in the Room with his mother. The brilliance of the novel lies in the extent to which we as adults know more about what is happening than the narrator himself does: we fill in blanks, place things in a moral or social context that the boy himself is too young to comprehend. And along the way we also see the world from the perspective of the child.

The novel thus captures how one of the gifts offered by parenthood is that our children allow us to learn about the world a second time, when we see it newly through their eyes (this is also one of the things that reading great novels can do for us). Room has the same gift to offer, allowing us to learn again the nature of reality as seen through the eyes of Jack. The book is both moving and revelatory from the extent to which it makes everyday things unfamiliar to us, and new again.

Staging the story means that we leave the boy’s mind and see the action instead as a representation of “reality”, with Jack’s perspective one of many that are dramatized in the play. In removing some of the interpretative burden from the audience, Donoghue  risks making the action seem excessively literal, then – a problem that she attempts to address by placing onstage an adult actor who is a version of Jack’s inner self. His actions mirror Jack’s emotional state, and he often narrates Jack’s unspoken thoughts and feelings, saying them directly out to the audience. He is in many ways a theatricalisation of Jack’s point of view from the novel.

Perhaps he could be described as something of a cross between two Friel characters: Gar Private from Philadelphia, Here I Come! and Michael from Dancing at Lughnasa. But he’s never quite one or the other. He’s not an adult looking back on his memories (as in Lughnasa). But because the role is played by an adult, he doesn’t feel like a private version of Jack either. One of the things that is significant about Donoghue’s child narrator of the novel is that (unlike Gar in Philadelphia) there is not a huge schism between his public and private self: one of the forms of violence that Old Nick inflicts upon him and his mother is to make that distinction between inside and outside seem null and void. Ultimately the presence of the adult version of Jack feels like it arises from a perceived need to have someone on stage who can enact elements of the story that are too complex for the child actors to perform. This feels like a compromise rather than an inherently necessary part of the theatrical composition.

Setting that aside, perhaps the most surprising element of the adaptation is the inclusion of a number of songs, which are performed to a recorded backing track. To be clear, this is not Room – the Musical, if only because in musical theatre the creation and refinement of musical motifs becomes a key part of the storytelling and character development, whereas here the songs feel incidental or contextual. But it is a play with songs. And that feels very strange, given the subject matter.


A problem with these songs, for me anyway, was their use at times that often felt very inappropriate, including most notably in a scene in which Old Nick rapes Ma while Jack hides in a wardrobe. We see Old Nick arrive, remove his boots, engage in threatening chitchat, and get into bed. And then Jack (in the wardrobe) begins to count the squeaks of the bed’s springs. It’s a difficult scene to watch.

Midway through these events, though, the actor playing Ma breaks into song. And while I believe we were intended to see this moment as indicating Ma’s resilience and determination to survive – and her ability to separate herself from what was happening as a way of surviving – it felt inappropriate to the context. I think audience-members will have a variety of views on this scene, some positive and some negative. But one criticism could be that it risks inhibiting our apprehension of the full horror of what is being done to Ma. I was not ungrateful for that distraction last night, because I’ve read the book and didn’t particularly want to live with those experiences again. But I felt that the original novel made more demands upon us as readers.

I’m not suggesting that any subject should be off-limits for musical performance onstage: there is a fully orchestrated and choreographed scene of sexual assault in West Side Story, for example, while the song “Hello Little Girl” from Into the Woods plays very dangerously with multiple taboos around children and sexuality. But the reason those songs are effective is that they’re situated contextually, both in relation to the music and the characterisation. It may well be a failing on my part but I couldn’t work out what the songs were doing in Room or why they were needed.

And yet – there were moments last night when the production was outstandingly good. The use of projections on a rotating stage gives us a sense of the interior life of Jack (while also helping to mitigate some of the bleakness of the story). And notwithstanding my criticisms of the use of song, I was impressed by the exceptional sensitivity and integrity displayed in the treatment of the child actor who is present during the scene (mentioned above) when Old Nick rapes Ma. As in the original novel, it’s a movingly honest portrait of parenthood: of what we as parents give our children – and of what we receive from them – and of what we sometimes take from them too. It represents the simple human truth that parenthood involves a gradual letting go, an act that is both painful and a source of happiness. The honesty and insight in evidence here will resonate wherever this play is performed.

It’s also a play that deals fascinatingly with the workings of male power. There is the obvious sense in which the lives of Ma and Jack are completely at the mercy of Old Nick, who is as menacing offstage as when he is present (his cutting off of Room’s electricity, for example, is an act of intimidation that is partly fuelled by his absence: Ma knows that the only thing worse than Old Nick coming back is his never coming back). But that theme is evident too in the relationship between Ma and her own father, a well nuanced figure who initially expresses his outrage against Old Nick for what had been done to “his daughter” – as if the crime was against the father rather than Ma herself. There’s a lot of interesting material to work with here, both for the actors and the audience.

But the production is most successful in the performances by Ma (Witney White) and the three child actors who play Jack (Darmani Eboji, Taye Kassim Junaid-Evans and Harrison Wilding). There’s a very moving physical and emotional intimacy between mother and child, and I have never before seen a child actor carry as much emotional weight on a stage as I saw last night. Here the direction by Cora Bissett has to be praised. There is great eloquence in the choice of movements for Jack – the way he curls up while hiding in the wardrobe, the subtlety of his gradual development of an ability to use stairs in the second half of the play, the growing physicality of his interactions with his grandfather, the careful development of a repertoire of affectionate gestures between him and his grandmother, and so on. At the risk of offering what will surely seem like a backhanded compliment, I thought all of this was so good that the songs could have been cut (or not included in the first place), and I also wondered if the play could have been staged without the adult actor playing Jack (the actor himself is very good, by the way: I’m not criticising his performance). Yes, the total removal of these elements would leave gaps to be filled, and yes the subject matter is already difficult enough as it is and needs to be lightened or mediated in some way. But the strength of this production lies  in our being in the presence of these actors and empathising intimately with them. I wanted to have fewer distractions from that relationship.

And this is where adaptations offer different experiences for audiences. Some people in the theatre last night will have read the book, others will have seen the film, some will have done both, and some will know nothing about the story at all. And inevitably your judgement of the action will be shaped to some extent by whatever version of Room (if any) you have brought with you.

But I don’t think this makes for any kind of second-rate experience. If Room proves anything, it is that we should see adaptations not as a lesser version of original stage plays, nor as being like a faded photocopy of a primary text. Rather, they need to be seen as an instinsic part of our theatrical heritage (especially at the Abbey), as having value in their own right, and as requiring a set of critical tools that will allow us to appreciate them for what they are and what they do. They are not inferior to original plays; they are just slightly different works of art.

So I left the theatre all the more enthused about the prospect of seeing how the rest of the year will pan out, with Gatsby, Jimmy’s Hall, Ulysses,  Let the Right One In, The Red Shoes and many other productions in other theatres on the way. It took me a couple of years after its publication to face up to reading Room, a novel which (like Cormac McCarthy’s The Road) I am glad to have read but will almost certainly never re-read. I would not let any such hesitation stop anyone from going to see this play, however. There is a lot going on here, and while I think it will evoke mixed reactions (it certainly did so last night amongst the people I spoke to or overheard) it also raises important issues about what we stage and how we stage it — about the voices we listen to, the questions we ask, the people we value.

Talking About Thomas Kilroy

I was delighted to recently receive a copy of one of the latest publications from Carysfort Press: Guy Woodward’s edited collection Talking about Thomas Kilroy.

This book collects a series of talks that were given at a Trinity College symposium about Kilroy in 2011 – and although  it is short, it succeeds in capturing well the complexity, depth and importance of the work of one of our most important writers. It’s also a surprisingly enjoyable read: as the title implies, the authors of the papers write in a conversational tone, often moving from incisive critical analysis to revealing anecdote.


For example, Antony Roche recalls attending the premiere of The Death and Resurrection of Mr Roche, the 1968 play that was probably the first Irish drama to feature an explicitly gay character. He’d been brought by his parents, who were, he said “probably drawn … by the curiosity of seeing our name in the title”. The titular Mr Roche is described in the play as ‘the queer of Dunleary’, where the Roches themselves lived at that time. This prompted an acquaintance to approach Tony’s father at the interval: “You kept it well hid boy, wha?” he said.


This is a funny story but as Roche points out, it also reveals how Dublin audiences were willing to accept plays about gay characters (albeit with some reservations).


There’s a similarly revealing anecdote in Nicholas Grene’s essay (which opens the collection), about Kilroy and modernism, in which Grene recalls playing a role in an amateur production of a play about the flight of the earls. “I played the O’Donnell” writes Grene: “my main function was to die of a fever in Rome in the second act, feverishly declaring nostalgic memories of my native Donegal”. Grene remembered little of that play: “’tons of buttermilk’ is the only phrase I can recall of my lines,’ he confesses.


Again this is funny, but Grene uses the anecdote as a jumping off point for a fascinating discussion of Kilroy’s The O’Neill (premiered at the Abbey in 1969), noting its links to Friel’s Making History. He goes on then to survey Kilroy’s work in the context of modernism and Irish modernity, bringing us right up to Kilroy’s wonderful adaptation of Spring Awakening, the 2009 Christ Deliver Us!


The collection also features an essay by Peter Fallon, who has published all of Kilroy’s plays. In addition to offering an interesting account of Fallon’s Gallery Press, he also provides some revealing discussion of Kilroy’s work – which he, like everyone in the book, acknowledges is difficult to categorise. Nevertheless, Fallon suggests that the plays can be seen as representing a “collision between self and social pressure” and, as such, represent “portraits of the artist”. This is a useful way to think about Kilroy’s plays and other writings.


We also have transcripts of two talks, one about reading Kilroy (chaired by Christina Hunt Mahony and given mostly by academics) and the other about directing him (chaired by Emer O’Kelly, and given mostly by practitioners). While I tend to balk at the separation of these two groups from each other, here it works effectively, simply because it demonstrates their shared approach and attitude to Kilroy’s work. There is a clear understanding throughout the book of how his plays demand and reward close reading and are steeped in literary allusion. There’s also a strong awareness throughout of what is often referred to as his theatricality – by which I think the speakers mean his astonishing awareness of theatrical space (in terms of both movement and design), not to mention his ongoing creative conversations with figures such as Chekhov, Ibsen, Wilde and Pirandello.


And, appropriately enough, the collection also features Kilroy himself. There is an essay from him  entitled “the Intellectual on Stage” which I think might also be seen as a “portrait of the artist” even though it explores works by Beckett, Yeats and Shaw. And there is an excerpt from Blake, Kilroy’s as yet unproduced play about the poet of the same name. The collection is rounded out with a transcription of a public interview between Adrian Frazier and Kilroy which (by the way) features a question from our now President Michael D Higgins.


The book can be read and enjoyed in a single sitting; as I hope to have suggested above, it is as entertaining as it is informative. But it also left me wanting more (often the sign of a good academic study). There has been a special edition of Irish University Review dedicated to Kilroy’s work, and Jose Lanters is working on a book about his plays (having heard some of her conference papers on this subject, I think that this is going to have a major impact on the study of Kilroy). There’s also a very good study by Thierry Dubost from 2007 (originally published in French): it deserves to be better known.


For my part, a publication I’d love to see is a collected edition of Kilroy’s critical essays. His “Groundwork for an Irish Theatre” from 1959 is the closest thing we have to a manifesto for the work that would emerge in the 1960s (it also offers several as yet unfulfilled prompts to other practitioners). Some 40 years later, he wrote another essay in Eamonn Jordan’s Theatre Stuff called “A Generation of Playwrights” (originally published in 1992, I think): an essay that looks back on the work of Kilroy and his contemporaries. To read those two essays side-by-side is to form a clearer appreciation of how Irish drama has been shaped in the second half of the twentieth century – and to understand how central Kilroy has been to its shaping. He also has many excellent essays on Synge and Friel, among others.

These essays illustrate one of the things that I most value about Tom Kilroy and his art: he shows that the distinction between the playwright and the intellectual need not be absolute: the roles can be complementary and overlapping.


We’re fortunate in having here at NUI Galway the archive of Kilroy’s works. As the catalogue shows here  it is extraordinarily rich, presenting unpublished plays, drafts of existing work, and much more. The book includes some images from that collection, which give a nice taste of the kind of scholarship (and practice) that might be possible from this archive.

The book is available from Carysfort Press for the relatively modest price of €15; I note that Amazon are also selling it on Kindle for less than £7.




Doodles in Prompt-scripts.

As we’ve been digitising the Abbey Theatre archive here at NUI Galway over the last couple of years, I’ve been reflecting a lot on what constitutes “useful” archival information. For example, I heard last year about a project to digitise theatre programmes, in which the researchers were going to omit the programmes’  advertisements, deeming them uninteresting. Yet I find the ads in Abbey programmes fascinating – if you know what the theatre thought it could sell its patrons in the 1930s (chocolate and engagement rings, mostly), you understand better their programming choices, for example.

Something I’ve been noticing a lot in archives (not just the Abbey) is that when people are working on productions they can sometimes leave traces that have relatively little to do with the show itself. Hence you can find scripts that have phone messages, shopping lists, and the like.

Something that seems to happen quite frequently up to the 1980s is that a lot of prompt scripts (again not just at the Abbey) feature doodles – that is, images drawn, seemingly half-absentmindedly, while a show was underway or about to begin. So for example today I came across this pic in a show from the 1960s:

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Followed by this one:

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Sometimes these doodles are very interesting – there is a great one from the 1920s that appears to be a sketch of FJ McCormick, for instance.

But these pics don’t seem to have any link at all with the show – or at least none that I could determine. Perhaps more research could answer that question.

But they are also interesting in capturing the state of mind of the person who made the picture – you can sometimes get what appears to be a hint of boredom or frustration in these marginal doodles. It would be interesting to try to determine how many prompt scripts feature these kinds of insertions and to try to track that against the reputation of the show. This could be a complete waste of time, of course, but with hundreds of scripts in the Abbey Digital Archive, this kind of ‘big data’ question could be interesting.

As far as I can tell, these kinds of doodles disappear from the 1990s onwards (lest any stage managers out there feel I am attacking their professionalism!)…. But they offer a great example of how interesting apparently useless archival information can be.