Playwright Samuel Beckett (1906-1989) embracing actor Jack McGowan at a first night performance, 1970. Photo: Getty
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Mark Lawson: Happy days in the town of Samuel Beckett’s childhood

For the past three years, an international Beckett festival in Enniskillen has attempted to establish a more positive Google footprint alongside the one established by the IRA bombing at the town’s cenotaph in 1987.

The three most obvious locations for a festival devoted to Samuel Beckett (1906-89) would be Dublin (his birthplace), Paris (where he lived for most of his adult life) and Nowhere, which is broadly the setting for plays such as Waiting for Godot and Happy Days. However, the writer attended Portora Royal School in the Northern Irish town of Enniskillen and, for the past three years, an international Beckett festival there has attempted to establish a more positive Google footprint alongside the one established by the IRA bombing massacre at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Day in 1987.

The Nobel Prize-winner’s ghost might be bemused by barbershops offering “Beckett haircuts” – a tight crop, ideally steel-grey – but he would surely have enjoyed a rare ironic and allusive use of the words “Happy Days” on the front of a tourist brochure. And the festival, directed by Sean Doran, a former artistic director of English National Opera, attends inventively to his legacy, with the addition of some new elements – an imported international star, an irregular venue – to work that is likely to be familiar to the target clientele.

This year, Klaus Maria Brandauer made his Irish stage debut in Krapp’s Last Tape. His use of a German text (with English surtitles) had the effect, for an anglophone audience, of directing attention away from the two sets of words – the 69-year-old Krapp in his den, listening to a diary he recorded as a love-struck young man – and towards Beckett’s vivid visual sense, emphasised by Brandauer’s startling, clown-like appearance, with wings of fly­away hair, a swollen drinker’s nose and oversize boots.

My initial reaction was that the actor had sartorially elided Krapp with the dress sense of the tramps Vladimir and Estragon in Waiting for Godot but a later check of the text revealed that he was dressed exactly as specified: perhaps a sensible precaution, as the author’s nephew and executor, Edward Beckett, was in town and the estate has been known to block productions that subvert the words even slightly.

Brandauer also makes the greatest verbal distinction I have heard between the older voice – a high, second-childhood whine – and the strutting younger one. Under the direction of Peter Stein, this was probably the most surprising revelation to come out of Northern Ireland since Rory McIlroy.

The minimalism of late Beckett necessitates some cunning extension of running times. The hour allocated to the world premiere of the English-language version of Catastrophe included a mystery coach tour, winding high through the hills of County Fermanagh, passing through villages where Union flags were punctuated by Irish tricolours. A local told me that Israeli and Palestinian flags have also been flown, the loyalist and republican communities respectively siding with what they see as tribes whose plight echoes their own.

Eventually we arrived at Pubble Church, a disused place of worship dating back more than 1,000 years. On the abandoned altar, a cast under the direction of the Enniskillen-born actor Adrian Dunbar (best known, perhaps, for Line of Duty) played the slight but resonant Catastrophe, which involves the final touches to a human sculpture.

As The Complete Dramatic Works contains only 32 pieces, some barely a minute long, a festival entirely dedicated to Beckett would soon run out of material, so Doran has broadened the programme with works such as Roaratorio, a sound-and-dance piece by John Cage and Merce Cunningham, which was suggested by Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, a book also echoed in Beckett.

In future years, I would like to see some exploration of Beckett’s perhaps surprising level of influence on British TV sitcoms. The writer David Renwick has acknowledged that the dramatist was an inspiration for the fascination with the boredom of daily existence that underlies One Foot in the Grave and specifically for an episode in which Victor Meldrew is, like Winnie in Happy Days, buried up to his neck.

Happy Days is also the name of the American TV comedy series but that title is non-ironic and can’t be attributed to the former Enniskillen student.

 

Quick suffix

Reports on both the Islamic State jihadists in Iraq and the so-called Trojan Horse plot to impose hardline Muslim teaching in Birmingham schools have featured much use of the word “Islamist” to describe the ideology of the agitators. The term suggests that their behaviour and beliefs are a perversion of the Islamic faith.

Linguistically, though, the usage seems confused. A Marxist is someone who follows the teachings of Marx and a feminist believes in female equality but an Islamist is someone who has deviated from Islam.

What the linguistic police mean is “Islam-ish” but that sounds comically reductive, recalling Jonathan Miller’s joke about being “Jew-ish”. However, the problems of avoiding offence were shown when a BBC reporter recently referred to “Islamist fundamentalists”, a construction in which the same suffix is employed to suggest that they aren’t the former but are the latter. 

Mark Lawson is a journalist and broadcaster, best known for presenting Front Row on Radio 4 for 16 years. He writes a weekly column in the critics section of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 13 August 2014 issue of the New Statesman, A century of meddling in the Middle East

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism