Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Thursday, September 08, 2011
“THE FATHER’S HANDS”
by Declan J Connaughton
Originally published Ireland’s Own Sep 9th, 2011
Sean stood alone in the hallway of his newly constructed home, his nose drawing in that particular smell which came from days accompanying his late father to building sites such as this; that peculiar aroma of plaster still in the process of drying out, before it was succeeded by paint and newly laid carpets. It was a clean smell, a finished one.
He walked several adult steps, noting the sheen of the plaster work, before running his hand gently across its surface. There was artistry to it, in the work which had gone into the making of these walls. He could never do it, despite his best efforts and felt regret. The wiring protruded neatly from different places in anticipation of the electrics going in. As he entered what would be his spacious living room, the echoing footfalls upon bare, untreated floors conspired with that sense of smell to infiltrate his memory of childhood so that he was in a similar place, many years past, and had run ahead of his father and was waiting for him to come trudging in behind.
As Sean stood on his own, his minded wondered who the people were who would eventually take up residence here; whether they had children. He looked out through the curtain less window, stained with dust and splotches of dried milky white water on them, into the large back garden. In his minds eye, he could see them running and playing. Maybe they’d even have swings. With a back garden as big as this, he felt sure they would. Probably a slide as well.
There was a bang, as his father stood behind him, having dropped a bucket full of tools.
“This will be a very comfortable room, once it’s finished”, he said, taking in every minute detail of symmetry. Sean smiled and his father walked to the window, both of them looking out now.
“Need a fair sized lawn mower to cut that. I’ll just get the horse and we’ll get started”.
What the boy especially liked was the large ornate fireplace, which had been built with marble, according to his father. White, with small specks of black stained through it. Sean thought they could be like flowers about to bloom, but just as easily have been darkest tears.
“Yeah, top class stuff, all right”, his father said returned with the stand under his arm, which Sean thought was more like a dog or a pig. A horse was a strange thing to call it; it wasn’t big enough. His father loved horses, even owning one once. He wondered where it was now, maybe grazing contentedly away in some field somewhere, without a care in the world. Animals had a great life!
Dad’s horse, the one he carried with him, was just bits of old timber, cobbled together effortlessly, but he half expected it to come to life and start running around the room, with his father chasing after it. The fact that it had been made without any nails made it all the more possible for it to take on real form. Watching his father make things like that, sometimes even taking discarded bits of this and that out of a skip, and setting them to use again, even when people thought it was rubbish, made him seem even more like a magician.
“It’s in the hands”, his father would say, proudly.
Sean wished he could be like that, but wood and nails never came out the right way whenhe tried. He wondered did it make his father disappointed.
Setting the horse down gently, his father lit a cigarette, and then sat down on it for a moment. Blue smoke engulfed the air, creating a dramatic effect on the early morning streams of sunlight which spread their threads across the floor, but also mixing with the other mixture of smells which would stay in the boy’s memory forever.
There was an unspoken camaraderie; the genuine pleasure his father exuded by the mere fact that his son was with him on this particular day. Sean was glad as well, now that they were here, although he would have been just as happy having another turn in the bed at home.
Their day had started at seven o’clock.
Sean had half hoped his father would just slip out without bothering him, just as the hand shook his shoulder, rousing him from his comfortable oblivion. Daylight had begun her early morning ritual and shone weakly through the curtains, as if apologizing in her duty to banish the darkness away and shake working men from their rest. His parents were moving around downstairs now, and Sean could hear them talking and the distinct sound of plates moving about.
The boy clambered out of bed slowly before shuffling his half sleepy way down to the bathroom, where he washed his face and hands, and dressed. Pausing at the top of the staircase, he listened for sound, but knew his sister was soundly and blissfully still in the Land of Nod, having whatever adventures girls had in that fairytale kingdom. As he reached the bottom of the stairs and made his way towards the kitchen, his eye was drawn to the living room on the right, and the television which rested in the gloom, perched high on its shelf which his father had made several years before. He wondered what images were hiding themselves behind its black screen and what would happen if he pressed the on button.
His mother was in her dressing gown and the delicious scent of sausages and rashers greeted his entrance. The radio was talking in the background and a newscaster was informing them all with a grave and serious tone. Sean sat next to his father and began to eat, savouring every bite, relishing the crisp rasher and the way it seemed to make his stomach jump for joy. His father could eat an entire meal in two mouthfuls; and Sean wondered did he even have a chance to taste it. He always seemed in a hurry to begin the day, and, as if knowing what his son was thinking, quickly gulped down his tea. Hi son sipped at his own cup, and slipped an extra spoon of sugar into it when his mother wasn’t watching. This act always made his father smile. The bemusement was on his face now, as he pulled back from the table and headed out into the garage to get the gear needed for job they were going to today. The few moments allowed him time with his mother.
“Looking forward to your day”? she asked, as usual, and good naturedly.
“I suppose”, he replied, with a hint of self pity.
The clock on the wall not declared seven thirty as his father re-emerged into the kitchen.
“Time to go. See you later, Love. Won’t be too late”.
He gave her a peck on the cheek and then both father and son were filing out the front door. Sean smiled weakly back at her and she returned his gesture in sympathy, but was just as glad to be sending bother her men out to work, so she could be alone with her own thoughts and day for a while.
The gear had been taken through the garage and now reclined neatly in the back seat of the car, which now erupted into coughing and wheezing life, before settling down as they pulled off on their journey, winding their way through countryside with an abruptness which always surprised Sean. A thick blanket of ghostly dew rose up from the fields as they passed and it seemed to the boy as if no one was alive yet, just Sean and his father.
Now the water was running from a hose, and his father began mixing the bag of plaster, like a chef creating a cake. He plunged the scutter through the pink coloured molasses, testing its thickness, moving the steel took back and forth and rotating it with his strong wrist, until the right formula had been reach to his satisfaction. Sean felt like dipping his finger in and tasting it, but had made that mistake before, like a puppy with its first encounter with a hedgehog.
“Here, you keep mixing it, and I’ll grab the bucket”.
The steel scutter had a top on it like an outside tap, and ran three feet in length, ending with a circular base which was worked through the plaster paste; refining and smoothing over and over again. Sean was well versed in its use and began the usual routine, his mind wandering again, where he could see himself in a lush forest, on his own, where the songs of birds wound down from the highest tree tops. Completely unburdened.
“You dreaming again”?
His father took the implement from his son and tested the mix, nodding.
“Good enough”, he said, as he dipped the bucket into it, like drawing water from a well.
Once back inside, all Sean had to do was watch, which was fine with him. It had often been commented that his father was a perfectionist, and that word was always said with a hint of fear by other builders who knew him. It was an ominous word but the boy couldn’t have said why, as this stage in his life. Maybe it was because he was one too. His father emptied the contents of the bucket out on the hawk, which he held in one hand, grabbing the trowel in the other, then began turning the great wet and flowing mass this way and that and hopping up on the horse.
Bits of plaster fell here and there, but not much. Sean was transfixed, watching his father’s trowel glide like a great painter, laying a smooth canvass of rich and delicate plaster, creating something immaculate. Lovingly but with authority, jumping down and moving this way and that with his foot, amazingly fast, but with the grace and agility which came from a gift bestowed by God.
When his father was finished he sat down and lit another cigarette, his eyes intense and dancing. He squashed the half finished cigarette under his boot.
“Ah, it’ll dry out okay”, was his comment.
Sean was back in the present, trying to survey his surroundings with his father’s eyes, seeking for that perfection which had died three years in a hospital bed, while all he could do was look on and watch the brilliance and energy which had been the man he loved drift away. Those eyes had been tired then, from sickness and years of minute inspections, often burnt with stinging lime as the very act of creating would have its price and demand payment. The irony wasn’t lost in Sean’s own life, and he always remembered, as he looked down upon the old man laid out in his pinstripe suit and carefully brushed hair, his father’s hands folded over one another , his work done.
End
by Declan J Connaughton
Originally published Ireland’s Own Sep 9th, 2011
Sean stood alone in the hallway of his newly constructed home, his nose drawing in that particular smell which came from days accompanying his late father to building sites such as this; that peculiar aroma of plaster still in the process of drying out, before it was succeeded by paint and newly laid carpets. It was a clean smell, a finished one.
He walked several adult steps, noting the sheen of the plaster work, before running his hand gently across its surface. There was artistry to it, in the work which had gone into the making of these walls. He could never do it, despite his best efforts and felt regret. The wiring protruded neatly from different places in anticipation of the electrics going in. As he entered what would be his spacious living room, the echoing footfalls upon bare, untreated floors conspired with that sense of smell to infiltrate his memory of childhood so that he was in a similar place, many years past, and had run ahead of his father and was waiting for him to come trudging in behind.
As Sean stood on his own, his minded wondered who the people were who would eventually take up residence here; whether they had children. He looked out through the curtain less window, stained with dust and splotches of dried milky white water on them, into the large back garden. In his minds eye, he could see them running and playing. Maybe they’d even have swings. With a back garden as big as this, he felt sure they would. Probably a slide as well.
There was a bang, as his father stood behind him, having dropped a bucket full of tools.
“This will be a very comfortable room, once it’s finished”, he said, taking in every minute detail of symmetry. Sean smiled and his father walked to the window, both of them looking out now.
“Need a fair sized lawn mower to cut that. I’ll just get the horse and we’ll get started”.
What the boy especially liked was the large ornate fireplace, which had been built with marble, according to his father. White, with small specks of black stained through it. Sean thought they could be like flowers about to bloom, but just as easily have been darkest tears.
“Yeah, top class stuff, all right”, his father said returned with the stand under his arm, which Sean thought was more like a dog or a pig. A horse was a strange thing to call it; it wasn’t big enough. His father loved horses, even owning one once. He wondered where it was now, maybe grazing contentedly away in some field somewhere, without a care in the world. Animals had a great life!
Dad’s horse, the one he carried with him, was just bits of old timber, cobbled together effortlessly, but he half expected it to come to life and start running around the room, with his father chasing after it. The fact that it had been made without any nails made it all the more possible for it to take on real form. Watching his father make things like that, sometimes even taking discarded bits of this and that out of a skip, and setting them to use again, even when people thought it was rubbish, made him seem even more like a magician.
“It’s in the hands”, his father would say, proudly.
Sean wished he could be like that, but wood and nails never came out the right way whenhe tried. He wondered did it make his father disappointed.
Setting the horse down gently, his father lit a cigarette, and then sat down on it for a moment. Blue smoke engulfed the air, creating a dramatic effect on the early morning streams of sunlight which spread their threads across the floor, but also mixing with the other mixture of smells which would stay in the boy’s memory forever.
There was an unspoken camaraderie; the genuine pleasure his father exuded by the mere fact that his son was with him on this particular day. Sean was glad as well, now that they were here, although he would have been just as happy having another turn in the bed at home.
Their day had started at seven o’clock.
Sean had half hoped his father would just slip out without bothering him, just as the hand shook his shoulder, rousing him from his comfortable oblivion. Daylight had begun her early morning ritual and shone weakly through the curtains, as if apologizing in her duty to banish the darkness away and shake working men from their rest. His parents were moving around downstairs now, and Sean could hear them talking and the distinct sound of plates moving about.
The boy clambered out of bed slowly before shuffling his half sleepy way down to the bathroom, where he washed his face and hands, and dressed. Pausing at the top of the staircase, he listened for sound, but knew his sister was soundly and blissfully still in the Land of Nod, having whatever adventures girls had in that fairytale kingdom. As he reached the bottom of the stairs and made his way towards the kitchen, his eye was drawn to the living room on the right, and the television which rested in the gloom, perched high on its shelf which his father had made several years before. He wondered what images were hiding themselves behind its black screen and what would happen if he pressed the on button.
His mother was in her dressing gown and the delicious scent of sausages and rashers greeted his entrance. The radio was talking in the background and a newscaster was informing them all with a grave and serious tone. Sean sat next to his father and began to eat, savouring every bite, relishing the crisp rasher and the way it seemed to make his stomach jump for joy. His father could eat an entire meal in two mouthfuls; and Sean wondered did he even have a chance to taste it. He always seemed in a hurry to begin the day, and, as if knowing what his son was thinking, quickly gulped down his tea. Hi son sipped at his own cup, and slipped an extra spoon of sugar into it when his mother wasn’t watching. This act always made his father smile. The bemusement was on his face now, as he pulled back from the table and headed out into the garage to get the gear needed for job they were going to today. The few moments allowed him time with his mother.
“Looking forward to your day”? she asked, as usual, and good naturedly.
“I suppose”, he replied, with a hint of self pity.
The clock on the wall not declared seven thirty as his father re-emerged into the kitchen.
“Time to go. See you later, Love. Won’t be too late”.
He gave her a peck on the cheek and then both father and son were filing out the front door. Sean smiled weakly back at her and she returned his gesture in sympathy, but was just as glad to be sending bother her men out to work, so she could be alone with her own thoughts and day for a while.
The gear had been taken through the garage and now reclined neatly in the back seat of the car, which now erupted into coughing and wheezing life, before settling down as they pulled off on their journey, winding their way through countryside with an abruptness which always surprised Sean. A thick blanket of ghostly dew rose up from the fields as they passed and it seemed to the boy as if no one was alive yet, just Sean and his father.
Now the water was running from a hose, and his father began mixing the bag of plaster, like a chef creating a cake. He plunged the scutter through the pink coloured molasses, testing its thickness, moving the steel took back and forth and rotating it with his strong wrist, until the right formula had been reach to his satisfaction. Sean felt like dipping his finger in and tasting it, but had made that mistake before, like a puppy with its first encounter with a hedgehog.
“Here, you keep mixing it, and I’ll grab the bucket”.
The steel scutter had a top on it like an outside tap, and ran three feet in length, ending with a circular base which was worked through the plaster paste; refining and smoothing over and over again. Sean was well versed in its use and began the usual routine, his mind wandering again, where he could see himself in a lush forest, on his own, where the songs of birds wound down from the highest tree tops. Completely unburdened.
“You dreaming again”?
His father took the implement from his son and tested the mix, nodding.
“Good enough”, he said, as he dipped the bucket into it, like drawing water from a well.
Once back inside, all Sean had to do was watch, which was fine with him. It had often been commented that his father was a perfectionist, and that word was always said with a hint of fear by other builders who knew him. It was an ominous word but the boy couldn’t have said why, as this stage in his life. Maybe it was because he was one too. His father emptied the contents of the bucket out on the hawk, which he held in one hand, grabbing the trowel in the other, then began turning the great wet and flowing mass this way and that and hopping up on the horse.
Bits of plaster fell here and there, but not much. Sean was transfixed, watching his father’s trowel glide like a great painter, laying a smooth canvass of rich and delicate plaster, creating something immaculate. Lovingly but with authority, jumping down and moving this way and that with his foot, amazingly fast, but with the grace and agility which came from a gift bestowed by God.
When his father was finished he sat down and lit another cigarette, his eyes intense and dancing. He squashed the half finished cigarette under his boot.
“Ah, it’ll dry out okay”, was his comment.
Sean was back in the present, trying to survey his surroundings with his father’s eyes, seeking for that perfection which had died three years in a hospital bed, while all he could do was look on and watch the brilliance and energy which had been the man he loved drift away. Those eyes had been tired then, from sickness and years of minute inspections, often burnt with stinging lime as the very act of creating would have its price and demand payment. The irony wasn’t lost in Sean’s own life, and he always remembered, as he looked down upon the old man laid out in his pinstripe suit and carefully brushed hair, his father’s hands folded over one another , his work done.
End
Saturday, February 28, 2009
“Remembering
By
Declan J Connaughton
He watched him die,
Saw the life slipping away
Amid the tears and the prayers –
Time standing still,
An unreality about it –
Can’t be happening – don’t want to know.
Still, the time was upon them.
As it would eventually wash over
The gathered crowd,
Assembled there to witness the end
But, not wanting to.
The son had seen the dead laid out,
Acquaintances, mostly,
But still feeling that frightening closeness –
Death is near.
And with death comes the end of an era,
A chapter in the boy who is a man now.
The years have gone so quickly –
The passage of time suddenly unwelcome,
A thing to be resisted, to be halted,
To be slowed down with effort of will.
But nothing can stand still,
And with the passage of each hour
His father sleeps ever more deeply,
Breathing shallow, and shallower still.
The face is not lined with age or care of hardship,
But time has set it’s mark upon his heart,
And now the breathing stops –
All at an end.
Where is he now, this father?
The son struggles to believe – does believe,
But cannot be sure,
Nobody can.
The son wipes his tears and sees the mother –
And holds her hand,
And will continue on her journey with her now
© 2009 Declan J Connaughton
By
Declan J Connaughton
He watched him die,
Saw the life slipping away
Amid the tears and the prayers –
Time standing still,
An unreality about it –
Can’t be happening – don’t want to know.
Still, the time was upon them.
As it would eventually wash over
The gathered crowd,
Assembled there to witness the end
But, not wanting to.
The son had seen the dead laid out,
Acquaintances, mostly,
But still feeling that frightening closeness –
Death is near.
And with death comes the end of an era,
A chapter in the boy who is a man now.
The years have gone so quickly –
The passage of time suddenly unwelcome,
A thing to be resisted, to be halted,
To be slowed down with effort of will.
But nothing can stand still,
And with the passage of each hour
His father sleeps ever more deeply,
Breathing shallow, and shallower still.
The face is not lined with age or care of hardship,
But time has set it’s mark upon his heart,
And now the breathing stops –
All at an end.
Where is he now, this father?
The son struggles to believe – does believe,
But cannot be sure,
Nobody can.
The son wipes his tears and sees the mother –
And holds her hand,
And will continue on her journey with her now
© 2009 Declan J Connaughton
Sunday, February 22, 2009
“MOVIE MAESTRO – A PROFILE OF JOHN WILLIAMS
BY
DECLAN J CONNAUGHTON
Since the dawn of motion pictures, the soundtrack score has been one of the most important aspects in ensuring the success of any film. The “Spaghetti” westerns of the late sixties and early seventies were generally regarded not only for their stylised close-ups but also for their music. Indeed, the leading composer of the genre, Ennio Morricone, has stated that his scores were generally composed even before the film was even made.
As with all fields of life, there are the chosen few who dominate and succeed like no other, and the sphere of film composition is no exception.
John Williams was educated at Julliard School for the Performing Arts, along with some other famous film composers such as Jerry Goldsmith and Alexander Courage. Initially, Williams’ main interest was in classics and jazz. However, he soon moved into the area of film composition and began quickly making his mark.
It wasn’t until the musical “Fiddler on the roof”, in 1970, that Williams was finally given the recognition he deserved – winning his first Oscar for his musical adaptation. From that point on, Williams was to become the leading composer of motion picture soundtracks. Among the various notable scores which Williams scored around this period were The Towering Inferno, The Cowboys, as well as the comedy A Guide for the married man, directed by Gene Kelly.
In 1975 Universal Studios assigned a then relatively unknown director, Steven Spielberg, to direct Jaws, from the best seller by Peter Benchley. Williams was commissioned to write the score for the picture, winning him another Oscar, and gaining him a wide audience. There are many who may have never seen the picture, but recognise the score. Two years later, Williams was again assigned to score a Spielberg picture, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, winning the composer another Oscar nomination. Following this success, Williams scored the 1977 space epic Star Wars – winning him yet another Oscar. 1978 saw Williams at work on John Frankenheimer’s Black Sunday starring Robert Shaw and Bruce Dern. IN 1979 Williams also scored John Badam’s remake of “Dracula”, with Frank Langella in the title role, and Laurence Oliver as Van Helsing.
The eighties heralded Williams’ rise to a position of Conductor the the internationally famous Boston Pops Orchestra. Speilberg’s ET won Williams his fourth Oscar, and among the other compositions he was to score during this period were the Indiana Jones trilogy, the remake of Superman, the concluding chapters of the Star Wars saga, as well as The Witches of Eastwick with Jack Nicolson and Cher, and Spielberg’s Empire of The Sun. His most recent score to date had been Oliver Stone’s Born on the Fourth of July starring Tom Cruise. Indeed, Williams is strongly tipped to win his fifth Oscar for this film.
The main highlight of Williams’ career to date during the eighties, was when he was commissioned to score the music for the Los Angeles Olympics. He also scored The River, Starring Sissy Spacek and Mel Gibson.
Williams himself has stated that film music at the end of this century will be what opera represents to us today. It has been generally agreed that Williams had been the composer most responsible for re-introducing a more serious element into film composition, something sadly lacking in recent years.
In a sense Williams encapsulates what Dimitri Tiomkin and Max Steiner represent from the thirties on right on through to the sixties. Once cannot view Jaws without Williams’ theme, just as it would be impossible to imagine Psycho without Herrmann or The Omen without Goldsmith, or The Alamo without Tiomkin.
It is now apparent that John Williams is the most honoured film composer of our day, just behind the greatest composer of them all – Alfred Newman – who has an astonishing nine Oscars to his credit. However, I suspect Williams may surpass him.
Published “Orbit” Magazine March 1990
BY
DECLAN J CONNAUGHTON
Since the dawn of motion pictures, the soundtrack score has been one of the most important aspects in ensuring the success of any film. The “Spaghetti” westerns of the late sixties and early seventies were generally regarded not only for their stylised close-ups but also for their music. Indeed, the leading composer of the genre, Ennio Morricone, has stated that his scores were generally composed even before the film was even made.
As with all fields of life, there are the chosen few who dominate and succeed like no other, and the sphere of film composition is no exception.
John Williams was educated at Julliard School for the Performing Arts, along with some other famous film composers such as Jerry Goldsmith and Alexander Courage. Initially, Williams’ main interest was in classics and jazz. However, he soon moved into the area of film composition and began quickly making his mark.
It wasn’t until the musical “Fiddler on the roof”, in 1970, that Williams was finally given the recognition he deserved – winning his first Oscar for his musical adaptation. From that point on, Williams was to become the leading composer of motion picture soundtracks. Among the various notable scores which Williams scored around this period were The Towering Inferno, The Cowboys, as well as the comedy A Guide for the married man, directed by Gene Kelly.
In 1975 Universal Studios assigned a then relatively unknown director, Steven Spielberg, to direct Jaws, from the best seller by Peter Benchley. Williams was commissioned to write the score for the picture, winning him another Oscar, and gaining him a wide audience. There are many who may have never seen the picture, but recognise the score. Two years later, Williams was again assigned to score a Spielberg picture, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, winning the composer another Oscar nomination. Following this success, Williams scored the 1977 space epic Star Wars – winning him yet another Oscar. 1978 saw Williams at work on John Frankenheimer’s Black Sunday starring Robert Shaw and Bruce Dern. IN 1979 Williams also scored John Badam’s remake of “Dracula”, with Frank Langella in the title role, and Laurence Oliver as Van Helsing.
The eighties heralded Williams’ rise to a position of Conductor the the internationally famous Boston Pops Orchestra. Speilberg’s ET won Williams his fourth Oscar, and among the other compositions he was to score during this period were the Indiana Jones trilogy, the remake of Superman, the concluding chapters of the Star Wars saga, as well as The Witches of Eastwick with Jack Nicolson and Cher, and Spielberg’s Empire of The Sun. His most recent score to date had been Oliver Stone’s Born on the Fourth of July starring Tom Cruise. Indeed, Williams is strongly tipped to win his fifth Oscar for this film.
The main highlight of Williams’ career to date during the eighties, was when he was commissioned to score the music for the Los Angeles Olympics. He also scored The River, Starring Sissy Spacek and Mel Gibson.
Williams himself has stated that film music at the end of this century will be what opera represents to us today. It has been generally agreed that Williams had been the composer most responsible for re-introducing a more serious element into film composition, something sadly lacking in recent years.
In a sense Williams encapsulates what Dimitri Tiomkin and Max Steiner represent from the thirties on right on through to the sixties. Once cannot view Jaws without Williams’ theme, just as it would be impossible to imagine Psycho without Herrmann or The Omen without Goldsmith, or The Alamo without Tiomkin.
It is now apparent that John Williams is the most honoured film composer of our day, just behind the greatest composer of them all – Alfred Newman – who has an astonishing nine Oscars to his credit. However, I suspect Williams may surpass him.
Published “Orbit” Magazine March 1990
A Profile of Joe Dowling
By 'Deagidn O 'Connacfitdin
'You can't take it with you" marks the welcome return of director Joe Dowling to the Abbey. Since his departure in 1985 Joe has reintroduced drama onto the Gaiety stage. Among the many acclaimed productions to his credit to date are "Borstal Boy", with Niall Toibin in the title role, "John Bull's Other Island" with stage giant Cyril Cusack, his internationally acclaimed production of "Juno and the Pay-cock" with Donal McCann, Geraldine Plunkett and John Kavanagh. That production also saw the welcome, and long awaited return of Maureen Potter in the role of Mrs Madigan. In recent years Joe has been closely associated with the works of Brian Friel, having directed seven of his plays. The Gate theatre saw a marvellous interpretation of "Twelfth Night",as well as "Blith Spirit".
In 1986, Joe founded The Gaiety School of Acting of which he remains director. His position at The Gaiety is that of Artistic cjirector. Among the many actors and ac-tfessed Joghas directed are the late sorely
missed Ray McAnally, Niall Toibin, Dar-ragh Kelly, Siobhan McKenna, Cyril Cusack, Bernard Hughes (twice), Donal McCann, John Kavanagh, Phillip O'Flynn and Anita Reeves. Joe also directed the highly entertaining musical "One of our own" with Niall Buggy. Joe has continued the tradition of the Christmas Panto at The Gaiety with the Marvellous Anita Reeves usually heading the cast. Maureen Potter has now become assistant director. Joe also starred in and directed "A Day in the death of Joe Egg". Joe was also director of The Peacock Theatre from 1974 to 1976, before being replaced by his friend and fellow actor Patrick Laffan (Twelfth Night, You Can't Take It With You), who is also involved in The Gaiety School of Acting. In an interview with Stage and Screen, Actor Donal McCann said that Joe always got the mix right and one always felt totally secure in Joe's hands. Taking Joe's checkered career into consideration I'm not surprised. (Published "Orbit Feb 1990)
By 'Deagidn O 'Connacfitdin
'You can't take it with you" marks the welcome return of director Joe Dowling to the Abbey. Since his departure in 1985 Joe has reintroduced drama onto the Gaiety stage. Among the many acclaimed productions to his credit to date are "Borstal Boy", with Niall Toibin in the title role, "John Bull's Other Island" with stage giant Cyril Cusack, his internationally acclaimed production of "Juno and the Pay-cock" with Donal McCann, Geraldine Plunkett and John Kavanagh. That production also saw the welcome, and long awaited return of Maureen Potter in the role of Mrs Madigan. In recent years Joe has been closely associated with the works of Brian Friel, having directed seven of his plays. The Gate theatre saw a marvellous interpretation of "Twelfth Night",as well as "Blith Spirit".
In 1986, Joe founded The Gaiety School of Acting of which he remains director. His position at The Gaiety is that of Artistic cjirector. Among the many actors and ac-tfessed Joghas directed are the late sorely
missed Ray McAnally, Niall Toibin, Dar-ragh Kelly, Siobhan McKenna, Cyril Cusack, Bernard Hughes (twice), Donal McCann, John Kavanagh, Phillip O'Flynn and Anita Reeves. Joe also directed the highly entertaining musical "One of our own" with Niall Buggy. Joe has continued the tradition of the Christmas Panto at The Gaiety with the Marvellous Anita Reeves usually heading the cast. Maureen Potter has now become assistant director. Joe also starred in and directed "A Day in the death of Joe Egg". Joe was also director of The Peacock Theatre from 1974 to 1976, before being replaced by his friend and fellow actor Patrick Laffan (Twelfth Night, You Can't Take It With You), who is also involved in The Gaiety School of Acting. In an interview with Stage and Screen, Actor Donal McCann said that Joe always got the mix right and one always felt totally secure in Joe's hands. Taking Joe's checkered career into consideration I'm not surprised. (Published "Orbit Feb 1990)
July 25, 2004
Jerry Goldsmith
Jerrald Goldsmith, an Academy Award-winning composer, died on July 21 after a long battle with cancer. He was 75.
The Los Angelino was only six years old when he first began to study music. Trained by famed pianist Jacob Gimpel and pianist/composer Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Goldsmith originally planned to enjoy a career in classical music. But a passion for movie scores blossomed after he viewed the 1945 Alfred Hitchcock thriller, "Spellbound," at the University of Southern California. The film featured an Oscar-winning score written by his professor, Miklos Rozsa.
Goldsmith landed his first job in show business in 1950 as a typist at CBS. He eventually revealed his talent for writing music and was hired to create scores and theme songs for live radio programs and early TV shows, including "The Twilight Zone," "The Man from U.N.C.L.E.," "The Waltons" and "Dr. Kildare."
The prolific and versatile composer's film career took off in the early 1960s when he composed music for "Lonely Are the Brave" and "The Blue Max." Over the next four decades, Goldsmith created hundreds of scores, building melodies and moods in films such as "Planet of the Apes," "Patton," "Chinatown," "Poltergeist," "Basic Instinct," "Forever Young," "First Knight," "Mulan," "The Mummy," "L.A. Confidential" and the "Star Trek" movies.
Goldman was nominated for 17 Academy Awards, and won one for the 1976 horror film, "The Omen." He received nine Golden Globe nominations and took home five Emmys. Goldsmith also taught a graduate course in music composition at the UCLA School of Music and composed the cantata, "Christus Apollo," from the epic 1969 poem written by Ray Bradbury.
• Filmography
• Listen to NPR's Appreciation of GoldsmithPosted on July 25, 2004 11:49 PM
Tributes
The first LP I ever had of Jerry Goldsmith was the score for "Poltergiest" in 1982. I always had a distinct ear for classical music which is why orchestral film scores have always appealed to me. I can remember very well listening to that score's haunting melodies breathing life through my stereo system, and being overcome with the "Rebirth" movement of the piece. Steven Spielberg in his sleeve note used the term operatic when articulating "Poltergiest"'s definition, and fellow composer John Williams has always maintained that film music at the close of this century will be what opera was to the last. You knew there was a serious composer at work, and a serious imagination, conjuring up nighttime beauty, but also fear and terror. And terror was something Jerry Goldsmith did very well.From the opening credits of "The Omen", it is the jangly musical Oscar winning score which takes centre stage through it's legendary combination of orchestra and chorus. It sets the ominous tone, and underlines the ultimate fatalism, as Gregory Peck tries to discover exactly where his diabolical child came from. Then there is the lone trumpet cry of "Patton", a score which captures the essence of a man, through music, who was fanatical about being a soldier, and who believed himself to be reincarnated through all the battles in all the world. That score was lampooned by Goldsmith himself in "The Burbs", and has made it's way onto "The Simpsons". For all Star Trek fans Goldsmith will forever be the voice of the starship enterprise, first "The Motion Picture" and then onwards with "The Next Generation", culminating in the the majority of the Star Trek franchise and "Deep Space Nine". "First Contact" being one of my favourites.There are other scores which clearly stamp Jerry Goldsmith into them - "The Cassandra Crossing", "Twilight's Last Gleaming" and "The Boys from Brazil", as well as "The Swarm", "Capricorn One" and "Outland". He ventured west with "Wild Rovers", "Bandelero", "13 rifles" and "Rio Lobo" always embellishing his own unique colours. The turbulent and tragic final credit sequence of "In Harm's Way" was another Goldsmith masterpiece and "The Blue Max" will always remain an eternal favourite of film music collectors.Part of the composer's astonishing popularity was that he made the transition in film music from the nineteen fifties right on through to the present, adapting to modern film production and tastes. He was equally at home scoring for TV, with "The Waltons" and "Dr Kildare". He was never shy of using unique sounds as in "MacArthur", using the piano chords as an introduction. Modern scores such as "First Knight", "Air Force One" and "The Haunting" all benefited from his expertise and his recent non film "Christus Apollo" harkens back to his essentially classical training and preference.There were a few "unused" scores such as "Legend", now thankfully realised on CD.The first time I actually saw Jerry Goldsmith was on an interview on TV. His pony tail was the first thing that one noticed, tying back his almost luminous white hair. The other thing were his eyes. Jerry Goldsmith had very young eyes, almost like that of a child. You got the distinct impression that he would never be done experimenting, and his close friend Robert Towansand said that being with Jerry was like being on a magical adventure. While he won only one Oscar, his popularity would cry out for hundreds of Oscars, because he was hip. It was cool to listen to Jerry Goldsmith. He had that aura about him. Film composition was fun. If I was to play one track to send him on his way I think it would be the gentle Illy's theme from "Star Trek - The Motion Picture", or to be more dramatic the finale of "First Knight".Jerry Goldsmith, like all truely great artists, will live on - either on celluloid, where his music loves and feels with the characters, but most especially on the thousands of silver discs whcih turn to bright and shining gold, with his passing. Posted by Declan J Connaughton on August 28, 2004 10:00 PM
Jerry Goldsmith
Jerrald Goldsmith, an Academy Award-winning composer, died on July 21 after a long battle with cancer. He was 75.
The Los Angelino was only six years old when he first began to study music. Trained by famed pianist Jacob Gimpel and pianist/composer Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco, Goldsmith originally planned to enjoy a career in classical music. But a passion for movie scores blossomed after he viewed the 1945 Alfred Hitchcock thriller, "Spellbound," at the University of Southern California. The film featured an Oscar-winning score written by his professor, Miklos Rozsa.
Goldsmith landed his first job in show business in 1950 as a typist at CBS. He eventually revealed his talent for writing music and was hired to create scores and theme songs for live radio programs and early TV shows, including "The Twilight Zone," "The Man from U.N.C.L.E.," "The Waltons" and "Dr. Kildare."
The prolific and versatile composer's film career took off in the early 1960s when he composed music for "Lonely Are the Brave" and "The Blue Max." Over the next four decades, Goldsmith created hundreds of scores, building melodies and moods in films such as "Planet of the Apes," "Patton," "Chinatown," "Poltergeist," "Basic Instinct," "Forever Young," "First Knight," "Mulan," "The Mummy," "L.A. Confidential" and the "Star Trek" movies.
Goldman was nominated for 17 Academy Awards, and won one for the 1976 horror film, "The Omen." He received nine Golden Globe nominations and took home five Emmys. Goldsmith also taught a graduate course in music composition at the UCLA School of Music and composed the cantata, "Christus Apollo," from the epic 1969 poem written by Ray Bradbury.
• Filmography
• Listen to NPR's Appreciation of GoldsmithPosted on July 25, 2004 11:49 PM
Tributes
The first LP I ever had of Jerry Goldsmith was the score for "Poltergiest" in 1982. I always had a distinct ear for classical music which is why orchestral film scores have always appealed to me. I can remember very well listening to that score's haunting melodies breathing life through my stereo system, and being overcome with the "Rebirth" movement of the piece. Steven Spielberg in his sleeve note used the term operatic when articulating "Poltergiest"'s definition, and fellow composer John Williams has always maintained that film music at the close of this century will be what opera was to the last. You knew there was a serious composer at work, and a serious imagination, conjuring up nighttime beauty, but also fear and terror. And terror was something Jerry Goldsmith did very well.From the opening credits of "The Omen", it is the jangly musical Oscar winning score which takes centre stage through it's legendary combination of orchestra and chorus. It sets the ominous tone, and underlines the ultimate fatalism, as Gregory Peck tries to discover exactly where his diabolical child came from. Then there is the lone trumpet cry of "Patton", a score which captures the essence of a man, through music, who was fanatical about being a soldier, and who believed himself to be reincarnated through all the battles in all the world. That score was lampooned by Goldsmith himself in "The Burbs", and has made it's way onto "The Simpsons". For all Star Trek fans Goldsmith will forever be the voice of the starship enterprise, first "The Motion Picture" and then onwards with "The Next Generation", culminating in the the majority of the Star Trek franchise and "Deep Space Nine". "First Contact" being one of my favourites.There are other scores which clearly stamp Jerry Goldsmith into them - "The Cassandra Crossing", "Twilight's Last Gleaming" and "The Boys from Brazil", as well as "The Swarm", "Capricorn One" and "Outland". He ventured west with "Wild Rovers", "Bandelero", "13 rifles" and "Rio Lobo" always embellishing his own unique colours. The turbulent and tragic final credit sequence of "In Harm's Way" was another Goldsmith masterpiece and "The Blue Max" will always remain an eternal favourite of film music collectors.Part of the composer's astonishing popularity was that he made the transition in film music from the nineteen fifties right on through to the present, adapting to modern film production and tastes. He was equally at home scoring for TV, with "The Waltons" and "Dr Kildare". He was never shy of using unique sounds as in "MacArthur", using the piano chords as an introduction. Modern scores such as "First Knight", "Air Force One" and "The Haunting" all benefited from his expertise and his recent non film "Christus Apollo" harkens back to his essentially classical training and preference.There were a few "unused" scores such as "Legend", now thankfully realised on CD.The first time I actually saw Jerry Goldsmith was on an interview on TV. His pony tail was the first thing that one noticed, tying back his almost luminous white hair. The other thing were his eyes. Jerry Goldsmith had very young eyes, almost like that of a child. You got the distinct impression that he would never be done experimenting, and his close friend Robert Towansand said that being with Jerry was like being on a magical adventure. While he won only one Oscar, his popularity would cry out for hundreds of Oscars, because he was hip. It was cool to listen to Jerry Goldsmith. He had that aura about him. Film composition was fun. If I was to play one track to send him on his way I think it would be the gentle Illy's theme from "Star Trek - The Motion Picture", or to be more dramatic the finale of "First Knight".Jerry Goldsmith, like all truely great artists, will live on - either on celluloid, where his music loves and feels with the characters, but most especially on the thousands of silver discs whcih turn to bright and shining gold, with his passing. Posted by Declan J Connaughton on August 28, 2004 10:00 PM
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Requiem - Sean O Riada (1931 - 1971)
The glory of evocative visions
Rises up before me,
Unclothed, naked......brutal.
Perceptive was the Mind
Weavomg this fabric of colours -
The crash of the sea against the cliffs of Arann,
The gentle slpe of moist, green hills.
Tall stand the mountains
But.....there is a lonely stillness here.
Stung now, are the eyes
Which never shed a tear,
Pierced are the hearts
Of those, long unmoved -
Dark are the clouds gathering at the East.
The Spirits of Generations are still called back,
When once the enchanted fingers
Caressed the delicate chords,
And eyes as clear as the River in Cul Aodha
Read the printed miracle -
- The life which springs from death -
And the majesty of it all.
Rest, now, a Sheain
I can hear in the distance them chant
Mo Ghile Mear,
Rest with eternal Ruth, hands clasped together.
For a darkness has descended -
The harpsicord long unplayed -
There will, I think, be rain today....................................
(c) Declan J Connaughton 1988,2009
Originally published Maynooth Newsletter June 1988
Monday, February 16, 2009
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