There’s little evidence to support my determination that, during the late 90s and early 2000s, TG4 regularly broadcast The Muppet Show as Gaeilge. However, a distinct memory of mine, which has failed to garner any support from my family, involves kneeling in front of the television watching the sketch ‘Pigs in Space’ repeatedly, with increased enthusiasm upon every viewing. ‘Pigs in Space’ is the section of The Muppet Show concerned with the USS Swinetrek and its crew: Captain Link Hogthrob, Dr. Julius Strangepork, and Miss Piggy. I cannot recall the Irish counterparts to these illustrious titles but burned into my brain is the sense of pride felt at the sight of these Mucaí I Spás. Not only was it astounding that Kermit had coerced these animals into a mission of interplanetary exploration, but their command of the Irish language was commendable. Not since An Táin Bó Cúailgne had a farmyard animal taken such a central role in the epic myth-making tradition central to Irish identity.
Therefore I was disappointed, like many, to see the latest representation of Ireland on screen in the trailer for Wild Mountain Thyme (John Patrick Shanley, 2020). The trailer suffered considerable backlash for its apparent rehashing of outdated stereotypes. As the focus of my own dismay was the hasty descension of Irish livestock from the heights of space travel to cheap romancing in a field, I was perplexed by this reaction. What, if not donkey-wooing moon-mad people of the fields, did everybody think we looked like? One need only look towards our sketchy history with cultural branding to understand why poor John Patrick Shanley must’ve thought he was depicting Ireland with stark realism of the highest calibre.
While being ‘not-English’ was deemed a good enough national identity for the first half of the 20th century, the Irish government first began to establish a marketable national brand in the 1940s. Culture is key to a marketable identity and the questionable aesthetics of Wild Mountain Thyme are little more than the ongoing repercussions of the cultural brand which dominated depictions of national identity for the last century.
International portrayals of the Emerald Isle were already plentiful by this time. As far back as 1896, the Lumiére brothers shot a number of films in Ireland. The country’s wild landscapes were the frequent subject of travelogues and by the 1930s Ireland’s image as a picturesque, natural world was well established. Films such as John A. Fitzpatrick’s Glimpses of Erin (1934) presented an Ireland primarily populated by thatched cottages and donkeys. The people were poor, but happy; think Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus (1942) but with overalls and a flat-cap.
These images of Ireland as a quaint, agrarian society were primarily used as filler material for larger theatrical exhibitions, albeit Man of Aran (Robert J. Flaherty, 1934) was a considerably grander affair. Winning best foreign film at the 2nd Venice Film Festival as well as the approval of the Nazi party at the Berlin Festival, this bucolic image of Ireland struck a chord internationally—a fact which wasn’t ignored by De Valera who attended the premiere. This image of Ireland aligned with the Government’s emphasis on self-sufficiency and was therefore embraced by those responsible for Ireland’s national brand.
At one stage in Wild Mountain Thyme, Jamie Dornan utters in disbelief, “You’re offering the farm to an American?” It’s unclear why such an enterprise would come as a shock. Pedalling farms, Aran sweaters and dodgy fiddles to Americans has long been the Republic’s approach to a marketable national identity. The establishment of the Cultural Relations Committee in the late ’40s and Bord Fáilte in 1955 led to the production of dozens of promotional films touting the beauty of the Irish landscape alongside the achievements of the nation’s most famous figures. These films functioned as promotion for various landmarks and tourist sites. By embracing certain elements of Irish culture and rejecting the rest, a successful cultural brand was established.
That being said, the Government is not solely responsible for the prominence of this image. In Micheál Ó Siochfhrada’s story, ‘An Corp,’ a rural village stages a counterfeit wake in order to scam a tourist eager to observe Irish traditions. This is a similar project to when your cousin comes over from London and your Mam makes you take them to the Hill of Tara. Essentially, we’ve all used stereotypes to our benefit. It should come as no surprise that when an American portrays our way of life, he does it exactly the way we told him it is.
Many of our top attractions still hinge on this image of Ireland as a pastoral haven. The ongoing utilization of John Ford’s The Quiet Man (1952) in Cong is a minor example. On a larger scale, The Abbey occupies a curious cultural space. As one of Dublin’s premier attractions, the Abbey has to contest with the expectations of foreign visitors and their own artistic agenda to stage “ambitious, courageous and new theatre.” This often results in the modern restaging of established works in the Irish canon or a season which reflects a dichotomy between modernity and tradition.
More recently, a significant portion of Star Wars: The Last Jedi (Rian Johnson, 2017) takes place on Ahch-To, the island better known as Skellig Michael off the coast of Kerry. Sorry as I am to bring back the topic of galactic-cattle and their keepers, Ahch-To is home to a quiet, fish-skinned people who dress in garments resembling nuns’ habits; they are spiritual and house a local eccentric who reads ancient scriptures in the mountains and drinks blue milk from the teat of a space-cow. What better place is there, says Johnson, to film such a community than in Kerry? We may even look to Luke Skywalker as our new Man of Aran.
The tourism industry jumped at the opportunity to promote the island’s connection with Star Wars. Ireland.com writes, “you don’t have to travel to a galaxy far, far away to discover a landscape that is truly out of this world.’ This idea of Ireland existing outside of time and space remains central to our national image. A place to escape and relax, Ireland functions as a destination brand. One of the main criticisms directed at Wild Mountain Thyme was the discrepancy between the behaviour and apparel of the characters and the period in which the film is set. It’s curious then that this sense of timelessness should not be an issue when promoting Skellig Michael’s connection to Star Wars. If only Jamie Dornan propositioned a Porg and not an Ass! Perhaps some late-stage movie magic could be worked; the whole film could be re-situated in space: Christopher Walken could float along the milky way and we’d call it Wild Moonman Time.
Granted, Star Wars inherently provides a sense of distance, but Wild Mountain Thyme makes no claims to realism. However, as Star Wars was always guaranteed to be a commercial hit, there is little reason to question the public’s enthusiasm. Perhaps much of the derision directed at Shanley’s film has less to do with the Ireland presented, and more to do with the fact that it just doesn’t look very good. Countless films have capitalized on Ireland’s rural brand, and, providing they were successful, we’ve embraced them. If Wild Mountain Thyme is bad, or worse immemorable, we’ve little to benefit from it and everything to gain from deriding it. We’re only willing to exploit our image when it suits us.
It’s left to be seen what Ireland thinks of itself. While there are currently some wonderfully diverse expressions of Irish identity to be found, RTÉ remains our most influential creative body. I’m sure that somebody can relate to Amy Huberman’s variety of stressed-out Ballsbridge characters but the inspirational speech in the season finale of Finding Joy doesn’t give me much hope:
“Maeve and I are Irish women […] We are desperate to be liked but we’re afraid to be loved. We’re our parents but we’re still us, we’re all their good bits and all their bad bits, baked into a cake that no ones even sure they want to eat […] We’re Niall Horan, we’re Phil Babb and Zig and Zag and all of their zogabongs and we’re Bosco and we come out of the box and we go Hi and then we go back inside and I loved when he went back inside and you saw his really cute bed.”
Apparently, then, we are not cattle-romancing culchies, rather we’re pudgy cake-people, afraid to be loved and obsessed with puppets from the 1990s. Well, while all that may be true of me, I wouldn’t dare say it of you.
Wild Mountain Thyme will be released in Irish cinemas on January 8, 2021.
