Screenin' the Green

The other night, we met the music of two Irish bands in a silent-era theater, boisterous with sounds of pipes, tin whistles, bodhráns, flutes, and guitars...all clashing and weaving amongst the restored chandeliers and flying to us in the balcony, where reels and jigs shook our souls from our boring seats to the aisle frightfully creaking with age. In between, we listed to lilting Celtic accents tell stories--some true, some laced with humorous exaggeration--about where the songs came from, their heritage as important as the notes probably learned by heart.

The night ‘twas my idea (apparently, poorly articulated); I’ve loved Celtic music for years, and one of the bands performing was Lunasa, who’s Merry Sisters of Fate is a favorite. I’ve never seen ‘em live, the best way to experience that music. But I never imagined how much it would hit me that night, and I’m glad I was able to share that with someone who loves Celtic music as much, if not more, than me. Both bands--Dervish and Lunasa--managed to make the night a larceny of expectation.

The funny thing is that I’m not actually Irish, though I’m probably as close as you can get without being one. While my own heritage is Germanic and Scandinavian, many of my family’s friends had Irish blood. I grew up surrounded by Keefes, Sweeneys, and Doughtertys. Several of my own friends wear their Celtic roots proudly, including two of my closest. I live in a small city with a strong Irish American community, complete with two pubs, a couple of annual festivals, and, of course, the occasional Celtic artist selling out the local theater.

So, on St. Patrick’s Day, when Bushwallers overflows with drunken revelers donning bright green teeshirts, plastic bowlers, and ageless gift shop buttons, all I can think about is The Quiet Man.

John Ford’s love letter, as traditional as It’s a Wonderful Life is for Christmas, is an Emerald picture postcard of Ireland, done up Hallmark-style. Americans love their fantasies, and The Quiet Man has them, in charming spades, right up to and including a leprechaun-like matchmaker. But The Quiet Man is an American fairy tale, not an Irish one. Not like another film, John Sayles's quiet The Secret of Roan Inish.

You know how you can tell? The music and the storytelling.

The Quiet Man comes with a Golden Age Hollywood score, with nary a hornpipe to be found. There might be a bagpipe, but I’m not sure. The aforementioned leprechaun delivers the standard, book-ended narration, but remains silent through the film.

Roan Inish, though, mines traditional folk tunes to embroider a story filled with story, told by characters as family history rather than fable. The grandfather exiled from the home of his heart, the cousin "touched" by a legacy that traps him between sea and land...they see a world undone, their family strewn across Ireland in cities and steamshops, broken apart and away from the life they were meant to live. The stories told are sad, rimmed with tragedy, but they are woven with love and longing all the same.

That's Ireland.

It's in their music, their humor, their history. Seanchai are more than simply carriers of heritage--they are the heritage of ancestors. The songs, dancing, and stories are the Irish's connection to their past, but not just the chronological litney of events. Seanchai tell the soul of Ireland.

As Americans, we see fables separate from the lives we wear everyday. Not the Irish, and that's why their culture has become important in my own life. Our existence brims with loved ones, those we know today and those who came before. Celebrate and cherish them, for they are our own magic.

And that's the secret of Roan Inish.

Lunasa played a hornpipe called "The Last Pint" the other night. It was one of the first songs they played together 10 years ago. Almost a lament, it speaks of lovely memories of friends past never forgotten. It was my favorite of the night.

Sláinte.