I first met Brian Friel when I appeared in The Freedom of the City in its first London production, at the Royal Court Theatre, in 1973. He had been driven to write that play in response to the events of Bloody Sunday in Derry.
Previously his work had been personal rather than directly political. His first hit play, Philadelphia, Here I Come!, had dealt with private anguish in the context of emigration. But The Freedom of the City had such urgency that its director, Albert Finney, demanded that the Court alter its schedule to stage it as soon as possible.
The play was received in a frost of ignorance.
By 1980, as the nightmare of the North continued, Field Day had been formed, driven by some irenic impulse, and Translations was its first – and at the time thought to be its only – offering.
And if Translations had been other than the great play it is, perhaps that would have been the case. But as Brian stood on stage in the Guildhall in Derry on the opening night, a shy man and a showman, receiving the ovation led by a unionist mayor, the warm and generous Marlene Jefferson, it was obvious that this was not the end. A combination of appetite and responsibility carried us forward.
Field Day continued, fired by Brian’s desire to explore his work in this new context. He had a new audience, many of whom had never been in a theatre before. This was political action in the widest sense. Its aim, which was partly discovered in response to the audience, was to create a discursive change, by resituating the standard languages of politics and drama.
It’s all about language, he said to me. The play, I asked. The theatre? The whole thing, he said.
We were joined by a remarkable group of people – Seamus Deane, Seamus Heaney, Tom Kilroy, David Hammond, Tom Paulin – but Friel was always the central driving force. His power and persistence, his intelligence and humour, his enormously generous hospitality and friendship informed all of our activities.
And I always valued, and will miss, his tough, shrewd judgment.
On the question of making a version of Chekhov he said, To be faithful to the original you have to take liberties.
And to a designer insisting that an unrecognisable piece of furniture was authentic he said, Authenticity is what you believe.
In 1981, when we were discussing future plans, Brian declared, "The country needs a big sore laugh." He was right, and he delivered it with his hilarious farce, The Communication Cord. That humanity, that connection with his audience and his masterly writing made him a unique figure in Irish and world theatre.
He is irreplaceable.
