"Still Another Judith": Protest and Performance in Brian Friel's Film Adaptation of The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne.
Like many of Friel's prejudices, his aversion to film seems to have a specific history: in this case, that of a frustratingly unsuccessful project undertaken at a crucial juncture in both his career and the Northern Irish Troubles. Solicited by Moore on behalf of producer David Harvey and would-be leading lady Katherine Hepburn, Friel began writing the screenplay just weeks before attending the Northern Irish Civil Rights Association march in Derry on January 30, 1972, now better known as Bloody Sunday, when the killing of fourteen unarmed protesters by the British military marked a major escalation in the violence of the Northern conflict. He completed the script in the months following that chaotic day, working at a fever pitch to produce a first draft by July of the same year.
Over the years in which the screenplay would languish due to lack of funding, the realities of the film industry proved ultimately too frustrating for the playwright, who would later delegate film treatments of his dramatic works to other writers, as he did with Frank McGuinness for the film of Dancing at Lughnasa. Although the screenplay was never produced, this ill-fated attempt at staging a relentlessly dour Irish novel in a medium the playwright would eventually come to abhor nevertheless reveals a surprising nexus of concerns shaping Friel's theatrical conceptions of gender, tragedy, and politics. These concerns are made particularly visible by the mechanics of adaptation, in which changes to the source text reveal key moments of deliberation, investment, and interpretation on Friel's part.
The unpublished work contains key dramatic elements that become central to Friel's later plays; most notably, the representation of Irish social problems through suffering, often female characters. Reading Friel's later drama in light of this adaptation, his most immediate response to the "[in] adequately distilled" (5) experience of Bloody Sunday, offers historical insight into Friel's deployment of character as both political diagnostic and theatrical device. Further, the screenplay raises key questions about how the study of modern playwrights might place cinematic works--however "minor" or commercial--in a more meaningful dialogue with what is often conceived of as a primarily theatrical oeuvre. In the work that follows, I read Friel's adaptation of Moore's novel primarily through his reconfiguration of the protagonist's character, situating the changes he makes alongside both the charged politics of the 1970s and the political investments of his theatrical work. (6)
Moore's novel, largely inspired by James Joyce, presents a cross-gendered retelling of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, recasting Stephen Dedalus as a sodality spinster in 1950s Belfast. It was critically successful in England, Canada, and the United States, and banned in Ireland--which, as Colm Toibin points out, was in the conservative 1950s "also a kind of critical success." (7) The young novelist, chafing under the social and creative limitations of his upper-middle-class Catholic upbringing in Belfast, was inspired by an illegal copy of Ulysses that he surreptitiously appropriated from the home of a school friend in 1939. After serving in Poland and France during World War II, Moore found his own Trieste in a cabin outside Ontario, Canada, and set out to write a novel set in postwar Belfast about his "loss of faith" in both Ulster and Catholicism. (8)
He drastically rewrote Joyce's Stephen Dedalus as "poor Judy Hearne," a middle-aged, unmarried Catholic woman whose financial, emotional, and physical health are all in decline. The deaths of her parents and her domineering aunt leave Judith with nothing but a small annuity to live on, and her hopes for an advantageous marriage wane as she gets older, poorer, and more desperate. She moves from boardinghouse to boardinghouse, trying to make a living by giving piano lessons, increasingly overcome by loneliness and despair, which she attempts to mitigate through devout religious observances, fastidious social propriety, and furtive bouts of binge drinking.
As her circumstances become more dire, so does her alcoholism: late in the novel, Judith discovers that her would-be romance with James Madden--her landlady's brother, newly returned from New York--was based solely on his assumption that her genteel manners meant that she had money to invest in one of his business schemes: a hamburger stand in Dublin catering to American tourists. After making this discovery, she embarks on a succession of drinking bouts that alienate her, first from her piano students, then from her landlady, and finally from the parish priest, who underestimates the urgency behind her confession of drunkenness and dismisses her concerns. The novel's climax comes when Judith, after spending her life's savings on several bottles of whiskey and a room in the finest hotel in the city, enters the church and challenges God to rescue her, now that she's at the end of her rope. The priest finds her trying to pry open the sacristy to see what is behind its golden door, and she collapses on the floor in an apparent nervous breakdown. She is subsequently institutionalized in a women's asylum, paid for by her upper-middle-class friends, where she is left devoid of faith, prospects, and, finally, the need to maintain appearances.
Moore casts Judith as an actress without a role in the prescribed drama of her society; a Beckettian figure expected to wait in the wings for a cue that may never come, relying, like Winnie from Happy Days, on dwindling mental and material resources to pass the time and dull the pain. She is compelled to perform according to the social narrative of respectability and to create compensatory fantasies that she both needs to believe and slowly begins to recognize as false. She performs, to borrow a distinction from Friel, both publicly and privately, in that she struggles to create the impression of respectability not only for others but for herself.
Friel was clearly a sensitive reader of Moore's novel, as his version retains the book's bleak, uncompromising tone, often to its detriment in the eyes of several Hollywood producers who disliked its "downbeat ending." (9) However, while Moore's novel depicts 1950s Belfast as a network of restrictive social performances, Friel injects a measure of musicality into Moore's bleak narrative, even as he recognizes the political forces that ultimately silence it. Where the novel reflects Judith Butler's characterization of performativity as a means of regulation--a "reiteration of norms, which precede, constrain, and exceed the performer" (10)--the screenplay explores other, more meta-theatrical possibilities through the addition of a series of transgressive, Dionysian outbursts performed by Friel's altered protagonist.
Through these changes in Moore's heroine, Friel sounds out the implications of "breaking character" both on the streets and on the stage. Judith's transgressive gestures stage the possibility of what Butler calls "a different sort of repeating" (11) that facilitates divergent narratives of identity against the scripted injunctions of respectability. (12) Through Friel's revisions, Moore's protagonist, a poverty-stricken Belfast spinster clinging to the scraps of her dignity even as she struggles with alcoholism and a crisis of faith, is recast as a distinctly Frielian heroine: trapped, but vocal; mocked, but self-aware; disenfranchised, but resistant; obliged to perform, but able, at times, to break out of the character her role in society demands in order to articulate an identity of her own.
The script writes Moore's downtrodden protagonist into a company of tragic heroines that already included Cass McGuire and would later include Lily Doherty (1973), Faith Healers Grace Hardy (1979), Translations's Maire (1980), Dancing at Lughnasa's Mundy sisters (1990), and Molly Sweeney (1994). She joins them in reflecting the patriarchal legacies of postcolonial Ireland, suffered by Irish women across the nation's modern history. Just as Chekhov employs the breakdown of the nuclear family to signal national collapse, Friel employs Judith's "lonely passion" to reflect the rising social tensions shaping Irish politics in the 1970s, subtly reshaping Moore's problematic depictions of gendered "hysteria" into a more Dionysian, explosively theatrical response to social repression.
To situate this project within Friel's oeuvre, it may help to consider the playwright's typically evasive relationship with what he calls "the political element" present in his work. (13) Like Chekhov, the writer to whom he is most often compared, Friel often casts himself as a diagnostician, coolly staging the impact of political turmoil through the psychological breakdown of individuals and families, rather than directly representing historical events. Critical opinion ranges widely on Friel's relationship to politics, (14) and the playwright has long attempted to distance himself from his plays' more overt political messages--famously claiming, for example, that his most explicitly political play The Freedom of the City (1972) was written "out of some kind of heat and some kind of immediate passion that I would want to have quieted a bit before I did it." (15) In the transcripts of his interview with Mel Gussow, he similarly laughs off the suggestion that any play of his "sent out certain men to be shot," mocking Yeats's famous rhetorical question about his and Lady Gregory's nationalist play Cathleen ni Houlihan. (16) Conversely, critics like Richard Rankin Russell have characterized Friel's turn to drama as driven by a desire to engage with, and even create, new communities, arguing that "Friel's interest in politics almost ineluctably kept him in the dramatic arena" as he sought "a model of communal interrogation and tentative articulation of deep-seated political, religious, and cultural problems that might augur a less divided society." (17) In Russell's view, Friel's early turn to theatre from short fiction relies on the inherent political possibilities of the genre. (18) These possibilities, however, present what may seem like less ambitious political possibilities than the nationalist Yeats might have envisioned: indeed, more a "tentative articulation" than a call to arms.
If Friel can be said to have a political project, it is undeniably more diagnostic than polemical, though the two attitudes do occasionally converge. This is evident even in the "immediate passion" of The Freedom of the City, which was written concurrently with Friel's adaptation of Judith Hearne and displays far more critical distance than Friel protests. Rather than simply targeting the Widgery Tribunal for its exoneration of the British military, the play implicates the power structures that govern representations of history and its victims and that were at work in the rhetorics of the press, the nationalist movement, and even the academy.
Significantly, The Freedom of the City's key political message is not delivered by the priest, the press, the sociologist, or even the Judge: instead, it is spoken by working-class housewife Lily Doherty, who laments immediately before her death "that life had eluded me because never once in my forty-three years had an experience, an event, even a small unimportant happening been isolated, and assessed, and articulated." (19) Anthony Roche calls these lines the closest to "an artistic credo as Brian Friel has come in 24 original plays written across more than 40 years." (20) Friel's longstanding investment in representing broader social problems on an individual scale has manifested itself in a tendency to refocus political concerns through the dramatic lens of character.
This lens, however, is also a decidedly gendered one. Friel's most victimized characters are overwhelmingly female, a fact which feminist scholars like Anna McMullan have criticized even as they acknowledge Friel's investment in exposing patriarchal structures, pointing out in readings of plays like Dancing at Lughnasa that these characters too often fail to sustain their subversion of the "social and gender conditioning of their world," remaining subject to the male gaze of both narrator and audience. (21) Others, like Karen Moloney, have seen this tendency as an attempt to recover the gendered associations of Ireland's postcolonial status. Moloney argues that Friel's work posits a metonymic, rather than a metaphorical, Cathleen ni Houlihan figure, whose plight reflects that of Ireland's marginalized women rather than operating as a patriarchal rallying point for nationalist rhetoric. (22) This version of Cathleen calls, not for true Irishmen to die in her defense (as she does in the Yeats and Gregory play), but for political reforms that recognize and rectify women's marginalization in Irish history and society. It is in this sense that Seamus Heaney describes Friel's drama in his 1980 review of Translations as constituting "a powerful therapy, a set of imaginative exercises that give [Cathleen] the chance to know and say herself properly to herself again." (23) More recently, Christopher Murray has emphasized Friel's conviction, shared with Beckett, that "in the vulnerability of the female body lies the most forceful, theatrical image of human tragedy today." (24) In conversation with these critical accounts, I suggest that this sense of bodily vulnerability as central to the representation of Irish colonization emerges from Friel's experience at the Bloody Sunday march and becomes, through the writing of The Freedom of the City and other plays, invested in staging this vulnerability in particularly material and economic terms. Further, this conception seems to have been initially worked out in the relatively safe, yet clearly generative, context of an innocuous side project: his film adaptation of Moore's novel.
In the screenplay, Friel employs Judith's character to expand Moore's critique of the stifling patriarchal culture of 1950s Belfast, refocusing this critique on the pressing contemporary problem of urban poverty and class conflict, a theme he was already developing in his working script for The Freedom of the City. In reframing Moore's character, Friel downplays the novel's focus on religious crisis in favor of more material concerns, specifically hunger, patriarchal repression, and class relations. This shift clashes with Moore's original conception of Judith: a Stephen Dedalus figure recast as a devout "sodality lady" in a calcified, half-genteel Belfast society, forced to uphold a set of class-specific patriarchal values that offer neither solace nor escape. (25) In having his Judith "speak back" to this society, Friel reconfigures Moore's fifties narrative of postwar social paralysis to diagnose rising contemporary political unrest, linking Judith's condition to the economic and social conditions that sparked the nascent violence of the 1970s.
It is important to note that both Moore and Friel critique what McMullan describes as "a society stifled by reified patriarchal authority and an economic, class, and gender system reinforced and reproduced through the performative injunctions of 'respectability' and status." (26) Indeed, the novel's concern with these issues may have influenced producer David Harvey's initial choice of screenwriter Shelagh Delaney, who had co-written the successful film adaptation of her own feminist proletarian drama A Taste of Honey (1961) a few years earlier. (27)
The novel and the screenplay differ, however, both in the representative modes necessitated by their respective genres--the shift from a descriptive to a performative medium--and in their characterization of the story's central tragedy. Whereas Moore is concerned with depicting the pernicious cultural narratives that dominate a restrictive society, Friel situates Judith within a disenfranchised Catholic minority whose material deprivation and social marginalization contribute to the onset of the Northern Troubles. Earlier drafts of the screenplay in Friel's papers contain opening scenes (struck through in pen) that depict overt examples of urban wealth and poverty--the bars, hotels, banks, and restaurants of a newly prosperous Irish city--framing Judith's first onscreen appearance within an explicitly economic context. (28) Friel relates Judith's "passion"--both the intensity of her feelings and the religious valences of her suffering--to that of the working classes by emphasizing Judith's poverty, her awareness of the disingenuous obligations of respectability, and her growing dissatisfaction with both.
In de-emphasizing what might be considered the more stereotypically "Irish" concerns of Moore's novel--religious crisis, Joycean paralysis--in favor of a concern with urban poverty, Friel's adaptation employs a documentary framework similar to the one he uses in The Freedom of the City, which is set two years before Bloody Sunday, when civil rights marches were more common in Northern Ireland and the conflict less violent. (29) As William Jent argues, this deliberate distancing of the narrative "transform[s] it from a simple (and simplistic) confrontation between Catholic and Protestant nationalisms into one between those who have the freedom of the city and those who do not, whatever the color of their map." (30) As we will observe in the screenplay's closing scene, Judith, too, is tragically denied the "freedom" of her own city, even as she is left derelict on its streets, bitterly indicting her former friends' prosperity with her own precarity.
Friel emphasizes Judith's poverty through several contextualizing scenes not present in the novel. Near the film's opening, we see Judith, described by the script's unusually extensive directions as "meticulous with the ritualistic preparations" of her evening meal. She takes such care in order "to heighten her anticipation" for the only food she will eat all day besides the meager toast and tea Mrs. Rice gives her tenants for breakfast. She falters, however, in her grace before the meal--"too hungry to finish." Unlike Moore's protagonist, this Judith is far more concerned with material deprivation than spiritual obligation: for her, "Heaven is a full stomach." (31) Starvation is emphasized in a preceding scene, in which Judith "stares without expression" as a schoolboy rubs his sandwich into a friend's hair outside a record shop, next to a window display for a "War On Hunger" flag day "covered with twenty identical pictures--a tiny black baby, emaciated, with a hunger-swollen stomach, hold[ing] out an empty bowl," at which Judith "looks vaguely." (32) An image designed to elicit pity is, for her, an ironic reminder of her own slow starvation and the fact that her social position as a "respectable woman" prevents her from asking for help.
Another crucial change between novel and script concerns Judith's income. Friel extends the gap between Judith's resources and her upper class background by placing her on public assistance (the dole), rather than the small annuity left by her aunt. Friel thus links Judith's condition with a significant proportion of working class Catholics and Protestants in Belfast, for whom the dole is also a primary source of income. Like Lily Doherty in The Freedom of the City, Judith "exist[s] on a state subsistence that's about enough to keep you alive but too small to fire your guts." (33) She has to appear, in public, at the Benefits Office in order to survive, and to face the hard fact of her identification with the working-class women waiting with her in the queue.
Her encounter with one of them, a "thin, wan woman with a baby in her arms" who looks "as if she were about to collapse with malnutrition," demonstrates a poverty we never see so explicitly in Moore's novel, situating Judith within a working class reality of alcoholism, violence, and hunger. (34) As the wan woman's baby keeps trying to pull Judith's hair, the woman remarks that he resembles his father: "Full of suppressed aggression." To prove this, the woman points at her swollen right eye and says that her husband had "come in drunk again last night." However, as if to link the incipient violence of a repressed Catholic minority in Friel's own time with these desperate economic conditions, the woman then says, "But you should see him this morning. I closed both of his," as her "wan face is transformed with delight and with triumph." (35) This eye-for-an-eye justice is tempting as a sign of resistance, particularly coming from a victim of domestic abuse, but in fact it has done nothing to remedy the systematic social causes behind her husband's alcoholism: their poverty, disenfranchisement, and lack of access to education.
Against the woman's frankness, Judith has only the fading veneer of manners and education, which prevent her from voicing similar frustrations or feeling any sense of community with the other women, who share a common plight if not a common syntax. After the exchange with the woman, Judith is so anxious to leave the office that she does not bother to count her money, leading even the clerk to mock her for her apparent superiority: "It would appear, m'dear, that some of us don't need to count it." (36) As all the women begin to laugh, Judith is seen to be denied even the small compensations of the lower classes--the sense of community problematically framed by Dodds, the suspect sociologist of The Freedom of the City, who remarks that the poor "often have a hell of a lot more fun than we do." (37)
In framing these scenes, Friel displays a growing awareness of the political possibilities of dramatic performance. Whereas the novel's Joycean interiority presents Judith as a kind of emotional specimen, performance on stage or screen facilitates, and perhaps necessitates, a more active, vocal, and self-aware heroine. Where Moore's heroine is so restrained that she changes her underclothes without removing her dress even in the privacy of her own room, Friel's Judith vents her desperation in fits of alcoholic honesty, biting remarks, and musical performance that contrast with the steady, measured tapping of patent shoes that his screen directions establish as an audible motif for her onscreen character. The scope of Judith's tragedy is thus shifted from the personal, religious, and psychological to the material and political. Less Stephen Dedalus, perhaps, and more Leopold Bloom; a flawed character whose limitations indict the social forces that have created them rather than simply reflecting, as the novel does, a circumscribed interiority ironically commented on by a privileged narrator.
By emphasizing Judiths material suffering, Friel invites the viewer to consider the real, physical burdens that "keeping up appearances" places on Judith, heading off possible readings of her plight as self-inflicted or a mere study in modernist interior monologue. Instead, Friel's Judith bears a striking resemblance to his 1990 heroine Molly Sweeney, a blind woman "whose individual life in a postcolonial, patriarchal culture reflects the ambiguous, complex, difficult reality of real Irish women" in spite of the way the play's male characters project their own interests, fears, and desires upon her. (38) Through his framing of her responses to poverty, patriarchy, and social hypocrisy, Friel suggests that Judith, while lonely in her passion, is far from alone in her plight.
In this emphasis on Judith's growing self-awareness and the role of transgressive performance in facilitating it, the screenplay presents a striking contrast to what may be its clearest predecessor in Friel's canon: The Loves of Cass McGuire (1966), whose titular hard-drinking heroine bears a strong resemblance to Judith, with several key exceptions. In a series of notes on the draft for the play, which Christopher Murray argues may have actually been inspired by Moore's novel, Friel wrestles with the inherent but often productive tension between script and character, contending explicitly with Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of an Author:
The writer creates these characters, but once they are written--as in SIX CHARACTERS--they have a life of their own, so that there are times when the author, by putting certain dialogue into their mouths, forces them to say things that they wouldn't say of their own volition. They could achieve a measure of liberty and self-expression, then, if they were to divert from the script occasionally; if it were established at the very beginning that there is a free and a written man. (39)
These notes deal with the creation of the play's heroine, who connives with the audience in telling her story, resisting (ostensibly) even the play's own narrative logic. Cass McGuire's character, described in the author's note by Friel as "the soloist" in a play he conceives as "a concerto," breaks repeatedly with the script set by her middle class Irish relatives, to whom she has returned from a life as a waitress in New York. From her first "shattering" appearance on the stage, she resists attempts to rein in her raucous manners: her brother Harry, for example, attempts to quiet her with the admonishment that "the story has begun, Cass," to which she responds, "The story begins where I say it begins!" (40) She often addresses the audience directly, appealing to them in the absence of any other sympathetic ears.
Like Judith, she is placed in a rest home "for her health" after her drunkenness and profanity prove too much for her bourgeois relatives. There she finds an elderly pair, Ingram and Trilbe, who periodically rhapsodize (to what Friel calls the "cantabile magic" of Wagner) about the imagined glamor of their former lives. (41) She resists this nostalgia at first, attempting to cling to the decidedly unglamorous story of her life and romance with a line cook in New York City, whose passing likely prompted her return to Ireland. Soon, however, she is worn down by the pain of her past and the disappointment of her homecoming, and her final "solo" performance sees her acquiescing to the dreamworld of her fellow tenants as their "dream narratives steadily and progressively usurp on Cass's independence." (42) She invents an idyllic memory of a successful marriage, a house by the sea, and reconciliation with her estranged father and brother. Part of the ritual of these remembrances is the intonation of Yeats by the participants in closing:
Trilbe: "But I, being poor--" Cass: "--have only dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet." Ingram: "Tread softly--" Cass: "--because you tread on my dreams." Trilbe: Our truth. Ingram: Our truth. Cass: Our truth. (43)
The play concludes with Cass thoroughly ensconced in the dreamworld of Eden House, saying "Home at last. Gee, but it's a good thing to be home." (44) This line prompts Murray's suggestion of Moore's novel as a possible source for the play: in Moore's ending, Judith finds herself "at home" in Earnscliffe House, where she has been institutionalized after a nervous breakdown. Nostalgic performance, keyed to the romantic strains of Yeats and Wagner, functions in the play as a vehicle for the domination of the "free" Cass by the "written," which prompts most recent readings of the play as an indictment of bourgeois Irish fantasies. (45)
Friel's screenplay, however, strikingly reverses this paradigm as Judith's transgressions increasingly take her outside the "written" social limits ascribed to her character. Unlike Cass, who begins the play outside the fourth wall and later vanishes into her rhapsodically improvised memories, Judith's character is most realized in her musical party pieces and alcoholic episodes, when she is perhaps farthest from the "reality" of her social milieu. This reversal displays a dynamic of point/counterpoint that is typical of Friel's corpus: Cass McGuire critiques the promise of emigration valorized in Philadelphia, Here I Come!, for example; and what Friel saw as the "pieties" of Translations are mocked in Friel's subsequent, less successful farce The Communication Cord. The "hysteria" associated with Judith's triumphant performances is necessitated by the social forces trying to keep her in check; attempting to reappropriate the gendered implications of the term, Friel seems to suggest that sometimes the only response to a pernicious and repressive cultural logic is to go mad. This madness, in both the screenplay and Friel's later drama, positions theatrical or musical performance as a response to patriarchy, as what McMullan identifies as the "unruly bodies" of Friel's female characters stage resistance to poverty and oppression, only to be tragically silenced.
When Friel's Judith is drunk, instead of singing the romantic or religious songs Moore's heroine sings, she sings "shocking" music hall tunes with strong sexual connotations, like "Mr. Porter," a music-hall song about a girl who, like Judith, has both missed her train and gone too far. Further, her songs actively subvert the pieties Moore's heroine clings to in the novel; one of her fellow tenants complains that the night before she had gone "straight from 'Hail Queen of Heaven' to "They're a Dirty Lot Of Bastards in the Old Transvaal'" without changing key. (46) Moore's note on his copy of the manuscript asserts that Judith, even when drunk, "would not sing 'shocking' songs." (47) This is because, in the novel, she drinks to accommodate herself and her internal narratives to the expectations of her class: she constructs fantasies of herself as a socialite or a celebrated concert pianist because these fantasies are shaped by the desire to achieve a normatively successful life. Like art and nostalgia for Cass McGuire, drink for Moore is a facilitator of self-deception, not fuel for rebellion. By contrast, Friel's Judith often uses her singing to articulate frustrated desires, to imagine alternative futures, and to express what she cannot speak aloud. Her songs express an implicit desire to subvert controlled piety with profane exuberance, reflecting, perhaps, Friel's own desire for what his dramatic work might accomplish in the rapidly polarizing orthodoxies of Northern Irish politics.
In Judith's drunken performances, the capitulation of Cass McGuire is reversed: as the screenplay progresses, Friel's Judith comes to resemble the more transgressive aspects of Cass's early character, the "written" Judith slowly giving way to the "free" as her frustration finds a voice and she breaks with the patriarchal expectations of respectability. Perhaps prompted by the escalating violence following Bloody Sunday, Friel uses Judith's transgressive acts to explore the political possibilities of dramatic performance. Rather than celebrating the Yeatsian cloak of dreams, he carefully stages encounters with reality that tear its fragile fabric, inviting the audience to consider the precarious lives and bodies that it covers. Judith's growing and increasingly vocal disillusionment serves as such an invitation, offering the audience not only a case study in social repression but also the seeds of a vocabulary of resistance made possible by the character-driven diagnostics of Friel's drama.
The first tear in this fabric occurs when Judith visits the O'Neills, upper middle class friends who represent the last vestiges of her old life. She is seen as a chore by the children and Professor Owen O'Neill, all of whom vacate the room as soon as they can upon her arrival. Moira, her friend and onetime rival for Owen's affections, politely asks Judith about her life but falls asleep mid-conversation, interrupting Judith's exaggerated account of James Maddens wealth. Judith's demeanor suddenly shifts, and her voice changes register, becoming "strange, tense, controlled" as she begins to tell the sleeping woman the truth, unsurprised at what has happened:
Always. I'm going to the pictures with him tomorrow night. Yes. And if he asked me to go with him to New York--to Haiti, I'd go. Yes. Because when you get to my age, Moira, and when you're alone as I am, and you're hungry, it's not easy to keep despair away. No, it's not easy, Moira. No, it's not easy. (48)
This conversation is absent in the novel, which focuses instead on Judith's excruciating lack of awareness regarding how onerous her visits are for the O'Neills and how painfully predictable her behavior is. Here, Moira only snores in response, emphasizing Judith's marginal position in an upper middle class that, if not outright hostile, is largely indifferent to her plight.
After her speech, Judith paces the room, eating chocolates, looking enviously at Moira and Professor O'Neill's wedding portraits, and finally pouring herself a drink. This scene, absent in Moore's novel, stages both Judith's isolation and her desire to be heard, her hunger for food and drink, warmth, and comfort. She sits down at the piano, thinking back to the cold confines of her childhood, in which she learned to play:
And in the distance we hear a five-finger exercise being played falteringly--a sound that evokes an image of reluctant lessons in cold, comfortless rooms. And suddenly, as if to drown the sound and kill that image, as if to assert a better, richer life, Judith begins to play Chopin's "Polonaise." [Close-Up other face: joyous, elated, eyes sparkling.] (49)
This performance marks a significant articulation for Judith, the positive echo of her bitter confession moments before. Through it, we are given a glimpse at the Judith behind the mask and manners, who both understands the reality of her situation and articulates a desire to "assert a better, richer life" beyond the circumstances in which she has found herself. The spell breaks, however, when Moira awakes and the rest of the O'Neill family enters the room for tea, and "Judith, as usual, affects her animated manner" and returns to the restrictive performance of social obligation. (50)
Friel thus takes Judith's alcoholism, a quality that for Moore represents only a means of self-deception, and examines its possibilities as a means of self-expression: more Bacchic ritual than Hogarthian parable. For Moore, drunkenness is a state that robs Judith of agency and credibility; for Friel, as in many of his plays including Cass McGuire and The Freedom of the City, it is a state of exception--perhaps like theater itself--that allows her to speak truth to power. Friel links Judith's alcoholism with a "hysteria" that is more pagan than patriarchal, drawing on Dionysian links between wine, divine madness, and dramatic performance. Although Judith's alcoholism may be self-destructive, it also dissolves many of the social barriers that enclose both her body and her speech.
This is made abundantly clear later in the script when, during another Sunday afternoon tea with the O'Neills, Judith continues to accept sherry when it is offered--exceeding the "Two is my absolute limit" of Moore's novel (51)--and becoming "almost imperceptibly tipsy" (52) As she drinks, the cracks in her facade begin to show, and Judith begins to take liberties. She disparages Ellen, the maid who refuses to treat her with the deference she feels she deserves, as being "slightly uncouth." (53) Moore, in his notes on the screenplay, objects twice to the depiction of Judith's relationship with Ellen: "People like J. H. don't discuss the maid." (54) This objection makes sense within Moore's conception of Judith as maintaining the illusion of upper class status; if Judith believes she is on par with the O'Neills, then of course it would be unthinkable to criticize the maid. However, since Friel depicts Judith as more self-aware, Judith's criticism becomes a site of class conflict between herself and the O'Neills: Judith is implicitly responding to the unspoken awareness that "in [Ellen's] scale of values--and isn't it the same as the Master's?--Miss Hearne doesn't merit the niceties." (55)
When she leaves, uplifted by the sherry, Judith begins to celebrate what she still believes may be her own impending nuptials with Madden. Seeing a young couple, she "puts her face right up to theirs and sings at the top of her voice the opening line of the 'Polonaise,'" once again "shocking" her audience. She then meets a Franciscan priest and asks him if he's "enjoying [his] loose habits?" (56) Judith here mocks the institution that, in Moore's novel, so dominates her imagination. Perhaps this is why Moore's notes object to this line in particular: Friel's reconfiguration of Judith breaks with Moore's deterministic understanding of her character, opening up resistant possibilities the novel often forestalls in the interest of narrative cohesion.
The script's Bacchic register becomes more pronounced when Judith returns to the O'Neills' home some days later, after she has been ejected from Earnscliffe House for bringing a bottle of gin to an old friend who has been institutionalized for alcoholism. Followed by a cacophony of "wild, mocking laughter... a groaning, pop music, strange laughter, saucepans, asthmatic coughing," Judith enters the O'Neills' home uninvited and pours herself a drink. (57) She is "very aware that her bold entrance, pouring herself a drink, being intoxicated in public [are all] serious breaches of the precise etiquette that has always determined her relationship with the O'Neill family," but she also determined that "she is now going to carry the occasion off with defiance and recklessness." Moira, "very authoritative," tries to take the bottle, but Judith "turns adroitly away," holding on to it. (58) Though she is drunk, it is her show; she is in control now. She addresses herself in the mirror, echoing the address she made to the sleeping Moira, speaking as much to herself as to her audience:
So here you are, calling on your friends, your posh friends, the O'Neills. But the remarkable thing is, Judith, you get a very distinct impression that the professor's wife isn't exactly elated at seeing you. Well, no, there's nothing really remarkable about that, Judith, because the professor's wife was never elated at seeing you--courteous, yes--elated, never. And if the truth were told, Miss Hearne--and in vino Veritas, Miss Hearne--you were never exactly elated at seeing the professor's wife either. As a matter of fact, Miss H., you could scarcely endure her. (59)
This confession, which she has long thought would end her association with the O'Neills, actually facilitates the most genuine human connection that takes place in the screenplay or the novel: Moira, moved by Judith's confession, embraces her: "For a second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds, [Judith] relaxes within those strong competent arms." (60) After that, however, she breaks away, leaving the house. These four seconds constitute what may be the only glimpse Friel affords us of genuine community, facilitated by a transgressive honesty.
Through Judith's transgressions, Friel begins to explore a key political element of his later work: the resistant "gesture," indicating what Translations' Manus calls "a presence." (61) Such gestures include Lily, Michael, and Skinner's carnivalesque occupation of the Lord Mayor's office in The Freedom of the City (1973), Doalty's sabotage of the English sappers' theodolite in Translations (1980), and perhaps most strikingly, the Mundy sisters' explosive dance in Dancing at Lughnasa (1990). These transgressive acts, all subsumed in the tragic narratives of their respective plays, stand out as moments of both protest and self-articulation, expressing what Seamus Heaney has called "the contours of a validating personal language." (62) They function as key points of convergence between protest, tragedy, and political identity. When performed successfully, these gestures stage transcendent moments of presence, in which disenfranchised characters assert their identities even on the brink of being silenced. They serve as narrative echoes of the NICRA march itself: a political performance writ large on the streets of Derry, diverted from the Guild Hall where Friel's Field Day company would later stage its inaugural play Although these gestures are predominantly tragic, they remain inevitably, troublingly necessary to the framework of Friel's drama. In this screenplay, Friel begins to conceive of these gestures--and his drama--in response to the violence of Bloody Sunday and the root social causes of the Troubles manifested in the suffering of individual Irish bodies.
The most striking of Judith's gestures occurs after she has left Moira, when she enters the church, still quite drunk. Having achieved a resolution with Moira, she is going to be honest with God. She does not attempt to open the altar door and behaves calmly, rather than desperately. She looks at the Risen Christ in the stained-glass window, just as she looked in the mirror at the O'Neills': "Now I know what you are. You are just nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all." (63) Despite the echoes of King Lear, the tone is far from purely tragic. Her face "is that of still another Judith, not stubborn, nor weary, but relieved, relaxed... her step is jaunty and she herself antic, frolicsome, happy." (64) This is a far cry from the novel's climactic scene, in which Judith, at the end of her rope, attempts to claw open the sacristy to determine whether God exists and then passes out. A scene that is tragic in Moore becomes oddly triumphant in Friel; Judith's refrain of "Nothing--Nothing--Nothing" leads into a musical interlude, rather than a desperate lamentation of lost belief:
The word "Nothing" bubbles from her in delighted amusement--this is her happy discovery--and she repeats it a dozen times in a dozen different voices, savoring the various sounds softly, privately to herself. JUDITH: Nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing--Nothing--nothing --nothing--nothing--Until the word takes on a musical rhythm which she conducts with her hands and to which her button shoes respond in time. (65)
Rather than being left with a vacuum in the absence of the religious faith that has propped up her hopes and desires, Judith finds that there is a kind of wild, pagan freedom, a deconstructive instant of clarity, beneath the social constraints she has experienced her entire life. For a brief moment, she is entirely "off script"; rejecting Catholicism, patriarchy, and the social obligations of class even as Friel rejects the nervous breakdown narrative of the novel's climactic scene.
Buoyant, she sits down at the organ and begins to sing "Mr. Porter" again, even as the priest and the policeman enter to restrain her. Friel's directions, ironically, give this scene a distinctly religious--if pagan--valence, as Judith's denial is elevated into the realm of Dionysian ecstasy and hysteria:
The gesture, of course, is defiant. But there is more than defiance: there is genuine joy and exultation in the sound itself; there is joy and exultation in creating that profane sound in this sacred place; and finally a joy and exultation that is rapidly going over the top and into hysteria. (66)
These directions are echoed in Friel's later play, Dancing at Lughnasa, in which the Mundy sisters perform their famous dance in defiance of poverty and frustration:
With this too loud music, this pounding beat, this shouting--calling --singing, this parodic reel, there is a sense of order being consciously subverted, of the women consciously and crudely caricaturing themselves, indeed of near-hysteria being induced. (67)
In discussing that play and the use of ceili music in Philadelphia, Here I Come!, Friel writes that music "explode[s] theatrically the stifling rituals and discretions of family life." (68) Judith's performance, however briefly, accomplishes self-articulation through art, positing something like Wallace Stevens's "violence from within that protects us from a violence without," (69) which Seamus Heaney glosses as "the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality." (70) As "one hand--in a soutane sleeve--grips her left hand" and "another hand--in a policeman's sleeve--grips her right hand," Judith maintains her defiant posture throughout her struggle with these two male representatives of Church and State, her "eyes dilated in joy/hysteria." Friel repeats three times the line "But still she sings," drawing out the struggle and heightening its affective register. When we see "a hand raised high--in threat? in benediction?" as it "contracts into a clenched fist," the silence which follows the "heavy thud" of Judith being subdued is deafening. (71) Where Moore's Judith faints in a moment of religious crisis, Friel's heroine is forcefully silenced by the priest and a figure strikingly absent from Moore's narrative, the policeman. Violence may quell this act of resistance, but the perpetrators of this violence, two men in authority beating down a middle-aged woman in a church, are hardly cast as victors. Judith may be forced to stop singing, but her voice carries on in the audience's memory, punctuated by the silence forced suddenly upon her.
Friel's script ultimately never saw production, largely due to the playwright's refusal to change his "(even more) downbeat ending," and the project was scrapped after producer David Susskind was unable to raise sufficient funding. (72) Friel jokingly blames Moore for this in a letter, including a few sarcastic suggestions for the kind of ending the Hollywood producers might prefer:
What has screwed up the whole thing ever since John Huston was a nipper is your lousy ending to the book. What is needed is a Beautiful Upsurge--Judith as international president of AA, or plunging back into the arms of mother church and becoming a stigmatist, or eloping with the Professors wife.... I'm sick of them all [film producers]. (73)
This comment may be justified by the version of the film that was finally made in 1988, starring Maggie Smith, written by Peter Nelson, and directed by Jack Clayton. Nelson, after renewing the rights every six months for almost three years, finally emptied his personal pension to buy the rights, both producing and writing the script for the film. (74) The film's ending includes a scene, not present in either Moore's novel or Friel's script, in which Madden returns to ask Judith to marry him, and Judith rejects him. He tells her, "At least [we would be] doing something together. Together's something," to which she replies, "So's alone." (75) In Nelson's version, Judith's loneliness is optimistically recast as independence, though it is implied that Judith's financial future will be determined by the O'Neills. The film concludes with Judith driving out of the rest home, dropping Maddens address out the car window, and smiling, accompanied by a slow upsurge of extra-diegetic classical music.
This is a decidedly more "upbeat" ending than either Moore or Friel offers. In the novel, Judith is left in Earnscliffe House, with the pictures of her domineering Aunt and the Sacred Heart continuing to make her feel "at home" within the institutional frameworks that have failed her. In Friel's ending for the screenplay, however, she is back on the streets of Belfast, looking for yet another boarding house, more shabbily dressed and desperate than ever. (76) Instead of driving off into the countryside surrounding Dublin, where Clayton's film is set, Friel's Judith is seen entering an untidy row house in a shot that pulls back to encompass the whole city. Friel's version may have been considered downbeat because he gives no final resolution to Judith's story and, unlike Clayton's film, no indication that the O'Neills are going to take care of everything for her; she is, in fact, poised to repeat the cycle of loneliness, poverty, and alcoholism that the audience has just seen.
Friel's earlier drafts demonstrate the importance of this scene in his conception of the film. He changed the ending several times (often at the prompting of his agents Audrey Wood and Dick Odgers), attempting to condense the film's concerns into a single shot. This displays the same confidence in his actor (perhaps well placed, given that the role was written for Katherine Hepburn) that he would later show in plays like Faith Healer and Dancing at Lughnasa, which depend almost entirely on pitch-perfect delivery. An early version describes the final scene, in which Judith has just checked in to the ambitiously named Bella Vista Guest House and is about to enter a shabbier room than that of the film's opening. The camera pauses briefly on her face, and, according to the directions,
Her expression says: "God, I can't face it. I just want to lie down somewhere. I feel ill, really ill. O God. But I must face it. I WILL face it. Yes. I will. Yes. Right, Judy girl, get a grip on yourself. Courage. Courage. Yes, it looks terrible now but you'll soon have it cosy and comfortable. And smile, Judy--that's better. A ladylike smile: remember--first impressions are lasting. Good. Now--enter." (77)
This was cut down considerably, largely at the prompting of Dick Odgers, who diplomatically suggested that this ending displayed too much faith "that miss Hepburn can (as the 'camera pauses briefly') say, in her face, all those several lines of internal dialogue." (78) David Harvey also expressed a concern for economy in these final scenes, writing that "the audience should leave feeling elated and yet, on reflection, feel desperate--the whole cycle starting again." (79)
Rather than ending his version in Earnscliffe House, Friel concludes with a scene that echoes the screenplay's opening, showing Judith back on the streets, in "a row of houses more run-down than in Sc. 1," her face set in a "fixed, strained, absurd-grotesque smile" as she looks for a new room to let. Although her material conditions are worse than they are at the close of the novel, Friel's decision to have the camera slowly pull back to encompass "the house, the street, rows of streets, and finally a panoramic view of the City" as the film closes suggests the potential for corrective action. (80) Through this closing image of Judith moving through the very urban spaces that would play host to the most violent conflicts of the Troubles, Friel employs a classic method of documentary film, positioning the viewer both spatially and ethically in relation to Judith's disappearing figure. Left with this image, it becomes impossible to forget that, where Moore's Judith is placed safely back into the institutions she has always supported, Friel's heroine remains at large, persistently and precariously present.
Archival recoveries of unsuccessful projects, even for writers as established as Friel, can be a risky enterprise. If their focus is too narrow, they may prove little more than fodder for a footnote; erring toward ambition, they can place more emphasis on a forgotten text than it is able to bear. Hoping to land somewhere in the middle, I would like to suggest that there is much to be learned from a writer's false starts. Friel's antagonistic relationship to film as a genre seems to stem from his experiences writing this, his only major attempt at a screenplay (aside from the aforementioned film version of Philadelphia, Here I Come!). As such, it can tell us much about his understanding of drama, film, and the role of the writer in each. His famous dismissal of directors as "interlopers" who "attempt to usurp the intrinsic power of the play itself," for example, seems intrinsically connected to his frustration with the Hollywood producers and their financial concerns. (81) Further, reading these early side projects can be invaluable in outlining the trajectory of not only a writer's career but also of his or her political and artistic investments: the ideas incubated by, and surviving, the abandoned work. Friel's revision of Moore's heroine offers insight into particular elements of character that would reoccur across the playwright's corpus; Judith's tragicomic transgressions, pagan energy, and suppression by patriarchy all find their way onto the stage in some of Friel's most memorable plays. Since the changes he makes stand out so starkly against Moore's source text, Friel's revision of Judith's character offers an unusually visible example of his emerging conceptions of gender, performance, and politics, which problematically yet provocatively yoke the tragedy of Irish colonization to the staged suffering of the female Irish body.
University of Texas at Austin
(1) Brian Friel, interview by Mel Gussow, 1991, transcript, Mel Gussow Papers, Container 87.5, Harry Ransom Center, University of Texas at Austin.
(2) See Sophie Milton to Brien Friel, n.d., MS 37,170, Brian Friel Papers, National Library of Ireland. Friel turned down the offer, and the Easter Rising episode was instead written by Jonathan Hales, later screenwriter for another Lucas franchise: Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones.
(3) Brian Friel, "Interview with Brian Friel"  by Lewis Funke, in Brian Friel in Conversation, ed. Paul Delaney (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000), 53.
(4) Friel, interview with Mel Gussow.
(5) Brian Friel, "The Man From God Knows Where" , interview by Fintan O'Toole, in Brian Friel in Conversation, 172.
(6) In what follows, I refer primarily to Moore's copy of the script, held in the Brian Moore Papers at the Harry Ransom Center and dated October 17, 1975, not only because it is the latest extant draft but also because it contains Moore's own notes on the script.
(7) Colm Toibin, New Ways to Kill Your Mother: Writers and Their Families (New York: Scribner, 2012), 143.
(8) Brian Moore, "Old Father, Old Artificer," Irish University Review 12, no. 1 (1982): 13-16, 15.
(9) Brian Friel, "Friel at Last" , interview by Julie Kavanagh, in Brian Friel in Conversation, 219. See also Correspondance with Brian Moore, 1971-1984, MS 37, 164/1-4, Brian Friel Papers, National Library of Ireland.
(10) Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of "Sex." (New York: Routledge, 1993), 234.
(11) Judith Butler, "Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory," in Performing Feminisms: Feminist Critical Theory and Theatre, ed. Sue-Ellen Case (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1990), 271.
(12) For a treatment of this distinction in the context of Friel's drama, see Anna McMuIlan, "Performativity, Unruly Bodies and Gender in Brian Friel's Drama" in The Cambridge Companion to Brian Friel, ed. Anthony Roche (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 142-53.
(13) Brian Friel, unpublished manuscript, quoted in Anthony Roche, Brian Friel: Theatre and Politics (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 4.
(14) For a sense of the trajectory of this debate, see Seamus Deane, introduction to Brian Friel, Selected Plays (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1986), 22, and Roche, Brian Friel, 4-5.
(15) Brian Friel, "The Man From God Knows Where," 172.
(16) Friel, interview with Mel Gussow.
(17) Richard Rankin Russell, "Brian Friel's Transformation from Short Fiction Writer to Dramatist," Comparative Drama 46 (2012): 451-74 (451-52).
(19) Brian Friel, The Freedom of the City, in Plays One (London: Faber and Faber, 1996), 150.
(20) Roche, Brian Friel, 6.
(21) McMullan, "Performativity, Unruly Bodies and Gender," 142.
(22) Karen M. Moloney, "Molly Astray: Revisioning Ireland in Brian Friel's Molly Sweeney" Twentieth Century Literature 46 (2000): 285-310 (285-87).
(23) Seamus Heaney, "... English and Irish," Review of Translations, by Brian Friel, Times Literary Supplement (Dublin), October 24, 1980, 1199.
(24) Christopher Murray, Csilla Bertha, and David Krause, The Theatre of Brian Friel: Tradition and Modernity (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 143.
(25) Moore, "Old Father," 15.
(26) McMullan, "Performativity, Unruly Bodies and Gender," 142.
(27) In a letter, Moore writes that Delaney's script, solicited by Harvey and would-be leading lady Katharine Hepburn, was "apparently the result of 2 weeks work and very poor," which led to them asking Moore to suggest an alternative writer. See Brian Moore to Brian Friel, October 10, 1971, Brian Friel Papers, National Library of Ireland.
(28) Brian Friel, screenplay draft of The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, MS 37, 164/1-4, Brian Friel Papers, National Library of Ireland.
(29) Friel also specifically addresses hunger and poverty in Dancing at Lughnasa, which, as he tells Gussow, was originally conceived while walking with fellow playwright Tom Kilroy across the Embankment Bridge in London to the National Theatre after the two of them had encountered a group of homeless people sleeping along the Strand. Friel remarked to Kilroy, "I had two aunts who ended up like that," to which Kilroy replied, "Why don't you write a play about it?" Friel, interview with Mel Gussow. The play's shocking disclosure that Agnes and Rose later die in a Southwark institution for the destitute bears a striking resemblance to Judith's fate in Friel's version of the screenplay.
(30) William Jent, "Supranational Civics: Poverty and the Politics of Representation in Brian Friel's The Freedom of the City," Modern Drama 37, no. 4 (1994): 568-87 (570).
(31) Brian Friel, screenplay draft of The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Box 20, folder 1, 37 Brian Moore Papers, Harry Ransom Center, University of Texas at Austin.
(32) Ibid., 23.
(33) Friel, Freedom of the City, 154.
(34) Brian Friel, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Brian Moore Papers, 17.
(35) Ibid., 18.
(36) Ibid., 19.
(37) Friel, Freedom of the City, 135. I should emphasize Friel's own complicated skepticism toward this remark, made by a character who displays simultaneously the most objective and, arguably, the most insidiously biased of Freedom of the City's many competing perspectives. While his poverty-stricken characters, like Lily Doherty or the Mundy sisters in Dancing at Lughnasa, often experience moments of onstage euphoria, the logic of the plays never allows the audience to forget the crushing realities to which these characters must return.
(38) Moloney, "Molly Astray," 303.
(39) Brian Friel, MS 37,052/ 2, Brian Friel Papers, National Library of Ireland (underlining in original).
(40) Brian Friel, The Loves of Cass McGuire (Dublin: Gallery Books, 1984), 15.
(41) Ibid., "Author's Note"
(42) Anthony Roche, Brian Friel, 71.
(43) Friel, Cass McGuire, 66 (quotations in original).
(44) Ibid., 69.
(45) See Murray, Bertha, and Krause, The Theatre of Brian Friel, 31, and Roche, Brian Friel, 71.
(46) Friel, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Brian Moore Papers, 101.
(47) Ibid., Moore's MS note.
(48) Ibid., 70.
(49) Ibid., 71.
(51) Brian Moore, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1964), 85.
(52) Friel, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Brian Moore Papers, 76.
(54) Ibid., Moore's MS note.
(55) Ibid., 66.
(56) Ibid., 79.
(57) Ibid., 132.
(58) Ibid., 133.
(59) Ibid., 134.
(60) Ibid., 135.
(61) Friel, Translations, in Plays One, 391. Manus refers here to Doalty moving the English sappers' theodolite after they leave the survey site, skewing their results.
(62) Seamus Heaney, "For Liberation: Brian Friel and the Use of Memory" in The Achievement of Brian Friel, ed. Alan J. Peacock (Buckinghamshire: Colin Smythe, 1993), 230.
(63) Friel, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Brian Moore Papers, 136.
(64) Ibid., 137.
(65) Ibid, (capitalization in original).
(66) Ibid., 138.
(67) Friel, Dancing at Lughnasa, in Plays Two (London: Faber and Faber, 1999), 37.
(68) Friel, "Music: Programme for the Friel Festival, April-Aug. 1999," reprinted in Christopher Murray, Brian Friel: Essays, Diaries, Interviews: 1964-1999 (London: Faber & Faber, 1999), 177.
(69) Wallace Stevens, "The Noble Rider and the Sound of Words," in Wallace Stevens: Collected Poetry and Prose, eds. Frank Kermode and Joan Richardson (New York Library of America, 1997), 665.
(70) Seamus Heaney, The Redress of Poetry (New York: Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 1995), 1.
(71) Friel, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Brian Moore Papers, 138.
(72) Friel, "Friel at Last," 219.
(73) Brien Friel to Brian Moore, quoted in Colm Toibin, New Ways to Kill Your Mother, 151.
(74) Leonard Klady, "The Artistic Odyssey of an Elusive Lady: 'Judith Hearne' Finally Makes It to the Screen After Many Detours," Los Angeles Times, January 1, 1988.
(75) The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, directed by Jack Clayton, performance by Maggie Smith, Bob Hoskins, London: HandMade Films, 1987.
(76) Earlier drafts in the Friel papers set the screenplay in Dublin, but the later draft in Moore's papers explicitly sets the action in Belfast.
(77) Friel, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Brian Moore Papers, 139.
(78) Dick Odgers to Brian Friel, 14 August 1972, MS 37, 164/1-4, Brian Friel Papers, National Library of Ireland.
(79) David Harvey to Brian Friel, 21 August 1972, MS 37, 164/1-4, Brian Friel Papers, National Library of Ireland.
(80) Friel, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Brian Moore Papers, 139.
(81) Brian Friel, quoted in Roche, Brian Friel, 33.
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