Exactly half a century ago, a film appeared which would help to define the image of Ireland, both in this country and overseas, for many years to come. John Ford was an American of Irish extraction and he found the source for The Quiet Man in a short story written by Maurice Walsh. That story was charming enough; how a man born in a remote corner of this country but raised in the US returns here to reclaim his family home and marry a local girl.
Ford's interpretation of this tale has a lot of charm and just as much hokum, the combination of which is said to have lured generations of American tourists across the Atlantic. But looking at it again recently, what mostly struck this viewer is how little semblance that vision of Ireland now has to our country.
Ford's film was always set in something of a never-never land even if it pretended to offer at least a partially-truthful image of contemporary Ireland. Even though set a couple of decades before the early 1950s when Ford worked here, the whole appearance of The Quiet Man seems locked into a timewarp in which most of the technical advances of the 20th century have yet to arrive. Bicycles and horses are the usual means of transport, for example. When John Wayne steps off the train at the fictional town of Castletown, he looks as baffled as Judy Garland's Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz when her house lands in Munchkinland. Wayne doesn't exclaim "I don't think we're still in Kansas, Toto" but otherwise he seems to acknowledge the unreality of his circumstances, especially as he is immediately surrounded by the Irish equivalent of the Munchkins - a band of quaint, chirrupy folk who make a great deal of noise and very little sense.
Wayne's Sean Thornton is rescued from the group by Michaeleen Flynn, played by Barry Fitzgerald in such a hammy manner that his Equity card ought to have been immediately withdrawn. And yet his twinkly caricature, prone to deceiving himself as much as anyone else, is part of a traditional portrayal which had been seen in theatres around the world for centuries. Michaeleen Flynn represents, in effect, the apotheosis of the stage Irishman and this is his only merit; that after The Quiet Man there was no need for such a character ever to be shown again.
Would that the same could be said for much of the rest of the film, not least Maureen O'Hara's Mary Kate Danaher, who alternates between fiery rages - all that red hair, as other members of the cast repeatedly point out - and demure reticence. She is first spotted as the very incarnation of virginal innocence, walking through the fields surrounded by unnaturally white sheep and casting coy glances back in the direction of John Wayne. He, meanwhile, stands transfixed, in the way unsuspecting American tourists are prone to being, by her beauty and by the way that even the sunlight cannot help bringing attention to all that red hair.
"Hey, is that real?" asks Wayne in his most dopey voice (a tone which always seemed to have come naturally to this actor). To which Barry Fitzgerald responds "Sure, it's only a mirage - brought on by your terrible thirst." And so, in the way that Irish people always do, they adjourn to the nearest pub where, also in time-honoured fashion here, there are spontaneous outbursts of both singing and fighting.
Alcohol, music and aggression; these are three of The Quiet Man's most potent leitmotifs, especially since they can often be found sharing the same frame. In the local bar, barely has John Wayne presented his Irish credentials than seemingly out of nowhere springs a box-player performing The Wild Colonial Boy and then a few moments later Victor McLagen's Red Will Danaher is challenging the newcomer to a fight.
Yes, it could be Friday night in Dublin's Temple Bar district, especially since throughout the film there is also an undercurrent of sexual tension. So, later that same evening, after Sean Thornton has snatched his first, illicit, kiss from Mary Kate Danaher, she threatens him "It's more than talk you'll be getting if you dare to step closer to me." Actually, relations between these two protagonists constantly verge on the violent. After the pair become engaged, she is advised "Have the good manners not to hit the man until he's your husband - and entitled to hit you back."
Even more extraordinary is their behaviour during what was obviously intended to be one of the comic set pieces of the film. Mary Kate having escaped to the railway station, Sean Thornton drags her off a train and all the way back to the family cottage, followed by a cheerfully jeering mob. At one point, an elderly woman, who one imagines really should have known better, runs up to him saying "Mister, here's a good stick to beat the lovely lady" which is precisely what he proceeds to do with it. That such a scene should be filmed now is as unimaginable as encouraging Maurice Chevalier in Gigi to reprise "Thank heavens for little girls."
Wife beating as a permissible, even entertaining, exercise is only the most obvious anachronism in The Quiet Man. But as recent revelations have made plain, it may also prove to have been the most honest element in Ford's depiction of Ireland. Everything else was so incredibly fake: the greenery of the countryside; the brilliance of the sunsets; the enormous tweed caps sported in practically every scene by John Wayne.
And yet, this piece of nonsense proved to be extraordinarily popular. It won John Ford an Oscar for his direction and Winton Hoch the same award for colour cinematography, the latter not surprising given the lurid hues in which the film is constantly bathed. And The Quiet Man did wonders for Bord Failte's efforts to attract visitors to this country, being in many respects a two-hour advertisement for our tourist industry. It's just impossible to imagine the equivalent film being made here today.
ROBERT O'BYRNE