Hollywood Irish E-Book

Adrian Frazier

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 640

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

In the course of a 1935 USA Abbey Theatre tour of the plays of Sean O'Casey and others, an extensive collaboration was launched between director John Ford ('My real name is Sean Martin Aloysius O'Feeney'), fresh from shooting O'Flaherty's The Informer, and star players such as Sara Allgood, Barry Fitzgerald and his brother Arthur Shields. Tempted by movie contracts, these great stage actors resettled in Hollywood and became members of what was informally called Ford's 'stock company', appearing again and again in his key films such as The Long Way Home (1940), How Green Was My Valley (1941), She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949) and The Quiet Man (1952). Based on a hitherto-unknown cache of Shields family papers and memorabilia, Frazier traces the remarkable life stories of these actors in their migration from Dublin to California. He shows how signifying elements of the Irish Revival mutated from world theatre to global cinema, giving fresh readings to some of the great films of the era. Richly illustrated, and driven by a sparkling narrative style, Hollywood Irish brings depth and perspective to Ireland's part in the fashioning of American identity.

Leseprobe

HOLLYWOOD IRISH

John Ford, Abbey Actors and the Irish Revival in Hollywood

ADRIAN FRAZIER

THE LILLIPUT PRESS DUBLIN

To the Carney Family and the Shields Family

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Introduction

I John Ford as an Irish Author

II Barry Fitzgerald and The Plough and the Stars on Stage and Screen

III The Long Voyage Home: Arthur Shields, John Ford, Eugene O’Neill and Irish Exile

IV Sara Allgood, Juno and the Paycock and How Green Was My Valley

V Irish Hollywood in the 1940s

VI The Quiet Man and The Playboy of the Western World

Afterword

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Copyright

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

After a draft of Chapter II of this book had been written, a conversation with the scholar-author W.J. McCormack changed what would become the rest of the book. He gave me a tip that led to Christine Shields in Oakland, California, who was Arthur Shields’ daughter, Barry Fitzgerald’s niece, and Sara Allgood’s goddaughter. These are the three great Abbey actors whose work is traced here.

Arthur Shields had been a bookish person, a keeper of mementos and careful manager of his own archive. Fortunately, his daughter was too. On being contacted, she let a visiting scholar come to her home and go through the papers. Christine Shields and her cousins Judith Lunny and Susan Slott then made a gift of this precious archive to the National Library of Ireland, Galway. The photographs alone transformed this book; the letters gave it a heart. As ‘keepers of the flame’, Christine Shields, Judith Lunny, and Susan Slott were helpful whenever asked; never when not asked. Their gift of the archive to the library of NUI Galway has already attracted other scholars and will benefit many more in the future.

I began with a desire to picture performances of the early Abbey Theatre. Those historic productions of the Irish dramatic revival were unique and unrepeatable events, never captured, either on film or in writing. But the actors so famous in the 1920s did go on to careers in film. It was in following those careers that one became aware that the great Abbey actors carried the Revival along with them to California, and then carried Hollywood back to Galway in The Quiet Man. That is the simple thesis and trajectory of this book.

A number of friends, family members, and colleagues were kind enough to read the manuscript. My thanks to Kevin Barry, Ros Dixon, John Carney, Kieran Carney, Helen Frazier, Rufus Frazier, Nicholas Grene, John Kenny, Thomas Kilroy, Jim MacKillop, Mike McCormack, Dearbhla Mooney, Riana O’Dwyer, and many times over, Cliodhna Carney. Also to be thanked are those who invited me to lecture on the subject: Marc Conner at Washington and Lee University; Nicholas Grene at the Synge School of Drama in Wicklow; Dennis Kennedy at the Samuel Beckett Centre, Trinity College Dublin; Lucy McDiarmuid at Montclair State University; Paul Muldoon at Princeton University; and Seán Crosson, Tony Tracy, and Rod Stoneman at the Huston School of Film and Digital Media, NUI Galway.

Richard English and Cormac O’Malley gave aid in understanding Ernie O’Malley’s relationship to John Ford. Joseph Hone worked with Ford when a young man: my thanks for providing an early look at what became Wicked Little Joe. Patrick McGilligan and Scott Eyman – two well-known authors with a vast knowledge of American filmmakers, Ford in particular – were each helpful, the first with publication advice, the second with images from his own archive.

While this book has been in preparation, three other monographs touching on its subject have been published: Ruth Barton, Acting Irish in Hollywood: From Fitzgerald to Farrell; Barry Monahan, Ireland’s Theatre on Film: Style, Stars and the National Stage on Screen; and Michael Patrick Gillespie, The Myth of an Irish Cinema: Approaching Irish-Themed Films. There is surprisingly little overlap between the four books. That is partly because the history of Irish cinema is a large field of inquiry, with much left to explore, and partly because there are many ways to come at it. The Internet Movie Database (imdb.com) and its purchasing feature enable one to order cheaply hundreds of historic films that not long ago would have been very difficult to access.

One of the pleasures of writing a biographically ordered story is that it takes one to great libraries. The National Film Information Service at Margaret Herrick Library, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, in the Douglas Fairbanks Center, Beverly Hills, California, is one of the sweetest, best-run places to study; my thanks to Kristine Kruger for the help rendered after my departure. Lauren Buisson at the Arts Library Special Collections, Young Research Library, UCLA, gave assistance in finding a way through the RKO and 20th Century Fox papers. The Lilly Library at Indiana University has the papers of John Ford and Lord Killanin; my thanks to David K. Frasier for dealing with email queries after my visits there. Karen Nangle of the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, provided the Sara Allgood photographs. My thanks to Bruce Kellner Trustee, Estate of Carl Van Vechten, for permission to use Vechten’s portraits of Allgood.

The special collections librarians at NUI Galway were continuously helpful; my thanks to Fergus Finlay, Marie Boran, and especially Kieran Hoare.

I must officially render my thanks, and am happy to do so sincerely, to the Grant-in-Aid of Publications scheme at NUI Galway (which enabled this book to be richly illustrated); and to the Millennium Fund, NUI Galway, which made possible my travel to archives. I was the beneficiary of an NUI Galway one-year sabbatical, during which much of this book was written; my thanks to colleagues in the English department who covered my teaching responsibilities, particularly Patrick Lonergan and John Kenny. My thanks to Irene O’Malley and Dearbhla Mooney, the English Department administrators, for daily making the work environment truly pleasant.

Jonathan Williams, who established Ireland’s first literary agency, takes remarkable care in the reading of a manuscript, and then the proofs; he has an eagle eye and a perfectionist’s knowledge of form. My thanks to him for placing the book with Antony Farrell’s Lilliput Press. There it has been enhanced by the editing of Fiona Dunne, and designed by Marsha Swan. Lilliput has rightly earned a name for publishing not just good books but beautiful ones. Helen Litton gets credit for the index.

There is one final personal nest of motives for writing this book that I wish to uncover. At the time of its beginning, I was the father of two small girls, and did not have time to read a lot of books, much less travel to archives. However, I could, while carrying an infant in my arms, watch movies. What is more, my wife and in-laws were caught up in writing screenplays, directing movies, acting in movies, talking about movies, and arguing about whatever movie they were watching. Steps needed to be taken to catch up at least a little with their expertise. So my heartfelt thanks to Frances Knott and Martin Carney, Jim, John, and Kieran Carney, Lucy Miller and Marcella Plunkett, and, most of all, my wife, Cliodhna Carney.

And, of course, to Clea and Lesy Carney Frazier, no longer infants at all, but very much little ladies who neither would nor could now be carried by me. Without them, I would never have thought to write this book. Now it is Delia Carney Frazier who is the babe in arms, and a reminder of how small a thing, in balance, any book is.

HOLLYWOOD IRISH

Members of the Abbey Theatre company treated to a lunch with the RKO production team on the set of The Informer, February 1935. John Ford is at the last table, far right. (Shields family papers)

INTRODUCTION

In 1931, 1932 and 1934, the Abbey Theatre company left Dublin for long tours of its repertoire through the United States. The third tour brought the Irish actors to Hollywood in February 1935. At the time John Ford, an Irish American with a passion for Ireland and its literature, was making a movie for RKO Studios of Liam O’Flaherty’s novel The Informer. A great admirer of the Abbey, Ford staged a welcome banquet for the players on the set of The Informer, which represented a lamp-lit Dublin city street.

The photograph opposite is a key piece of evidence for this book. The event it records is not simply a photo opportunity for Irish visitors with RKO celebrities; it was an occasion of some historical significance. Then and there, creative collaboration between Irish actors and a great Hollywood film-maker got underway.

The following Friday night, a number of Hollywood stars joined the Abbey cast on stage in crowd scenes from The Playboy of the Western World. Ford arranged for Denis O’Dea, the Abbey’s juvenile male, to do a turn as a street singer in The Informer. The assistant director’s daily call sheet already listed duties for two Abbey veterans who had since settled in Hollywood, J.M. Kerrigan and Una O’Connor. Before the current Abbey troupe left town, Ford took steps to get RKO producers to bring them all back again a year later for the filming of O’Casey’s two masterpieces, The Plough and the Stars (1936) and Juno and the Paycock (this second project was abandoned). The collaboration would continue over many years, bearing fruit in great motion pictures, the last of which was The Quiet Man (1952).

While The Plough and the Stars did not turn out to be one of these unquestionably great motion pictures that sprang from Ford’s collaboration with Abbey actors, the movement of O’Casey’s play from stage to screen itself makes a great story, with Irish sectarian trouble at its heart, and the global entertainment market for background.

The original authors and directors of the Irish National Theatre Society at the time of the Abbey Theatre’s opening in 1904, W.B. Yeats, Lady Gregory and J.M. Synge, were all Protestants, descendants of the post-sixteenth-century English colony in Ireland; 90 per cent of the country’s residents were Catholics. Even though these three authors were all committed nationalists working for Irish independence from Britain, they found themselves in the questionable position of giving dramatic representations of Catholic life from what their audiences expected to be a Protestant point of view. The famous riots over the production of Synge’s The Playboy of the Western World (1907) had their roots in this sectarian suspicion, or suspicion of sectarianism (arguments over whether the balance of blame lay with the audience or the author are continuing). A similar sectarian conflict heated up among the company’s actors in the 1920s, and it boiled over at the time of the first production of The Plough and the Stars, which also caused riots: Protestant actors sided with the Protestant O’Casey, and Catholic actors for the most part found the author to be at fault for the incendiary impact of the play.

O’Casey, partly out of disgust with the lack of support he received from both the Abbey’s actors and its audiences, and tempted by rich offers from London producers, left Ireland in 1926 and never worked there again. Barry Fitzgerald, one of the stars of the company, followed O’Casey to London. Sara Allgood had already left the Abbey for good, carried on the tide of her success in the title role of Juno and the Paycock in 1924. O’Casey’s Juno and the Paycock and The Plough and the Stars became two of the most popular plays in the English-speaking world, and not just popular, but recognized to be great in the sense that Shakespeare’s plays are great: literary, human, profound, tragi-comic and pleasurable. These plays paved the way for actors, and other Irish plays, to go from Dublin to London, New York and finally to Hollywood.

After 1926 the Abbey itself resumed its pre-O’Casey decline. Both political parties in the new Irish Free State were conservative, Catholic and theoretically anti-English language. A vigorous censorship of books and films was instituted, and the government – by virtue of its subsidy of the Abbey from 1925 – was able to place a representative on the theatre’s board of directors. The War of Independence (1919–21) and Civil War (1922–3) had left the Irish economy in a poor state. The 1929 worldwide depression further sank the standard of living. By 1931 the Abbey, just to keep afloat, found it necessary to undertake the first of what would be four major tours of North America in that decade. The aim was to capitalize on the international popularity of Irish drama in general and O’Casey’s plays in particular. In the first 1931/32 tour alone, the Abbey played in 74 cities and gave 238 performances. By the time the 1932/33, 1934/35 and 1937/38 tours were completed, the Abbey was known in nearly every city and town of North America.

It was the custom in the era of the early ‘talkies’ for Hollywood talent scouts to take up to fifty orchestra seats on Broadway opening nights in order to spot new acting talent.1 Sara Allgood had played Broadway in The Plough and the Stars (28 November-December 1927), Juno and the Paycock (19 December 1927–January 1928), Paul Vincent Carroll’s Shadow and Substance (26 January 1938–September 1938) and a revival of Juno (16 January–13 April 1940). Barry Fitzgerald and his brother Arthur Shields had been in Broadway productions of plays by O’Casey and Carroll, a writer now forgotten but in the 1930s regarded on Broadway as the successor to Shaw and O’Casey. By creating a public for Irish drama, and exposing its stars to talent scouts, Abbey tours of the USA opened the door for its actors to enter Hollywood studios.

Research for this book benefited by a stroke of author’s luck: a hoard of papers belonging to the key actors in this whole transition of Irish Revival drama from Dublin to Hollywood fell into my lap. At a conference in Galway on the performance history of The Playboy of the Western World, the scholar-author W.J. McCormack mentioned that he had a cousin who had a cousin who had in her possession the personal papers of Arthur Shields and Barry Fitzgerald. Within a few weeks, Christine Shields set before me in Oakland, California, dozens of boxes of papers and memorabilia – documents of family history, the private letters of her father Arthur Shields, her mother Aideen O’Connor and uncle Barry Fitzgerald, business papers from the Abbey tours of the USA, tax records, contracts with theatres and film studios, and hundreds of photographs from movies, plays and family life. This trove of papers (later donated by Christine Shields to the National University of Ireland, Galway) made it possible to tell the story of the Irish dramatic revival flowing into world cinema as a story of individuals. Arthur Shields, Barry Fitzgerald and Sara Allgood (godmother to Christine Shields) carried the traditions of Abbey acting within their persons – their muscles remembered those traditions, their voices were trained in them, their own inventiveness was governed by them. Where these actors went, the Irish dramatic revival went too.

One particularly significant historical moment revealed by the Shields family archive is the afternoon in September 1938 on which Arthur Shields decided to leave Ireland for the United States. He asked the director and founder of the Abbey, W.B. Yeats, if they might have a talk. The poet invited him to lunch at the Kildare Street Club (an exclusive Dublin resort of the Protestant Ascendancy). Shields had fought by James Connolly’s side in the Easter Rising in 1916; he had been one of the last rebels to surrender. At the Abbey Theatre he became the leading man and a person who, in Yeats’s words, ‘incarnates our traditions’.2 But by the late 1930s Ireland had grown impossible for Shields. He complained that now you had ‘to say your prayers in Gaelic’ to get on at the Abbey, and Shields had neither Gaelic nor prayers. More particularly, though married and with a child, he was in love with a young actress in the company, Aideen O’Connor. Offers to direct on Broadway and to do film-acting in Hollywood had been extended to him, with the chance of parts for Aideen too. He hated to leave the Abbey, but it no longer felt like home. The old poet replied that, all things considered, perhaps it was best for Shields himself that he take up one of his offers; however, as long as Yeats had anything to do with the Abbey, Shields would be welcome to return. By the following month Arthur Shields was in New York to direct M.J. Farrell and John Perry’s Spring Meeting, and within seven months, Yeats was dead and John Ford had sent Shields a contract for a new part that had been specially written for him into Twentieth Century Fox’s Drums Along the Mohawk.

The rapid transition by Arthur Shields from creative teamwork under W.B. Yeats to work under John Ford is startling. It is not customary to see a connection between these two great artists. They belong to different media, different levels of culture, different continents, and almost different centuries, in that Yeats emerges from ‘the long nineteenth century’ and Ford is a significant figure in post-World War II cinema history. You look for one in The Norton Anthology of English Literature and for the other in Turner’s Classic Movies. Nonetheless, the author and the auteur are linked, and by more than the fact that Arthur Shields was an actor: each of them trusted as a human means of expression of their own individual talents. Ford wanted to contribute to the Irish Revival too, the revival that Yeats more than anyone had started. Ford made certain movies that he conceived of as additions to that movement. That is why it made sense to him to work with actors like Sara Allgood, Barry Fitzgerald, Arthur Shields, J.M. Kerrigan and Una O’Connor. That is why he sought out Irish writers like Liam O’Flaherty, Sean O’Casey, Maurice Walsh, Eugene O’Neill and Frank O’Connor, and directed movies based on their works. That is why he named the village in The Quiet Man after Yeats’s famous poem ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’.

The factual record of the movement of the Irish Revival into world theatre and then into global cinema is so rich, and so little known, that the best way to treat it is by a documentary narrative, and to let the facts speak for themselves. My previous books were a theatre history, Behind the Scenes: Yeats, Horniman, and the Struggle for the Abbey Theatre (University of California Press 1990), and the biography of a writer, George Moore 1852–1933 (Yale University Press 2000). They left me with some experience of, and a preference for, a biographical and documentary approach.

To get at the mere truth of things, one has to overcome unusual obstacles in film studies. The number of those involved in making a Golden Age studio movie was huge, so reading a film in the light of any particular person’s artistic contribution is complicated. Contemporary documents about the movies are often driven by myth-making and profit-driven press releases, interviews and reviews; they obviously cannot be taken at face value. Baseless anecdotes become almost scriptural in their authority by means of repetition, like the one about John Ford, who, when pressed by a producer for being behind schedule, supposedly ripped an elaborate battle scene out of the script, then declared, ‘Now we’re on schedule’ (see Chapter III for a debunking of this myth). Manufactured witticisms are put into the mouths of Hollywood personalities who, except when reciting, never said a witty thing in their lives. Indeed, one of the difficulties in writing a book about actors and Hollywood people, as compared with writers, is that their letters are not often particularly quotable. Complaints about life on the road or spells of unemployment figure largely. Because of the unreliability of information about Hollywood, or the lives of actors in general, it was judged appropriate to print endnotes to this narrative; primary sources in archives are used wherever possible; gossip is held up to scrutiny.

The life adventures of the characters in this book were often extraordinary, although not in the case of the best actor among them, Barry Fitzgerald (his grumpy, kind, and shy offstage personality could have belonged to any decent civil servant, Fitzgerald’s day job for twenty years). On the other hand, although an unusually modest man, his brother Arthur Shields was a real-life hero of the Easter Rising, as well as the Abbey Theatre’s leading man and a Hollywood character actor with scores of credits to his name. John Ford was a boaster and a bully, but he was also a genius, and felt to be so by all those around him. Dishonest on occasion, he honestly earned his decorations for heroism in World War II and his five Oscars from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. In this book these figures are seen not from below as on a pedestal, or from above as if looking down on popular entertainers, but close and on the level, as individuals whose importance to the public is beyond doubt and merits an accurate account.

It will be obvious to readers that the story of early Abbey actors in Hollywood movies far extends in significance its importance as an ethnic success story. That more general significance can be illuminated by a pair of paradoxes from the writings of Oscar Wilde. Speaking of the relation between art and life, Wilde says in ‘The Decay of Lying’ that ‘No great artist ever sees things as they really are.’ He uses Japanese painting as his proof:

The Japanese people are the deliberate self-conscious creation of certain individual artists. If you set a picture by Hokusai, or Hokkei, or any of the great native painters, beside a real Japanese gentleman or lady, you will see that there is not the slightest resemblance between them. The actual people who live in Japan are not unlike the general run of English people; that is to say, they are extremely commonplace, and have nothing curious or extraordinary about them. In fact, the whole of Japan is a pure invention. There is no such country, there are no such people.3

In similar fashion one could say, in relation to the writings of the Irish Revival, the whole of Ireland is a pure invention. There is no such country, there are no such people. They were invented by a magically gifted generation of writers, mostly Protestant (James Joyce is the catastrophically huge exception), who took as their artistic material the customs, folklore and literature of a Gaelic-speaking, Catholic civilization. When Abbey Theatre audiences shouted during the first performances of The Playboy of the Western World (1907) ‘That’s not the West!’ and ‘That’s not Ireland!’ they had a point. Ireland is more ‘commonplace’ and has less that is ‘curious and extraordinary’ about it. But audiences pleaded in vain, because Synge’s play was a great play, just as Hokusai’s watercolours are great paintings.

In the same essay Wilde spins out a second paradox about the relation of art to life, and it partially contradicts the first: ‘Life imitates art far more than Art imitates Life.’ As soon as a great work of art has made known a new type of person, ‘Life tries to copy it, to reproduce it in a popular form, like an enterprising publisher.’4 The efforts of fact to reproduce fiction are amply evident in the case of the Irish Revival. Again and again in the story that follows one finds people testifying that they were inspired to take patriotic action by a single incendiary play, Cathleen ni Houlihan (1902). Yeats has come in for a degree of scholarly ridicule for asking himself near the end of his life, ‘Did that play of mine send out/Certain men the English shot?’ (‘Man and the Echo’). Yet the problem is not that (in the words of W.H. Auden) ‘poetry makes nothing happen’. The play did indeed send out a lot of men to fight for Ireland; whether or not they were among those who were shot is open to question. (It is the phrase ‘that play of mine’ that is particularly suspect, because Lady Gregory wrote much of Cathleen ni Houlihan.5) The overriding, unpedantic point is that in the Easter rebellion, life imitated art, and the Irish Revival in general was a forerunner of the Irish rebellion.

Life again follows in the footsteps of literature in the case of the excoriatedPlayboy. Whether or not there were women in Ireland like Pegeen Mike before the play was performed, there certainly were after it. The proud, belligerent, well-fortuned and love-hungry Mary Kate Danaher in The Quiet Man is modelled on Pegeen Mike, not upon the average female in mid-twentieth-century County Mayo. Maureen O’Hara’s performance ensured that Irish women at home and abroad who saw The Quiet Man would have a self-image to live up to. In doing so they would enact (though at several removes) the fantasies of J.M. Synge, an unmarried, indeed, possibly virginal, Protestant gentleman who died in 1909.6 That is at once unbelievable and true.

There is a possible resolution of the dizzying contradiction between Wilde’s two paradoxes: artists do not see life as it really is, and life imitates art, which would have life eternally attempting to resemble something that is attempting to resemble something that it is not. The resolution is that people are not ‘extremely commonplace’, with ‘nothing curious or extraordinary about them’, as blithely affirmed in Wilde’s deliberate insult to average citizens. Humans are not fixed forever in one ethnic form, much less a unitary, trans-ethnic ‘human nature’. Today’s ordinary and commonplace pass away, to be replaced tomorrow by things somewhat different, themselves soon to be experienced as ordinary and commonplace. The story of representations (how people appear in plays and movies) matters not simply because plays and movies provide so much of our pleasure, but also because in the story of social change, representations are both the mirror and the lamp, as art may both reflect reality and light the way forward to new realities.

The concept of symbolic ethnicity, developed first by Max Weber and modified by Herbert Gans, is explained in Chapter I. It is a key to this book. Ethnic identities are continuously remade by cultural industries – that is, on the individual level, by poets, playwrights, novelists and film-makers. Movies in particular, given the mass market appeal of some of them, have the power to fashion identities that hearken back to countries of origin. This was a power that John Ford was keen to seize upon. Along with some other directors, he wanted to lift the status of Roman Catholics in predominantly WASP America. He also wanted to depict Irish people as the prototypical immigrants in a democratic land, those who were the country’s first sheriffs, doctors, generals, mayors and freedom fighters. He wanted to celebrate the high art, modernist magnificence of twentieth-century Irish literature by doing justice to certain key texts in motion pictures. Finally, he wanted to be seen within Ireland as an Irish artist himself, and contributor to the Irish Revival, with something to say of value as a result of his American experience. In The Quiet Man, he said it.

The narrative in this book is fast-paced and by its nature complicated. It criss-crosses several countries and three major cities, Dublin, New York and Los Angeles. It encompasses literature, history, drama and film. It has not one but four starting points: John Ford, Barry Fitzgerald, Arthur Shields and Sara Allgood. Time schemes overlap in the first four chapters, which are dedicated to each of their careers in turn. Sometimes events recur in the narrative, as seen from the points of view of their different participants. By virtue of being the story of individuals, it demonstrates how culture forms people, and the fact that it is people who make culture. Every chapter in the book includes extensive consideration of at least one movie by John Ford, so instrumental in bringing Abbey actors to Hollywood, and so reliable an employer for them thereafter. Thus, this book about the Irish Revival doubles as a book about John Ford. On the belief that readers, like the author, have come to care for the people involved, an afterword tells what finally became of Barry Fitzgerald and his remarkable brother Arthur Shields.

Notes

1. Alastair Phillips and Ginette Vincendeau (eds), Journeys of Desire: European Actors in Hollywood (BFI Publishing: London 2006), p. 7.

2. W.B. Yeats to Edith Shackleton Heald, 4 September [1938], unpublished letter, ‘The Collected Letters of W.B. Yeats, Past Masters: English Letters Collection’, Online database, OUP: Oxford.

3. Stanley Weintraub (ed.), Literary Criticism of Oscar Wilde (University of Nebraska Press 1968), p. 190.

4. Ibid. p. 182.

5. See James Pethica, ‘‘‘Our Kathleen”: Yeats’s Collaboration with Lady Gregory in the Writing of Cathleen ni Houlihan’ in Deirdre Toomey (ed.), Yeats and Women (Palgrave: London 1997).

6. W.J. McCormack, Fool of the Family: A Life of J.M. Synge (London, Weidenfeld & Nicolson/New York: New York UP 2000), p. 362.

I

JOHN FORD AS AN IRISH AUTHOR

Previous page: John Ford in uniform, World War II. (Lilly Library)

‘My name is John Ford; I am a director of Westerns’: thus Ford presented himself – famously, sham-modestly, and misleadingly.1

The occasion on which he first deployed the formulation is crucial. The date was 22 October 1951, at a Screen Directors Guild Meeting in the Beverley Hills Hotel. The organization, like the country as a whole, had been in crisis for several years over the hunt for Communist Party members obedient to Moscow. Cecil B. DeMille wanted the Guild to compel each of its members to take a loyalty oath to the United States of America.2 By this means he also hoped to reduce the power and influence of directors of foreign birth, people like the German-born Billy Wilder and William Wyler and the Italian-born Frank Capra – men with ‘accents’, as DeMille framed the category of un-Americanness. If directors refused to take the oath, then they would be blacklisted by Hollywood producers, who had by 1951 been well and truly terrified by Joseph McCarthy’s House of Un-American Activities Committee in the US House of Representatives.

John Ford and Merian Cooper (his producer and partner in Argosy Pictures) were indignant at the thought of being subjected to any loyalty test except one administered by the US government. Surely no one had a right to question their patriotism. Cooper, producer of King Kong in 1933, had become a brigadier general in the army; Ford had climbed to the rank of admiral in the navy while running the photographic unit of the intelligence service in every major theatre of World War II. He had been awarded the Purple Heart for an arm wound received in the Battle of Midway.3 Yet the loyalty-oath issue went deeper than questions of service to country. It also went deeper than party politics. Both Ford and Cooper were Republicans, just like DeMille, who advocated the oath, and like Joseph L. Mankiewicz, the current Guild president, who opposed it. Certainly, matters of professional formation were involved: ‘We organized this guild to protect ourselves against producers,’ Ford reminded his colleagues. An oath would require the surrender of a degree of professional freedom. Beyond national service, party politics, or profession, however, the issue raised questions of ethnicity in an American’s artistic identity, and that is why Ford opened his remarks by saying who he was.

Among the 298 delegates in the Crystal Ballroom, there can hardly have been one that did not know that the six-foot tall, stooped and slack-jowled man wearing an eye-patch and baseball cap went by the name of John Ford and that he had directed Westerns, scores of them. In the world of movie-makers, he was as quintessential an American figure as Buffalo Bill. By 1951 he had been in Hollywood for 37 years and had made 118 movies. In December 1935, he was one of the twelve who founded the Screen Directors Guild. The modesty of his self-introduction was fake modesty, a rhetorical irony to undercut DeMille’s pomposity. Because DeMille had been the first director to make a full-length movie in Hollywood (The Squaw Man, 1914), and because he subsequently made many high-grossing epic spectaculars (The King of Kings, 1927; Cleopatra, 1934), this son of English immigrant theatre people had come to regard himself as old stock, a native aristocrat.4 Ford countered by staking his claim to the one uniquely American genre, the Western, more or less as if he had said, ‘My name’s Hancock, John Hancock, and I wrote the Declaration of Independence.’

It was a strong opening, and after some further remarks, half-belligerent (‘I don’t like C.B. DeMille’) and half-friendly (‘but I admire him’), and with very little further eloquence or argumentation, Ford proposed that the motion for an oath be dropped, the current board of directors be asked to resign, and the meeting adjourned. DeMille ‘shrivelled and shrank’ as Ford spoke.5 He knew he had been trumped by another patriot patriarch.

Ford would have been entitled to introduce himself quite differently. He might, for instance, have said, ‘I am a director of Shirley Temple movies,’ for he had made Wee Willie Winkie (1937) for Twentieth Century Fox and later cast the actress as an adult in a Western, Fort Apache (1948). That would be a twisted take on his filmography, but it would not have been unreasonable for him to have said, ‘I am a director of films about Lincoln and Lincoln’s America.’ Ford’s series of Southern and Midwestern films starring Will Rogers (Dr Bull, 1933; Judge Priest, 1934; Steamboat Round the Bend, 1935), his two films about the life of Lincoln (Prisoner of Shark Island, 1936; The Young Mr Lincoln, 1939), his other American historical films starring Henry Fonda, whether in 1776 Massachusetts (Drums Along the Mohawk, 1939), 1881 Tombstone (My Darling Clementine, 1946) or Dustbowl Oklahoma and Depression California (The Grapes of Wrath, 1940), creatively defined an American fair-minded, homespun, democratic individualism in an array of geographical and historical settings. His ability to create a historical screen poetry was seized upon by producer Winfield Sheehan of Fox Studios, and adeptly developed by Darryl Zanuck when he took over the amalgamated Twentieth Century Fox Studios in 1935.

In light of his achievements within the studio system, Ford could have simply said to his colleagues in the Screen Directors Guild, ‘I am a successful money director,’ for he had done the work assigned to him by Sam Goldwyn, RKO, Fox and Twentieth Century Fox through several decades, always on schedule and within budget, winning four Academy Awards, and with very few losing propositions, whether the movies were Westerns, war movies, Americana, historical costume dramas (Mary of Scotland, 1936) or Shirley Temple vehicles.

Finally, to bring into discussion the aspect of his artistic identity that will be examined at length here, John Ford was a director of art films of Irish interest. But, although he was at work on his fifth such project at that moment (The Quiet Man, 1952), an ethnic self-presentation would hardly have suited his purpose at the Screen Directors Guild meeting in 1951.

2

Nor would it have been, when replying to DeMille’s nativist arguments, appropriate for Ford to introduce himself by saying, ‘My real name is Sean Martin Aloysius O’Feeney.’ In 1894 those were the names given the thirteenth child of John Feeney, an immigrant bootlegger and saloon-keeper. Ford was not ashamed of this Irish background. Far from it. He told friends to call him ‘Sean’, not John. No one could have known John Ford for long without learning that his father came from the village of Spiddal outside Galway on the west coast of Ireland, and his mother’s people from the Aran Islands, off that same coast and within sight of Spiddal.

Although by 1951 Ford had made only three or four short visits to Ireland, in conversation he made much of his familiarity with the country. He arrived for the first time in Spiddal on a four-day visit to Ireland in December 1921, during a truce in the War of Independence. In Connemara Ford evidently met Michael Thornton, an IRA cousin on the run from the British army. Could a wealthy relative like himself have refused to contribute some cash to the cause? Subsequently, Ford anecdotally ballooned his brief sympathetic association with Michael Thornton into active service in the fighting.6

John Ford with his cousins in their Spiddal cottage, either in 1951 or 1955. Ford’s son Pat is third from left. (Lilly Library)

At a Hollywood party he would announce, ‘I’m an Irish rebel, freedom fighter. Bet you didn’t know that.’7 On movie sets Ford sometimes even pretended to fluency in the Irish language by mixing gibberish with the few catch-phrases he remembered from childhood (Maureen O’Hara, who had some school Irish, was induced into conspiring in the hoax).8 The fantasy element in Ford’s ego-identification as Irish is nicely symbolized by the sailboat he purchased in 1934, thereafter the central vehicle of his recreation. He named the hundred-foot ketch Araner, after the islands from which his mother’s people came. The boat and its name highlighted both the continuity between John Ford and his pre-Famine Irish forebears, and his distance from them in the splendid Californian triumph at which their descendant had arrived.9 That there was an element of fantasy in Ford’s Irishness does not mean that it was unreal or unimportant to his identity. It suggests the opposite: that his Irishness was a wish in need of fulfilment, a gap in his American identity that had to be filled.

Like many other Americans, Ford required an ethnic personality profile as an intermediary between the abstract individualism of the capitalist metropolis and the nation state. The pressures upon first-generation immigrants to adapt to the language, the ethnically mixed churches, the secular public education, and the mobile employment markets of America were immense. Emigrate or starve had been the dilemma in their home countries, and integrate or starve was often their only choice in America. The ideology of the United States aimed to create national solidarity among immigrants by means of a theory of the equality of each citizen – at least each non-African, non-Asian and non-Hispanic citizen – at the level of individuality, which implied the surrender of group loyalties to one’s community of descent and a promise of blind justice on the part of the state with respect to hierarchies of groups.

The huge waves of immigration of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, of Germans, Irish, Italians and Russian Jews, raised fears during World War I of their ‘100 per cent Americanism’ in the majority population, especially after 1917, when the USA entered the war on the side of Britain and against Germany.10 In 1924 the US Congress, still concerned about the threat of newcomers to national solidarity, passed an immigration bill that fixed an annual quota of immigrants for each country based on its place in the national origins of the US population in the census of 1920, the involuntary immigrants from Africa and Asia excepted.11 As a consequence 70 per cent of the future immigration to the USA would be from Ireland, the United Kingdom and Germany, all ‘white’ and Western countries, envisioned in 1924 to be the core of a future uniform American identity. But even second- and third-generation white Americans from these countries would often yearn to retain features of their group identity before the last shreds had melted away.

An ethnic profile could, as Emile Durkheim suggested, provide citizens of a modern state with spiritual guidance and consolation, helping them steer clear of the despair that attends complete normlessness (‘anomie’).12 A remnant of ‘symbolic ethnicity’ could serve a still vital function even if it amounted only to the celebration of national holidays (e.g. St Patrick’s Day), the determination of one’s religious affiliation (Irish Catholic), rare overseas holidays in the ‘homeland’ (‘the ould sod’), identification with the high culture of one’s ancestral nation (the Irish Renaissance), and the attribution of personality features to inheritance from one’s ancestors (alcoholism, orality, pugilism).13

John Ford illustrates how to throw a punch, Long Gray Line, 1955. (Courtesy Scott Eyman)

3

For instance, if one self-medicated by means of alcoholic binges, as Ford often did once he had wrapped a film, one could point to heavy drinking as just part of the personality kit of an Irish male, a mark of group belonging. One could even require one’s drinking buddies and crewmen on the Araner – people like John Wayne and Ward Bond, men of no immediate Hibernian ancestry – to be Irish too. Or how could one excuse one’s physical violence against friends, subordinates and women? For sometimes John Ford unpredictably sucker-punched people.

He did it even to actors with whom he had worked again and again, such as Henry Fonda (Ford ‘suddenly jumped up and slugged him in the face’), Maureen O’Hara (‘He turned on me and socked me square in the jaw. I felt my head snap back and heard the gasps of everyone there’), and Dobe Carey (‘So I’m smiling, and boom! Ford hits me right here [in the jaw]).’14 Such bewildering, unforgivable acts Ford could hope to understand, or get others to interpret, as just part of a romantic Irish personality, the ethnic burden he had to bear. Ford was not a highly articulate man. ‘Ford can’t write,’ screenwriter Nunnally Johnson reported, ‘it just runs him nuts.’15 His sole gift in self-expression was telling through pictures, with words – where essential – provided by others. His surviving letters show very little of the character, humorous charm, elegance and depth embodied in his best movies. So he could not lay claim to the Irish ‘gift of the gab’.

But he certainly had an artist’s creative nature, and he protected its freedoms by evasiveness in relation to truth. His reports on life took the form of fabulations – not transcriptions of an event but heightened, complex translations of it. In interpersonal relations he carried statements one step past irony. An ironic statement is one in which what is meant is different from what is said, but also a statement in which one’s intention is still to be understood. Ford’s conversation, as many producers, stars, and especially interviewers would come to learn, was filled with statements that were plainly misleading. He was, in fact, an unrepentant liar. But this personality attribute could be at least partly transvalued from vice to virtue by being understood as an aspect of his Irish heritage, for the Irish are stereotyped as people of powerfully imaginative natures. In 1937 Ford wrote to a nephew fighting on the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War that he was glad the boy had inherited ‘the good part of the O’Feeney blood’. He had to admit that his own temperament carried strains both good and bad: ‘Some of it is awful, very God-damned awful – we are liars – weaklings – and selfish drunkards, but there has always been a stout rebel quality in the family and a peculiar passion for justice.’16

Ford’s claims to Irishness carved out a dimension of freedom in an American civil society that, partly because of its Protestant origins, and partly because of the centrality of the free market to its way of life, officially valued sobriety, self-discipline and speech of almost promissory plainness. If drinking, fighting and tale-telling were Irish habits, they had to be tolerated on the grounds that all ethnic forms of life ought to be equally valued.

An ethnic personality profile might serve not only in justifying personal habits that American civil society treated as vices, but in providing the security of given virtues in a social marketplace of excessive freedoms. Ford’s ‘Irish’ and patriarchal sense of family and his Catholic notions of marriage are important here. In a civil ceremony in 1920 Ford married 28-year-old Mary McBryde Smith, of Scottish and Irish descent. As a Catholic, Ford could not marry in church a woman who was either Protestant or divorced, and she was both. In December 1941, after the death of Mary Ford’s first husband and her conversion to Catholicism, they were married a second time in the National Cathedral, Washington DC. In divorce-happy Hollywood the Fords treated marriage as indissoluble. Ford admitted he was not an ideal husband: it was his ethnic inheritance that made him so difficult, he apologetically explained to Mary. In a sentimental letter written in New York in 1943 while awaiting his departure to the Asian theatre of war, Ford concluded:

I pray to God [the war] will soon be over so we can live our life together with our children and grandchildren and our Araner – Catalina [Island] would look good now! God bless and love you Mary darling – I’m tough to live with – heaven knows & Hollywood didn’t help – Irish and genius don’t mix well – but you do know you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved – God bless m’darling.17

Secure in her position and her house, but aware that Hollywood husbands could sometimes only think of their ‘lousy, stinking tail[s]’,18 Mary Ford somewhat ominously recommended that Hollywood wives take to heart the old saying, ‘Don’t believe any of what you read, and only half of what you see.’

4

Not that there was a great deal of gossip about John Ford, even in a town where Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons had turned gossip into an international industry.19 There is little evidence that Ford had a nature that was particularly passionate sexually, or single-mindedly disposed towards either women or men. Yet through the sexist system of procurement operating fairly openly in film studios, he would have been exposed to what for another would be stiff temptations. For instance, at Twentieth Century Fox where Ford was employed in the 1930s and 40s, head producer Darryl Zanuck would have sex with a starlet at four o’clock each afternoon, the identity of the starlets changing regularly.20 In the same period, as leading director for the studio, Ford did not make use of his office couch for casting purposes.

He did become romantically entangled with Katherine Hepburn during the filming of Mary of Scotland in March 1936 and kept up the flirtation at least until January 1937. He took her home to meet his family in Portland, Maine, and had dinner with hers (‘Is it true your people are Irish Catholics?’ Hepburn’s blueblood aunt inquired in mock disbelief). He brought Hepburn out for a sail on the Araner, during which she posed for a photograph giving him an on-deck foot-massage. There is, however, no evidence that Hepburn was lying when she said, ‘He never made a pass at me.’21 While on tour around the Midwest in a stage play, Hepburn wrote to Ford that his spirit went with her; he ‘occup[ied] a wonderful place suspended in mid-air below the [theatre] balcony’,22 a tough, fatherly, yet finally appreciative image before which she could perform in hope of applause. But it was an image that could be relied upon never to become a man, and never to require that she should stop performing and start being a woman. It suited them both, Hepburn’s recent biographer William J. Mann hypothecizes, that Ford was a married man unlikely ever to leave his wife. Thus, they were each protected by his monogamy from what they did not really want in any case. Sexual intercourse could have brought their romance to a catastrophic end. Hepburn’s ‘Dear John’ letter (actually addressed to Dear Sean) of 10 April 1937 pointedly complains of a lack of clarity on both her part and his during the relationship, and concludes that ‘Maybe [was] a feeble way of saying no.’23

Katherine Hepburn and John Ford on the set of Mary of Scotland, 1936. (RKO/Photofest, © RKO)

Ford had other flirtations. One not noticed by his all-but-all-knowing biographer Joseph McBride has been identified by William J. Mann in Kate: The Woman Who was Katherine Hepburn. After January 1937 when Hepburn dropped Ford and literally flew off with pilot, film-maker and millionaire Howard Hughes, Ford found a new darling among Hepburn’s Hollywood friends, the ginger-haired Irish-American Mimi Doyle (1914–79). She was the daughter of a Los Angeles banker and sister of actress Eve March.24 Mann proves that Mimi Doyle is the author of a mysterious love letter in the Ford archive, one that takes the form of a catty playlet reporting Hepburn’s private conversation about her past romance with Ford. But Mann does not go on to observe that on the evidence of this letter Ford may have set Mimi Doyle up in an apartment, for which she appears to thank him: ‘Little boy, the new apartment is wonderful. I have a big picture of you and somehow I’m not quite so lonesome with that to look at first thing in the morning and the last thing at night (oh my I love you).’25 He also found her a part as a telephone operator in Four Men and a Prayer (1938) and other bits in five subsequent films, the final one as ‘Mamie Burns’ in The Last Hurrah (1958).

To what degree this affair was consummated and how long it lasted are things unknown. Perhaps to Mimi Doyle as to Katherine Hepburn, Ford came no closer than floating in the middle distance. In spite of the frank intimacy of her phrasing – the last thing at night (oh my I love you) – it is rather hard to imagine 44-year-old Ford in bed with this 28-year-old. He had certain habits that were likely to render his person unattractive. For instance, he rarely took his pipe out of his mouth, except when replacing it with a cigar or a handkerchief. His favourite tobacco is described by seasoned reporters as ‘unfragrant’ (read stinking).26

Apart from his smoking, a widespread and sexualized pastime in any case for men and women in the period (remember Garbo exhaling clouds of cigarette smoke in the faces of her leading men?), Ford had the unique habit of chewing a large white handkerchief. Evidently, this was some secondary form of suckling behaviour, and one that loosed his mind to reverie. He sucked his handkerchief in script conferences; he sucked it while in his director’s chair on set during filming. He went through handkerchief after handkerchief. The lifelong habit overstimulated his salivary glands. When he would relax with a drink from the tension of creative thought, his lips would grow wet with slobber. Dobe Carey, who was kissed by Ford when drunk, found the experience embarrassing, and needed to wipe himself afterwards, which enraged Ford.27 So Dobe Carey had a double surprise: first the wet kiss, then a sucker punch. Still, whatever may have been the features of John Ford’s physical person, geniuses, millionaires and leaders of men – and Ford was certainly all those – have a supervening attractiveness for women and men. After all, one of the most beautiful, intelligent women in the western world, Katherine Hepburn, had fallen for him.

When separated by World War II duties from his wife, Ford flirted with his wartime secretary, who called him an ‘old goat’ and always said ‘No’ to what were only joking offers.28 Finally, during the preparations for filming The Quiet Man, he wrote Maureen O’Hara rather corny, stilted love letters, possibly composed when drunk. In them he worked himself into a fantasy that he was the Trooper Thornton hero of that film, later to be played by John Wayne, opposite O’Hara as the heroine Mary Kate Danaher.29

5

O’Hara, from what mixture of motives it is hard to say, relays anecdotes in her 2004 autobiography that suggest a counter-explanation of Ford’s monogamy. According to her, Ford never had a sexual love for another woman not because of his Irish Catholic mores, but because his passionate feelings were primarily for men. O’Hara says that in 1954 she went to see the director about costume tests for The Long Gray Line. He did not get up from his desk where he was drawing on a pad. When O’Hara came close, she saw what he was drawing: ‘Penises. Big ones and small ones. Thin ones and fat ones.’ She declined to acknowledge what she saw, and what he knew she had seen, for he continued his drawing. They did not speak of the matter. A few days later, she came into his office without knocking, and this time caught Ford kissing someone, who, when he left Ford’s embraces turned out to be a famous leading man, O’Hara says, without naming the person in question.30

There is admittedly a strain of malice in O’Hara’s reminiscences: she is far more likely to offer shocking revelations about others than about herself. For instance, in the context of a child-custody battle, she reports hearing that her ex-husband was, literally, a ‘cocksucker’.31 While she was grateful to Ford as the one director who ‘allowed her talent to triumph over her face’, and gave her more scope for acting than she was allowed in her ‘tits and sand’ swashbucklers, O’Hara did not like being punched, abused verbally on set, harassed by pseudo-love letters, and upbraided for divorcing her drunk, bankrupt and unfaithful husband – all of which she had to put up with from her old friend and fellow Irish patriot John Ford.32

Apart from the slobbery kiss when drunk applied to Dobe Carey, there is only one other story of male–male love in Joseph McBride’s long biography. Woody Strode (1914–94), a famous African-American decathlon star (kept out of the 1936 Olympics only by a UCLA academic requirement),33 became one of Ford’s favourite actors. In 1960 Ford took the financially risky step of giving Strode, often cast by others as one of many black extras in fourth-rate Tarzan remakes, a leading-role in a Western, Sergeant Ruttledge. The movie is about a soldier in a Negro cavalry regiment who is falsely accused of rape. Strode in some scenes is posed as the archetypal ‘buck’, that virile representation of white suspicions that black men really are better.

Sergeant Ruttledge guides his troops by means of his faith that ‘Some day’, ‘Maybe, but not yet’, black Americans will get the freedom that Lincoln promised them. On that expectation he is ‘crazy’ enough to ‘fight the white man’s war’ against the Indians. His faith in America’s future is precariously vindicated in the climactic trial scene, in which Strode, although exposed along the way to what is depicted as casual and wholly customary courtroom racism, is found Not Guilty of rape by the military tribunal.

Three years later, when Ford was ailing and lonely, Strode temporarily left his own wife and children to move into the director’s house to look after him, sleeping at the foot of his bed. Strode stayed for four months. He gave the old man massages and tried to curtail his alcoholism. The relationship, McBride concludes, had a ‘homoerotic element’ but, as McBride rightly adds, it also matches the affectionate, mutually respectful, master–servant relationship between Pompey and the despairing Tom Doniphon in Liberty Valance (1962), roles played just a year earlier by Strode and John Wayne.34 Anyone who can remember Strode’s body – he plays the spear-carrying gladiator in the duel with Kirk Douglas in Spartacus – will be able to understand what a potent symbol of the life force that physique could be, perhaps especially for a patient undergoing the late stages of bodily decrepitude. What Ford got from Woody Strode seems to have been more therapeutic, medicinal and psychological than sexual. It is a mysterious affair, and one can only wonder at the humanity of Strode, involving a sensitivity beyond shame, in volunteering for the intimate real-life role of male nurse.

The relationship with Strode played a part in John Ford’s emerging appreciation of the value not just of his own ethnicity, but of multi-ethnicity. Ford had been one of the directors to make most regular use of Stepin Fetchit, the jive-talking, lazy and pseudo-stupid ‘coon’ minstrel star. Ford cast him in Judge Priest (1934), Steamboat Round the Bend (1935) and The Sun Shines Bright (1953), and wanted to put him in My Darling Clementine (1946).35

Stepin Fetchit (left) as Jeff Poindexter and Will Rogers as Judge Priest in Judge Priest, 1934. (Google Pictures)

Furthermore, for decades Ford’s Westerns depicted Native Americans in the customary way as simply the Other, against whom the post-Civil War, ethnic immigrants would unite into an American community, their past differences white-washed. Yet The Searchers (1956) tackled the murderous racism and fear of miscegenation lingering in the white population after the Civil War, a national race psychosis underlying American mass-culture narratives of the twentieth century. If Sergeant Ruttledge was, as Ford claimed, ‘the first time we had ever shown the Negro as a hero’,36Cheyenne Autumn for the first time made the Indians both sympathetic individuals and collective victims of unspeakable injustice and inhumanity. ‘Let’s face it,’ Ford told Peter Bogdanovich on the set, ‘we’ve treated [the Indians] very badly … we’ve cheated and robbed, killed, murdered, massacred and everything else, but they kill one white man and, God, out come the troops.’37 The film depicts the Cheyenne’s trail-of-tears migration from an Oklahoma reservation to their old buffalo-hunting grounds in Wyoming. With The Searchers, Sergeant Ruttledge and Cheyenne Autumn, the old director made a radical change of direction in his storytelling about blacks and Indians. The self-described Irishman had come to understand that in a multi-ethnic society, to quote Emile Durkheim, ‘the image of the one who completes us’, the image of the Other, must become ‘inseparable from ours … It thus becomes an integral part of our conscience.’38

6

One last key figure in Ford’s life sheds light on Maureen O’Hara’s suggestion that Ford was fundamentally homosexual. Although he has been little written about (two brief references in McBride’s big biography), this man was a significant long-term interest in Ford’s life, and especially in its Irish dimension.

About the sexuality of Brian Desmond Hurst (1900–86) there can be no doubt. Christopher Robbins opens his memoir of Hurst with a characteristic anecdote. Late in his life, Hurst arrived at a Belgravia pub for his customary mid-morning breakfast of a raw egg in a glass of champagne. One labourer seated at a table of three shot off his mouth: ‘Fucking old queen.’ Hurst ordered the men a round of pints, and then swanned over to them. After a friendly toast, he said, ‘By the way, gentlemen, I am not an old queen … I am the Empress of Ireland.’39 Hurst was indeed a flamboyantly indiscreet lover of soldiers, policemen and working-class boys.

He had been born in Belfast. His father was a Protestant and a blacksmith in the shipyards. Hurst joined the British army and in 1915 was wounded at the Battle of Gallipoli. After the war, he shed his Belfast working-class Protestant heritage, and declared his utter different-ness by becoming both an Irish Republican and a Catholic. While enrolled as a student of painting at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris, he met James Joyce and Liam O’Flaherty. In 1928 Hurst turned up in Los Angeles, where he got work as an artist, scene-painter and extra. In Ford’s silent A Hangman’s House, starring Victor McLaglen, Hurst had a part as an extra (as did, for his first time on screen, John Wayne, then still called Marion Morrison). Watching Ford on set, Hurst decided to become a director himself.40

Ford took a friendly interest in his fellow Irishman; he called him ‘cousin’. For Ford, the word was significant, not just fanciful. Ethnic membership is based not just on a common religion, language and customs, a shared history and dates of commemoration, but also on the idea of a common ancestry in a certain place, and thus actual kinship ties, even if these are untraced genealogically. Ethnically conceived, all Irishmen thus belong to a single family.41