Marian Finucane is unapologetic. About her half-a-million-plus salary, about her comments following Gerry Ryan’s death, about her difficulties with previous women bosses. And with her ratings, why wouldn’t she be?
SHE SMOKES a fag or three, stoutly defends her half-a-million-plus salary and has plenty of bottle for the battle. Though she knows when to stop. According to insiders, her on-air remarks that Gerry Ryan had been under enormous stress in RTÉ – and elsewhere – immediately before his death left the station’s upper echelons gasping for air. The fallout must have been impressive since she’s not of a mind today to reprise it. She will simply say, with some deliberateness: “Gerry was under stress from a whole variety of directions: in his professional life; in his personal life; in his financial life . . .”
And now, she says, he is “very, very missed by his colleagues”. If she was of a mind to tweet her own trumpet, she might add it was on her show that Ryan’s partner, Melanie Verwoerd, gave her only interview. It is interviews like Verwoerd’s that have listeners flooding in to RTÉ1 at traditionally dead radio time on a Saturday morning. With skill, wit, gravitas, a touch of mischief and a rare ability to be dogged without being abrasive, all wrapped in the cool wisdom of age and experience, Finucane carries four hours of programming, encompassing everything from heavyweight political and economic discussion to television guides.
The figures speak for themselves: Saturday’s is the third most popular show on radio; Sunday’s is the sixth, she says, managing not to gloat. “We bought a modest bottle of Prosecco to celebrate but then we thought we’d put it back . . . It might not be real.”
Those who remember the slow starvation of resources on her post- Morning Irelandslot and eventual replacement by Ryan Tubridy five years ago might conclude Finucane was entitled to be a tad triumphalist – no? She smiles inscrutably.
Was there a touch of ageism about at the time? “Yes, I think there was. I think with Eithne Hand – who was head of Radio 1 at the time – that there was.” Hand is clearly not the only culprit in that regard. Later, when asked about her current age, Finucane uncharacteristically bats the question away: “I don’t discuss that for reasons of ageism. I work in the most ageist industry in the country.” In any event, she reckons Hand simply didn’t like her.
That Hand is a woman appears to rule out sexism (though there are plenty of women conditioned to favour males over females in all settings). And Finucane denies that anyway. In fact, she has been on to RTÉ management to say more men are needed in production. "It isgone a bit womany. The balance is just gone. And I actually do believe in equality in production. Up to the last round of producers, we were down to two or three fellas. We have one male producer [Hugh Ormond] on our team . . .
“I’ve never experienced sexism directed at me – ever. I never had a difficulty with men. I hate to say it but I’ve just had great difficulty with women bosses . . . I don’t know what it is and it broke my bloody heart that I just didn’t get on with my first two women managers. [The other was Helen Shaw.] Of course it’s all changed now. . . Claire Duignan’s in charge now and is a friend of mine. Maybe it was an accident of those particular people and just a personality clash. . . I don’t know.”
And wasn’t it a man – Eoghan Harris (now a senator) – who facilitated her break into television? It was, she says, though recalling it with less warmth than one might expect. “Because then he annoyed me for years. He used to imply that I was a fellow traveller of the IRA, which used to drive me insane. Absolutely unbelievable stuff.”
As to why her relationship with Hand was so poor, we may deduce that what Hand and Finucane wanted from the morning show – a show to this day bedevilled with over-running headlines and numerous breaks – were somewhat at odds. “You couldn’t get stuck into the meaty stuff that I really enjoy. And Eithne didn’t want that anyway. She wanted – as she said – ‘fun and texting’.”
Hardly the recipe for a presenter who thrives on current affairs and in-depth interviews and, even now, can't fathom the obsession with listener interaction. "Do I tweet ? On a personallevel?" she asks incredulously. " Outof the question. I cannot understand this compulsion to let the whole world know your life or your thoughts. I think we're going to do it for the programme but that's different. But, that said, I happen to think that our function is to produce, present and broadcast programmes. Now you have email, phone-ins, texting, what's your view on this, that or the other – when our function, I believe, is to provide food for thought for people. I think sometimes it kind of goes over the top."
So how did she rehabilitate herself, so to speak, after the morning show debagging? “I never had a plan, but the nearest thing I ever had to one was the weekend show. It was one I’d hatched a long, long time earlier – and had intended to implement around then.”
While balking at a scheme to slot her as Gay Byrne’s alternative when he was negotiating a shorter working week, she recalled the prediction of a wise, old RTÉ mentor, Michael Littleton, who noted listenership patterns were changing. More women would be working, with fewer available to listen to the radio, he said; weekend radio was going to have to be developed.
She put the idea to Hand – who had never considered the weekend and liked the idea, as did people up the line. “But everyone still thought I was mad.” She smiles happily. “Yes, it was my idea. And now it has a higher audience than the morning show does. And if you think about it, the Saturday show is completely different to the Sunday and they just cover the world.”
A long way from “fun and texting” then.
Her pleasure in its success is palpable, though never smug and she takes every opportunity to credit the series producer, Ann Farrell, and the team for the success.
She is not concerned about a general slide in radio listenership. “The recession brought it back up. Certainly for Radio 1, all our programmes went up when the true nature of what was happening began to dawn on people. I think they just want information.”
How does she see our predicament ? “We’re in disaster. We hear a lot of the blame coming down the line – and the anger. In a way, it’s a great time because it’s a time of profound change. The church – gone; the banks – gone; politicians, government – no respect for them. All of the pillars are gone. And I think we’re going to have to figure out a new way of creating a situation worthy of respect, worthy of aspiring to, worthy of a good quality of life in the real sense of the word. And I don’t know how that’s going to happen. I really think that when history is written, this will be seen as a time of really profound change.”
Is it a search for leadership? “People want to feel safe in somebody’s hands and they don’t. I think people are rudderless, they don’t know who to blame, don’t know who to trust . . . Such uncertainty, from a time of great certainty.
“I think life is very difficult for people, all sorts of people and I see very little sympathy for people at the top who’ve fallen flat on their faces. It’s not easy for them either – you know?”
It’s a brave observation and a reminder that Finucane herself is someone who has lived on her wits in a competitive market for most of her working life. It may also explain why otherwise media-shy developers and bankers are prepared to come on her show. How does she explain it? “I think they think that I don’t have an agenda. And that it will be different – that it will be about finding out about them and what lies under the surface.”
For all that, when asked if the media have an obligation to be more positive (this was before Brian Cowen’s stab at its negativity), she retorts: “You can’t be Pollyanna either,” and sees no desire for it from listeners. Short-termist political thinking is obviously a bogey of hers. “That [pre-election 2007] budget was an election budget par excellence – €7 billion or something like that – and now look how hard it is to get €3 billion back? For an election? Brian Cowen said to me when I was interviewing him: ‘Well, which teaching post would you not have had. Which nursing post?’ But I mean, your average Joes if they get a present, or win €100 in a draw, they don’t presume they’ll have a €100 a week to spend for the rest of their lives.”
As interviewees, politicians are “their own worst enemy”, she says. “If they gave a little more of themselves – and that includes Brian Cowen – they would be doing themselves a favour . . . I think they have too many advisers and I think they get too much advice. Remember how Michael Noonan was a great talker till he became leader of Fine Gael and then developed into a completely different person? Brian Cowen is an intelligent, bright, articulate guy when he wants to be. Very likeable and a sense of humour. Yet – all gone in interviews.”
She makes an exception of Brian Lenihan who apparently gave short shrift to his briefing notes. “Remember when he went around and took advice and was in people’s houses at two o’clock in the morning? I liked that. Why not go and ask you, ask them, inform yourself, figure out the different thinking? He was trying to master his brief . . . I really liked that.”
Ask about her favourite interview, however, and it’s none of the above. “It was Celine Conroy. I’ll never forget her. Her daughter was murdered by her husband or boyfriend in front of their two small children in Spain. Unbelievable woman, not formally educated. She had cancer and wouldn’t take the treatment because they couldn’t get the daughter’s body home and she didn’t want to miss the funeral as a consequence of the cancer treatment. And meanwhile, she had taken on responsibility for the two children, who had seen their mother being murdered . . . She had such an instinct for dealing with them and for answering their questions . . . Just a wonderful, wonderful woman.”
Michael O’Leary is in the shake-up of course. “Ah, he was great”, she says, adding, almost inaudibly: “And obviously Nuala . . .” Her eyes fill at the memory of her great friend, Nuala Ó Faolain, whose searingly honest interview while dying from cancer cracked a radio taboo. “I still can’t believe she’s gone . . . I miss her dreadfully. I didn’t have anyone that I could discuss Obama with properly or the inauguration or all those kinds of things . . .”
Approached by several parties to participate in a documentary about Ó Faolain, Finucane decided to do it itself, jointly with her own production company and RTÉ. “It will be warts and all . . . She had acute antennae for misogyny . . . If you look at her whole work experience within the academic world, she couldn’t stand the way the boys were running the show. And yet in her personal dealings with men, she was a disaster. Gullible. Almost old-fashioned in that sense. She kind of nearly had an adolescent approach to fellas in her personal life. There was a kind of self-destruct with her.”.
This talk of documentary-making will fuel a certain caustic view that she’s a presenter on half-a-million a year for four hours’ work a week, so why wouldn’t she find the time for extra-curricular activities. What does she do from Monday to Friday ? There’s a sigh of resignation. “Well, Monday and Tuesday are supposed to be my days off – and I try and do a lot of the Africa work then – but they usually start with a series of emails and texts which start: ‘Sorry to bother you on a Monday but . . .’ I’m on air about the same as I was during the morning show. It’s changed the working time but it hasn’t changed the work. So I work seven days actually. The job is not just walking in, hanging up your hat and presenting a programme. I listen to the radio from 7am until the close of Drivetime. I’m in constant communication with the producer from Wednesday. People think you just go in and present a programme. Look, if I were in the building in RTÉ, I’d be doing the same as I’d be doing at home. Because of email, I can do an awful lot from home. If I were in RTÉ, I’d be chatting to somebody over a cup of coffee.”
As for the salary, she’s apologising to no one. “From my perspective it was what the market was, because I’d had offers from other stations . . . I always said that Century Radio did me the biggest favour of anybody in the world [by trying to poach her from RTÉ].” Plus several serious offers since, which RTÉ somehow got wind of. “And anyway – why shouldn’t the girls get it if the boys are getting it?” She has no agent. Kieran Corrigan of Merlin Films negotiates her contracts. “We have become great friends and he is very skilled at what he does, so it means I’m not involved.”
She is not doing this interview for fun. The idea is to build publicity for a cause that has come to consume the lives of her and her partner, John Clarke. Eight years ago, on a visit to South Africa, they witnessed the impact of HIV in a place “where they were nursing these babies and small children to death because there was nothing that could be done for them”. Next day at a function back home, Clarke was cornering then junior minister Liz O’Donnell, asking if her department would match the funds they raised. Friends in Ireland was born.
Finucane talks graphically about the ANC’s “sad” corruption, the bureaucracy, the hopeless lethargy of the men, the persistent belief that sex with a virgin will cure Aids and the horror implicit in the fact that the charity’s target market is heads of household aged under 12: “In Franklin, there are 30 children aged between eight and 12 who are heads of household.”
She recalls when a crèche worker raised suspicions about injuries to a “tiny toddler”; an examination revealed the child had been raped more than once. “The next day, there was a crowd outside, stoning the toddler’s shack, not his.”
Eight years on, Friends in Ireland has built a hospice and clusters of orphan homes, with 10 outreach units, which feed over 600 children daily and facilitate their education. It has also built a HIV outpatients’ department at a hospital in Lusikisiki which has 3,500 patients a week. Last year Clarke – who works seven days a week on it, says Finucane – was awarded international philanthropist of the year for his work.
They are anxious now to raise the profile of the charity’s name, Friends in Ireland, rather “than something Marian Finucane and John Clarke are involved in”. The timing is crucial since the charity, combined with the FAI, will be the focus of an unprecedented alliance between the country’s three mobile phone companies in a period around August 11th, when the first soccer international is played in the Aviva stadium. Text the word donate to a single number – 57727 – and €3 will automatically go to Friends in Ireland. Every cent goes to the charity, they stress. The day we spoke, they were heading for a 17-day working visit to the charity’s operations areas in South Africa.
For a woman who never had a plan, Marian Finucane certainly knows where she’s headed.
APOLOGY – PROF PAUL CAHILL
In an interview with Prof Ferdinand von Prondzynski, former president of Dublin City University, published on Saturday, July 17th, reference was made erroneously to Prof Paul Cahill in the context of underperformance among teaching staff “and bitter employment cases” and suggested he had been dismissed by the university.
In proceedings before the courts there was no claim or assertion by the university of “underperformance” of any kind by Prof Cahill and the Supreme Court found that his purported dismissal was unlawful and invalid. Prof Cahill has at all times remained a senior member of the academic staff and continues to have an exemplary international record of academic excellence in the area of his expertise.
The Irish Timesapologises unreservedly to Professor Cahill for the error.
