'BEYOND doubt Annaghmakerrig long ago and now is a proven hive of creativity." So writes Eugene McCabe in the Tyrone Guthrie Centre's outline of its strategic plan for the next five years, to be launched next Thursday, writes Denis Tuohy
In the same publication a poem by Mary Dorcey, one of thousands of writers, musicians, visual artists and dancers who have spent time in what is fondly known as "the Big House" in Co Monaghan, puts creativity itself into words.
"As in an old, disused house, to air the soul: throw all the windows wide. Then, silence laid, and white page, words in vigil, sit and let the ghosts come in." At Annaghmakerrig there is a sense of ghosts, going back through generations beyond the opening of the centre in 1981. Some have taken visible form in family paintings and photographs.
There are the Moorheads, who built the house above the lake amid 450 acres in the early 19th century; the Powers, ancestors of Hollywood screen star Tyrone Power; and,of course, the Guthries and their most famous scion Sir Tyrone. At his death in 1971 he bequeathed Annaghmakerrig to the Irish State "for the purpose of providing a retreat for artists and other like persons".
"Mystery and comfort" were what Joseph Hone found when he visited as a child in the 1940s and even today his first impressions are still apt. "From pools of rose-gold light shadowy spaces ran away everywhere, down long corridors into ghost-haunted nooks and crannies, hidden rooms filled with novelties, secrets." Christopher Fitz-Simon was living there with his family during those years. It's one of the homes he conjures up in his childhood memoir Eleven Houses.
Among many vivid snapshots there is a particular scene which awakens a distressing memory of my own. On one of Tyrone Guthrie's visits from London, where his work at the Old Vic had established him as an outstanding theatre director, he agreed to hear the young Fitz-Simon recite a Tennyson poem. "He stood, all six foot six of him, inclined against the marble chimney-piece of the drawing room, listening attentively. 'Bravo!' he said, when I'd finished." Even though the "bravo" was a tribute, it seems, to the fact that every word of the boy's performance had been audible,I have reason to envy such commendation.
In 1958 Guthrie was the adjudicator at Ballymoney Drama Festival. I was playing Valentine in a Queen's University production of Congreve's Love for Love. I didn't know at the time that Valentine is one of half-a-dozen classic roles, including Hamlet, Romeo and Benedick, in which Guthrie believed any seriously ambitious young actor should be able to give a good account of himself.
In due course he came on stage, all six foot six of him indeed, to deliver his verdict. The production as a whole and the acting in general had won his approval. But he went on to focus on a particular speech of Valentine's. He explained its importance as a revelation of character and its significance in the unfolding of the plot. "Unfortunately," he concluded, "very little of this was conveyed by the actor who played the part tonight."
Guthrie was once described as being a cross between a psychiatrist and a headmaster while looking like an eagle. There was also, however, a wonderful sense of mischief that was to cause me embarrassment some years after my Ballymoney humiliation. I had become a television presenter on BBC Northern Ireland's Six O'Clockprogramme. One evening
I was assigned to interview Guthrie and Frank O'Connor, who both happened to be in Belfast on the same day, about regional theatre.
"Sir Tyrone," I began, "how do you see the prospects for regional theatre?" A pause. The eyes narrowed. "You know, I don't think I want to talk about regional theatre. Do you, Frank?" "No, Tony, I don't want to talk about regional theatre." They sat back and smiled at me benignly. This was live television, but I felt I could be dead quite soon.
"Well, Sir Tyrone," I said, not knowing where the words were coming from, "I read that you've put money into a jam factory in Newbliss, near your home. Would you like to talk about jam?"
"I'd love to talk about jam!" And so he did, eloquently and enthusiastically, explaining how the new jobs in the factory meant that young people would have a chance of finding local work rather than leaving. Then, with Frank O'Connor joining in, a lively discussion developed, much more interesting than my planned interview was likely to have been, on how any vibrant culture, local or national, must combine hope for the future with respect for the past.
That combination of values infuses the Tyrone Guthrie Centre's strategic plan for the next five years - to preserve its creative ethos and develop it further. The plan will be launched at Annaghmakerrig by Martin Mansergh on behalf of the Government.
The spirit of Guthrie himself will undoubtedly be in attendance - nodding, one can safely assume, in magisterial approval.
"He's everywhere here," said one resident writer to me. "He's still directing all of us!"