by Paula Shields
Dir: Pat Murphy Prod: James Flynn, Tracey Seaward DoP: Jean-Francois Robin Wri: Pat Murphy and Gerry Stembridge Cast: Ewan McGregor, Susan Lynch, Peter McDonald, Andrew Scott, Kate OÕToole Running time: 96 minutes
"Barnacle? She'll never leave him!" quipped John Joyce - as fond of a bad pun as his more famous son - on hearing of the woman who was to become muse to one of the greatest European writers of the 20th century. Long consigned to the shadows, portrayed as an untamed illiterate, Nora Barnacle comes to the fore in more rounded fashion in Pat Murphy's stylish new film. Based on Brenda Maddox's 1988 biography, Nora charts the relationship between Barnacle and Joyce from their first chance meeting on a Dublin street in 1904 until their last visit to Ireland in 1912 before returning to the Continent for good. Newry actress Susan Lynch (sister of John) plays the title role with gusto, capturing Nora's earthy pride and strong, sometimes disdainful presence, as she leaves her native Galway for Dublin, then Dublin for Trieste, where she comes up against the harsher realities of life with the fretful, struggling writer. Theirs is a mutually fierce, uninhibited, all-consuming passion, told here, as might be expected, from her angle (as interpreted by Maddox and scriptwriters Murphy and Gerry Stembridge). Preoccupied by his writing (and drinking, of which we see rather more), Joyce (Ewan McGregor) is no easy partner: Nora is left to worry about practical matters, like the rent and their two children, Giorgio and Lucia, until his brother Stanislaus arrives to help out (wonderfully played by Peter McDonald as upright, uptight and generally much put upon by the couple). Their passionate sexual relationship is given the full treatment too This is a warts and all portrait of the artist - the strength of Joyce's love for Nora is never in doubt but he is also dependent, jealous and weak. A key moment illuminates this when he returns to their apartment one afternoon. Nora has just been sick and is lying on their bed, when Joyce, standing by the fireplace, cautiously announces, "The landlady thinks you're pregnant", like it has nothing in the world to do with him! Much can be conveyed in a line in this excellent script, and in the acting and this is one of McGregor's better moments in the film as his is not the most obvious casting. The beard and glasses he dons for the role do not disguise the fact that he bears more resemblance to Kenneth Branagh than to Joyce's thin, lanky frame. Physical differences aside, McGregor's is a restricted acting repertoire, accents included, and nothing I've yet seen him do suggests the ability to play the complex, tortured artist. McGregor may not convince as the writer, but it is difficult to think who would have taken on such a daunting role. (In this respect, Lynch's is the easier task of the two.) He is competent enough in the part as long as you forget who he's meant to be, and he is carried, in many scenes, by the better acting of those around him, Gogarty and Cosgrave, and of course Stanislaus who points out the key to his brother's character: "Jim finds rejection everywhere he goes and where he can't find it he invents it." Still, this is meant to be Nora Barnacle's story, not her consorts, although her fame, of course, rests on his. Contrary to popular belief, Lynch's Nora matches her lover in eloquence, be it in a heartfelt love letter in the early days of their courtship, so tenderly written which Joyce's bitchy friends dismiss it as a copy from a popular novel, or in their many arguments. One such bitter moment turns lyrical when, having been berated by Joyce for never reading his work, she quietly recites some of his own lines to him. There are many such poignant moments in the film, such as her initial homesickness in Italy as she tearfully sings with Joyce a traditional Irish tune which Joyce gently refers to as "an Irish end to the evening". This finally is a tale of two cities. Exquisite cinematography points up the contrast between dark, rainy, depressing Edwardian Dublin and the warm sunlit stone and style of Trieste. Murphy frames a glorious, painterly tableau of the lovers waking on their first morning in Italy, bathed in a warm, almost dreamlike glow. I found myself wondering what Nora, an avid film fan herself, and Joyce, one of the first to set up a cinema in Dublin, would have made of this. My guess is they would at least have loved the aesthetics of it. It is a beautiful period piece, with fittingly sumptuous costumes (they both loved clothes and had their portraits painted and photographs taken by the best society figures of the day). All in all, after ten years in the making, Nora is well worth the wait.