Another McDonagh’s file about the relationship between Beckett and Martin McDonagh, on one of the thorniest issue.
Being alive is for Samuel Beckett the original sin. This is the sin for which in Beckett’s works transpires his hatred for children, crystallized in the famous quote from All That Fall:
Did you ever wish to kill a child? … Nip some young doom in the bud.
McDonagh often faces in his work the same issue, but, in my humble opinion, with a very different approach.
From Beckett’s misopedia…
An interesting essay about Beckett’s misopedia is online: Paul Stewart, Samuel Beckett’s Misopedia.Samuel Beckett All That Fall
The essay’s thesis is that Beckett’s hatred for children propagates through his characters and it is an intrinsic element of the Beckettian esthetic and ethic.
A statement that is both philosophical and personal, because, in the end, the so hatred child is Beckett himself, seen through the telescope of time by the adult Beckett, who, as an adult, had known and experienced the burden of life: he finally knows the pain of life and he hates the child that he was, not per se, but because he envies him because the he-child was still unaware of the pain of life and because the he-child had no other choice than live that life (the paradox epitomized by the famous I can’t go on, I’ll go on quote).
And it’s such a beckettian hoax that Beckett lived for eighty-three long years…
At first sight children, sons do not seem to have a better fate in Martin McDonagh’s work than in Beckett’s: the raped and murdered daughter of Hans and Myra in Seven Psychopaths, the In Bruges’ little boy. But it’s in The Pillowman that the situation collapses.
… To Martin McDonagh empathy
The Pillowman’s main character, Katurian, has been an abused child (an abuse started naming him: Katurian K. Katurian. Where “K.” stands for Katurian…) and, when he has become a writer, he writes only about abused children.
This is what tells Ariel, the policeman who is interrogating Katurian, about Katurian’s stories:
‘A few’. I’ll say a fucking few. The first fucking twenty we picked up was ‘a little girl is fucked over in this way, or a little boy is fucked over in this way…’!
And that’s it at first glance: in The Tale of the Town on the River (even if, already in this case, there is a “good” reason for the evil that happens to the children) in The Little Apple Men, in the autobiographic (from Katurian’s perspective) The Writer and the Writer’s Brother, and in The Little Jesus, it seems there is no hope for children, in Martin McDonagh’s work too.
Nevertheless, differences between Beckett and McDonagh exist, and they are substantial.
In McDonagh the hope (a christian hope, maybe?) stands still.
McDonagh doesn’t look at children with a hatred eye. The hope has been hidden (hidden in a masterly way, in The Pillowman!) but it is there.
The difference between Beckett and McDonagh is the result of the attitude towards the future: the future for McDonagh is, and has, hope. It’s not accidental that the Pillowman’s (as a character and as a function) absolute sadness is mitigated by what is, finally, the happy end of the work.
As McDonagh asserts in another work, life per se (as it is opposed to suicide in The Lonesome West) has within the seeds of hope.
If, as we suppose, there is a relationship between McDonagh’s and Beckett’s work, maybe the call, the order from Ken to Ray in In Bruges: Save The Next Boy is the way in which McDonagh retorts the Schopenhauerian Beckett’s nihilism, with a second chance of christian matrix.
Where Beckett stands with absolute rigor, even – and especially! – against himself, Martin McDonagh relies on the ability to empathetically approach the other, the child with whom we share the pain of living.