Some Thoughts on Language

JOHN CAIRNS replies to Barry Gordon’s observations on Caithness dialect in George Gunns Fields of Barley

AFTER I objected to Barry Gordon’s strangely Victorian views on the use of Caithness dialect in the recent reading of George Gunn’s play Fields of Barley, I was invited by Kenny Mathieson to contribute a piece for Northings on the use of dialect in theatre.

I would like to make it clear that I objected to Barry Gordon’s view – not his review. This was Kenny’s brief:

‘If you are still interested, what I’d like is a robust defense of writing in the local dialect that argues the case for it in artistic, social, political (eg, funding) terms, and addresses the specific issue the review rises on the reception of the work outside the immediate constituency (and that, of course, applies equally to Gaelic and the regional languages).

To be fair to Kenny, I am not sure that I have done this. It still feels like a punishment exercise from an irate English teacher. However I am quite happy to offer this.

George Gunn

I think there are two separate points at issue here – the preservation of local dialects and the regional languages and the imperative (or otherwise) for an audience to completely understand every word spoken on stage.

On the first point, I do not believe that you can preserve language or dialect. They are naturally fluid and change over the years and generations for a variety of reasons and from a variety of influences.

Invasion, invention, discovery and migration all contribute to the change of language over time. This development is not only natural, it is vital. It allows the introduction of new concepts and ideas, the movement of thought, the development of civilization.

From the theoretical root language proto-indo-european, through Sumerian, Sanskrit, Egyptian, Aramaic, the major Indian languages, through Phoenician, Greek, Latin to the modern Romance, Norse, Germanic, Arabic and Celtic languages has come the development of what we call civilization. All of these languages, their dialects and socio-lects, have morphed, merged into each other, appeared and disappeared.

The peculiar preservation of old, so-called dead, languages is a relatively recent development led mostly by the dominance of religion and the introduction of writing to the West. Even that preservation has a dodgy provenance. The modern pronunciation of Ancient Greek and Latin was essentially invented by Erasmus in the early 16th century.

The development by Gutenberg of the printing press and, almost equally importantly, by Baskerville of legible fonts led to the standardisation of spelling. The invention of sound recording and rapid mass transit has led to an increasing standardisation of pronunciation.

Oddly the same thing happened with time itself. When the railways first started to move people greater distances on a regular basis, time was still local. Noon was calculated by the position of the sun where you were. This had the unfortunate consequence of passengers arriving to catch trains minutes after they had left – even though, according to their own watches, they were minutes early.

This led to the introduction by the rail companies of what was known – even into the 20th century – as ‘Railway Time’. Eventually a standard for time was adopted across the whole world at the International Meridian Conference in 1884.

However, in parallel with the standardisation of pronunciation and of language, interest in researching and preserving the old languages increased. The vocabularies of these languages carry meanings that have also changed over time. ‘Amor in Latin does not mean precisely the same thing as love in English. And neither means exactly the same thing as l’amour.

I believe that there will always be a local element to both vocabulary and syntax – an element of here and now. Particular geographical features will naturally shape language and dialect in every area. The word ‘voe’, for example, is never going to be common in Norwich – there aren’t any.

Local customs and local culture will continue to be reflected in the language of an area. There is a collection of the cartoons published over the years in the John O’Groat Journal. One I love from the 20s or early 30s is of two young women at a fete collecting money for the lifeboat. They approach an old farmer in his Sunday best who says: “Ach, lassigies, what would we be wantin’ wi’ a lifeboat in Bower?”

Why I love this is that it is so particularly Caithness. You could translate it to any small community in an area largely dominated by the sea, but ‘What would we be wantin’ wi’ a lifeboat in Mauchline?’ just isn’t as funny. It’s a Caithness joke.

I think that that local identity will always be a fundamental part of the language and dialect of an area.

So, no! I do not think you can preserve a dialect or language in its ‘pure form’. I am not even sure that it is a good idea, and it is certainly dangerous to try to enforce that kind of preservation.

But should we try to record and to remember these dialects? Hell, yeah. The richness of sound and meaning, the oral and written literature, the ways of thinking and belief that they reflect in all their diversity are part of the sum of human experience and, as such, are priceless.

And its fun.

To bring this back to theatre, I told some friends about having to write this article. Chris Craig is a theatre director with a lot of experience, particularly in children’s theatre. His comment was ‘well, if it’s any interest to you, the French do not use dialects in their theatre… and it’s one hell of a lot sadder for it!’

Should an audience be able to understand every word spoken onstage? I have heard many criticisms of ballet but I’ve never heard someone come out of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet saying that they had no idea what the story was about. The spoken word is only part of the experience. Acting, directing, movement and design all contribute to the emotional impact of a piece. Collectively we call them theatre.

John McGrath

Translation from one language to another is always faced with danger of being incredibly naff. Great classics are particularly vulnerable to this. There is an English version of  ‘O! mio babbino caro’ that is absolutely appalling, and the great religious works are similarly at risk. Have you heard the Allegri ‘Miserere’ sung in English?

Every production of every play is a different version of the story. Producing a story in a different format creates a completely different work. The book The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde is a completely different artistic experience from the ballet, the play, the film and the subsequent ‘novelization’ (yeuch! but watch! it will happen!).

Everyone in the audience who understands every word in a play sees and hears a slightly different version of the story based on their personal experience. It is what they bring to the performance that shapes their understanding of it. This is true all the artforms.

It is also true that if you come in to a theatre intending to enjoy what John McGrath calls ‘A Good Night Out’, then generally speaking you will have a good time.

If, for whatever reason, you do not think that you will enjoy yourself, if the venue is not your favourite, the company less than sympathique, the anticipated quality of what is on offer less than acceptable or not to your perceived taste, then generally speaking you will be miserable.

In the current drive to prove value for money in the arts, there has been a lot of research, especially in America, into what is known as performance impact which supports this theory. A favourite of the SAC and Creative Scotland – Assessing the Intrinsic Impacts of a Live Performance by Alan Brown of Wolfbrown Consultants – contains a great deal of research about it.

If you are out to have a good time, nine times out of ten you will. If you want to miserable, you will be. And good luck to you – you got what you wanted. It is what you as the audience bring to the theatre that makes it work – regardless of the language, dialect or soil.

Finally, have I filled Kenny Mathieson’s brief? Probably not. I am busy and very tired. I have a show opening in London and another one opening in Glasgow – both start tomorrow night. I am putting together a small tour of an education project on Fields of Barley, the very play that started all of this, for schools and village halls in Caithness as part of the Highland Homecoming. I did consider not bothering and just sending Kenny an apology, but that’s a cop out. However I didn’t have a lot of time and this has been a rush job.

So this is not what Kenny asked for. It is simply about some of the points raised by Barry Gordon’s review. I have written about what interested me. Make of it what you will. After all, is that not what the two writers at the centre of all of this did? And all that they can expect from an audience or their readers.

© John Cairns, 2009

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