Copyright 2006 Ben S. Pollock
Not to be outdone, we in the Ozarks have a playwright equal to the latest Irish sensation Martin McDonagh.
Salvatore O’Mally of Farmington, Ark., has an even more larcenous soul than McDonagh. It’s a wonder he isn’t as well-known. McDonagh got an eight-page profile in the March 6, 2006, New Yorker. The venerable weekly magazine did not hyperlink to it, or I’d connect to it here. That means only one thing: Martin is worth buying that issue for, as the ol’ Yorker posts only routine stuff and political reportage with the key material acting as carrots for which you need a subscription, a newsstand or a library card.
McDonagh is so hot he’s only 35 years old but has not written a play in more than 10 years, correspondent Fintan O’Toole reports. He also notes the incredible fact that in 1997, putting the dramatist at age 26, Marty had four plays on stage, a feat matched only by Shakespeare.
We’ll get back to Sal O’Mally. First, we have to explain where he got his oeuvre (not Stella Got Her Oeuvre Back.), which is his close study of McDonagh. McDonagh in turn is said to come from punk music (Clash) and punk movies (Tarantino).
Marty’s seven plays include:
- The Lonesome West, where a man’s also adult brother melts the first guy’s collection of Catholic saint figurines. Oh, and the pyro brother kills their father for not liking his hairstyle.
- The Lieutenant of Inishmore, where the title character tortures and dismembers humans but is sweet on his cat.
- A Skull in Connemara, where a priest hires two men to collect and break the bones in a churchyard to make room for fresh bodies. The New Yorker implies some necrophilia, too.
- The Pillowman, where a writer spins grisly tales for his brain-damaged brother and we learn those stories of child murders actually happen: Who dunnit? The title character persuades children not yet killed to commit suicide.
- The Beauty Queen of Leenane, where a woman — and you thought Marty was all over sick men — pours boiling oil on her mother’s hand and later beats her to death with a poker.
The literati of London say these are comedies — Google McDonagh and his titles and see if I’m making this up — and so are the works of Sal O’Mally.
O’Mally prefers American hillbillies to the fishing people of Ireland’s west coast and Aran Islands, McDonagh’s turf (and surf). Problem is, Sal can’t get anyone to produce his plays. No one will read past the first couple of pages, even hip university types.
On second thought, I cannot relate Sal’s plots here. I don’t want to cost this blog its child-friendly status (I avoid naughty words and naughty themes). Marty’s works must be OK for all ages, though, because pros in New York have produced six of his seven plays (that one, Banshees of Inisheer, is “no good” and no one has touched).
Besides, you ever watch cartoons? Neither Sal nor Marty ever gets as raw as lots of those. -30-
