A little knowledge is a dangerous thing

In 1980 Mike Murphy was generally acknowledged by the Irish people to be an answer to a prayer, a godsend. The words "Yawza, yawza, yawza" were on the lips of half the country; the workers on the Ennis Road were national figures.

Mike Murphy was always having a go at someone; he was in great humour; his morning radio show was the best thing ever. His Friday night TV show was a great success as well. Father Trendy took his place among the nations of the earth. Twink was just wonderful. Mike Murphy, who gave us all this, was the apple of Ireland's eye.

Five years later all this has changed. In one of his TV shows, he devotes a lot of time to the praise of certain electrical goods; in another he allows well-known trendy people to insult young people who are starting off in the entertainment industry. He seems to be involved in trying to sell cars. His lunchtime radio show is much worse than Morgan O'Sullivan's (and that was bad) and almost as bad as Liam Nolan's (for more on Liam Nolan watch this space).

Although Harbour Hotel is appalling, its theme music is often welcomed by this reviewer as a relief from Mr. Murphy. What can happen in five years to cause the mighty to fall in such a way? This is what; the producer of the morning radio programme was a man called Gene Martin, much liked by those who know him and said to know a certain amount about Irish art.

Mr. Murphy and himself generally had the mornings free and young Murphy was taken in hand by Gene Martin, dragged around auction rooms and forced to look at pictures. He developed an interest in pictures. It was rumoured that he bought some nineteenth century Irish art; I have been unable to find out whether this is true or not. But he continued looking at pictures and got to know names of painters.

By the end of 1980 it was something he talked about a lot. He also talked about doing some broadcasting in that area, but first he would like to study more and look at more pictures. The following year the TV show fell apart, the jokes weren't good any more, the gags were awful and Mr. Murphy seemed embarrassed by the whole thing.

One thing he had enjoyed doing on the TV was the serious interview, where he tried to tackle a serious issue like marital breakdown. This was dropped from the second series of TV shows. That same year he stopped doing the morning show and moved to a slot ataround five o'clock; certain serious items were introduced, such as regular interviews with the diplomatic correspondent of The Guardian.

Mike Murphy was appointedto the board of ROSC, the body which brings fashionable art to Ireland every few years. Later he was appointed to the Board of the Royal Hospital in Kilmainham. A regular feature of art openings in Dublin was the presence of Mike Murphy. Once in 1983, during the opening of Gwen O'Dowd's first show at the Project, Mr. Murphy turned to the person beside him and muttered: "Very reminiscent of Barrie Cooke."

But the fact that the paintings weren't even slightly like Barrie Cooke's didn't dampen Mr. Murphy's enthusiasm for art. He began to open shows himself. Around the beginning of 1983 he returned to the morning slot, playing records from eight to nine and doing a personality interview from 9.15 to 10.00. Some of the interviews were okay; some were brilliant. The one with Twink was sensational and there would be a large audience for a radio station where Mike and Twink would talk all day. It would be just wonderful.

But the problem was that Mike started to interview artists the odd morning. His voice chan-ged, he began to talk through his nose; he tried to sound knowledgeable, a cross between Andy O'Mahony and Michael MacLiammoir. It was awful. One morning he had a woman called Anne Crookshank, who is some sort of art historian, on. She mentioned an obscure painting by an old master. She asked Mike if he knew it. No, he said, he didn't. Ms. Crookshank continued talking.

Suddenly, Mike began to interrupt her, yes, yes, actually, he did know the painting she had mentioned. He had just remembered. Then ContemporEire happened. This was a festival of the arts organised by Mike Murphy. There was a large conference of obscure people who talked about urban planning. This seemed to be the highlight of the festival. In the days before the conference the planners were trying to convince people to take tickets for nothing.

Other fringe events, associated with ContemporEire, were quite successful. Mike addressed an audience of theatre people from the stage of the Abbey Theatre. He told them about the future of the arts; it was all pretty embarrassing. At this time Mike was doinga TV show called Murphy's MicroQuiz. This was, to say the least, no work of art. The man who knew Old Masters, the bloke who knew the work of Barrie Cooke, sat uneasily with the man who gave electrical goods away to middle-class families. But he didn' tseem to mind.

The interviews with artists got worse and worse. Morning after morning they came on. Old Mickey Scott, Patrick Rose Murphy, and all the rest of them. As time went by the questions grew longer, statlier and more pretentious. The people of Ireland were suffering hugely. Something odd had happened to one of the funniest, breeziest broadcasters in the country.

An Irish novelist, a prickly fellow at the best of times, was phoned by the researcher for the show and asked if he would go on. No, he said, no. The researcher said that Mike was really interested in doing the interview. No, the novelist said. The researcher said that Mike had gone to a lot of trouble. "What sort of trouble?" asked the novelist. Well, he's read one of your books. Expletive deleted, said the novelist. Mike was starting to read.

At seven minutes past twelve every day when he comes on the air he talks for a while. Sometimes he goes on for a good five minutes. There is an unease in the way he talks; he has lost the chirpiness; he tries to introduce a certain gravity into his tone. The reason is simple. Iron has crept into his soul. Art is a form of magic and someone like Mr. Murphy, who is susceptible and ready to try anything as his great American series showed, has been affected. He has caught something from art. What comes across on his lunchtime show is a certain embarrassment, a lack of ease with the world, a nerviness, dare we say it, angst.

The man who knew no fear, the broadcaster as happy as the day is long, who joked and jeered until the cows came home, has been looking at paintings and reading books. When he sits in the studio he carries the burden of all these things with him. He wants to be serious and enlightening and it is awful to watch him try. Some of the live programmes from Australia last week were wonderful. Mike on the plane was Mike at his best, making jokes, interviewing the captain. Mike on Bondi beach making jokes at the expense of his white body, trying to get up on a surfing board, talking to anyone who came near him was just superb. He was back to his old self.

But other items from Australia have been horrific. His interview with two aborigines was dreadful.His talk with politicians was deeply embarrassing. At the time of writing he has not interviewed any artists or writers but there's a great chance that, any moment now, there's going to be an in-depth chat with Sidney Nolan. Murphy will talk straight from the nose: "Sidney Nolan, you...you have been well-known...you...you are an artist, a painter, someone whose name is known...you...you have been all over the world...critics have described your work...your work has been highly praised."

Enough. What he needs is Twink and more Twink, long talks with Twink. He should give up this art lark and become normal and healthy like he was five years ago. In the meantime, he is a walking lesson to us all if we want our children to stay nice, happy people - keep them away from art. It's been the ruination of Mike Murphy.

 

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