Farewell to Tony Barry, master of the art that conceals art
The filmmaker returned from England in 1961, to become one of the generation that brought television to Ireland. He died last week. Gerry Stembridge pays tribute
TEILIFIS Eireann’s 1964 TV version of Michael Mac Liammoir’s oneman show The Importance of Being Oscar, begins very simply with the camera revealing the great old actor, languid in a tuxedo, cigarette in hand and sporting hair so black that even on black and white television it looked — for a man of 64 — suspiciously black.
What followed was the great old actor’s most celebrated performance, but there was another invisible performance just as astonishing.
For the next 100 minutes Mac Liammoir’s tour-deforce was recorded in one shot: no edits, hidden or otherwise. It was the young Tony Barry who was the cameraman, operating the extraordinarily hefty piece of 1960s technology with the delicacy of a paintbrush.
Tony tracked Mac Liammoir’s every move and gesture with perfect framing and pin-sharp focus. The result was a sustained and delicate pas de deux between the celebrated artist in vision and the unseen, unknown artist behind the camera who lent his ear, his hands, all his concentration and so much creative empathy in generous service to the star, giving him all the glory.
Tony went on to become an inspirational director and ultimately head of drama in RTE. He was one of the team who gave us The Riordans, he brought the best out of Maeve Binchy (Deeply Regretted By...), his adaptations of Frank O’ Connor, John McGahern, Somerville and Ross, Sean O’Faoilean and Jennifer Johnston were delicate, joyous and visually captivating.
His remarkable documentary on Jack Doyle, The Gorgeous Gael, observed a fallen hero with tenderness and without judgment.
But before all that, the young cameraman’s selfless tour-de-force in Studio One that day 55 years ago had told us everything about Tony’s generous soul. He loved actors, his greatest pleasure was to make them look good, to make their characters live in the viewers’ memory.
While his particular artistry was visual he valued his writers and had a meticulous ear for their dialogue. He was also extraordinarily generous in encouraging young colleagues. I can vouch for that as a trainee director in the 1980s. Tony was a Montrose legend, and as is the way with legends, everyone had a story. Here’s a personal favourite: He and a colleague were driving through Phoenix Park when Tony spotted some deer. He stopped the car, got out and leaned over the bonnet, lost in the moment. After a period of silent, holy contemplation of the majestic herd, Tony got back in and they drove on. A further respectful silence followed. Tony finally spoke: “I’d love a bit of venison now.”
That so few people would know of Tony Barry is, at one level shocking, but is also exactly how he liked it. His was the art that conceals art.
Those who still remember the RTE dramatisation of Strumpet City, think of Cyril Cusack, Donal McCann, Bryan Murray, David Kelly (ah Rashers!), but it was Tony’s unseen hand, that made the series so memorable, such a creative leap forward for RTE in 1980.
He brought the values of cinema to Irish television drama while at the same time ensuring that James Plunkett’s characters came alive memorably and affectionately. Had he left RTE at that time it is easy to imagine an international film career alongside Jim Sheridan and his colleague Pat O’Connor.
Tony was respected and a huge creative influence, but more significantly, he was loved.
His tones were honeysoft, his laugh was generous as well as gleeful, revelling in the company and the moment. And such a smile, illuminating the long life carved on his face in a way that made him beautiful.
His last years were spent quietly with his wife, Mairead in their enviable Schull hideaway, their blue heaven, although the art continued. In a little studio among the trees at the back of the cottage, Tony did not wield a camera like a paintbrush, as he had so long ago, but a real paintbrush. As ever, he remained unseen, leaving just the work for anyone who wants to see.