When Fiach Mac Conghail was made Director Designate of the Abbey Theatre in 2005, the then 41-year-old stage, film and visual arts producer was already well aware that Ireland’s national theatre was in serious financial trouble. No stranger to the place, he had been personal assistant to Noel Pearson during his term as artistic director from 1989-91.

A few days after starting the job, however, he discovered the situation was even worse than anticipated. Badly mismanaged for quite some time, the Abbey's convoluted accounting systems had apparently misplaced an additional million euro.
Almost immediately, departing director Ben Barnes was forced to resign and Mac Conghail landed in the hot seat, six months ahead of schedule. This involved taking full control of both the Abbey’s managerial and artistic affairs (previously handled by two separate directors).
“I am very grateful to the board for placing their trust in me at this critical point in the Abbey’s development,” Mac Conghail said. “It is a tremendous challenge and I look forward to working with writers, theatre artists and the staff of the Abbey in creating a shared vision for the next five years.”
Seven years and one economic meltdown later, the affable Dubliner with shoulder-length hair is still in charge. As he escorts Hot Press through the building to his upstairs office, Mac Conghail pauses at various points to show us paintings, ledgers, props and other old Abbey memorabilia on display. Sean O’Casey’s The Plough & The Stars is currently playing, and the original pram used in its first production in 1926 is in the upstairs lobby.
His most prized personal possession is only vaguely Abbey-related. In his office, he proudly shows me a small, framed, black-and-white photograph of American playwright and actor Sam Shepard (whose work he has championed). Taken by Patti Smith, it’s autographed by both artists. “I bought it in New York a few years back,” he says. “I won’t even tell you what it cost.”
The son of former RTÉ programme controller Muiris Mac Conghail, Fiach is married to actress Brid Ni Neachtain, and the couple have two daughters. In May 2011, he was appointed a Senator by the Taoiseach Enda Kenny.

OLAF TYARANSEN: What’s your earliest memory?
FIACH MAC CONGHAIL: Gosh, that’s a tough one... (pauses). I think I’ve two memories. One is my first day at school. I went to Scoil Lorcáin – an all-Irish school out in Monkstown. Another bizarre memory is my grandfather was a landscape artist. I was the eldest grandson and I was sent out to accompany him for the day while he was painting a picture of Wood Quay. I remember spending what seemed like the longest couple of hours ever out there with him (laughs).
Do you have many siblings?
I’m the eldest of five. There’s three brothers and a sister, all very close in age. My mother had all five of us within almost seven years.
Your father was very well known.
My father’s Muiris Mac Conghail. He was Controller of Programmes in RTÉ, he was the first formal head of the GIS, the government Press Secretary for the coalition government of ‘73-’77, and he was head of Radio 1 for a while. Both my parents are still alive but separated; my father has married again. My mother’s a well-known genealogist.
So you grew up in quite a political, intellectual and artistic household?
Yeah, I suppose artistic, Irish language, Gaelic studies... yeah.
Are you still a big advocate of the Irish language?
I am, but as a private citizen. My commitment to the Irish language is profound. It’s a personal thing. We took the decision to raise our children in Irish. They’ve gone through the education system through Irish – good and bad as that can be. I speak Irish with my brothers so it is my first language. I’d find it very strange to speak English with them unless there’s company where we’d have to speak English. Bizarrely, I wouldn’t be considered a native speaker because I was born and bred in Dublin.
Do you think in Irish?
I do. I panic in Irish (laughs). My parents would have had Munster Irish. When we were brought up in Irish, Irish wasn’t cool. It was seen as kind of Republican, narrow-minded, a reactionary thing. There was a movement in Dublin of parents – middle-class, cosmopolitan families – sending their children to Irish school as a cultural rather than a political standpoint. Growing up, there would have been a lot of prejudice in Ireland and in Dublin about people speaking Irish. It’s gone now and you could almost name the day, whether it’s the Hot House Flowers or whatever it is, in terms of it becoming kind of acceptable. But back then it wasn’t. Certainly I remember having the shit kicked out of me as a young boy speaking Irish by fellow Dubliners because I was “strange”.
Do you mean you disagree with taxpayers money being spent on translating all official documents into Irish?
Well, if I was the Minister for Education, first of all I’d start by making 90% of examinations oral. Of all languages, Irish survived for thousands of years because it was an oral language – it was about telling stories. I think the education system has done an enormous amount of damage to it. I also think the idea of translating everything is ridiculous. I do think there’s a human right, though, for me to pick up the phone to a State-funded organisation and speak to someone in Irish, so there is a medium I would say, but certainly there are extremes that I wouldn’t agree with.
At the moment, pretty much every State and EU document is currently being translated.
I don’t think it’s needed. There’s a basic human right, as there is in every other language – Polish, Chinese, Mandarin or whatever – that we should be able to engage with the State in the language [of the State], but there is a contradiction between what we consider to be a national language and what we’re prepared to do about it. The magic wand is... only teach it as a language of communication: dump the grammar, dump the notion that you have to write an essay, and get people to communicate. I think that’s the way it’s going to survive.
What were you like at school?
A combination of being the eldest, which means a slight timidity, and an anxiousness about being afraid to be different. But as I got to secondary school, I think I became quite confident of myself and how I was able to communicate. I was a solid student. No great shakes. My own self-consciousness didn’t really appear until my mid-teenage years.
What were you self-conscious about?
It was a one-channel town: RTÉ 2 didn’t come until later. So my father was a very powerful man. I was from a middle-class family, I was aware of his authority in RTÉ and all that, so therefore you had to kind of battle with that. So there was a combination of trying to assert my own personality, and at the same time not so much that I might be accused of doing it because, “ah sure, he’s his father’s son.”
Were people always ass-kissing your father when you were out with him?
I remember walking up Rathgar one day, and holding my father’s hand and you know that amazing feeling where your hand is tiny and his hand is big? And then seeing this massive fist and white hair coming and punching my father in the face. There was an attack by someone, who disagreed with him. I remember it was quite a shock that even my father – and therefore me – can be vulnerable. That was a profound notion to me, that my father did attract ire. At the time he was Controller of Programmes. He was in charge of what went on at RTÉ... and what didn’t go on.
What was the issue?
I didn’t ask. I’d imagine it was something to do with the Late Late or something. It could have been Section 31. I just remember the physical thing. So I was aware of my father’s authority and power and connections, but I got over it. In my 20s I got over it, but it’s a challenge any teenage son has with parents.
Were you sexually precocious as a teenager?
No. I was kind of very awkward, very shy. Mad into football, playing and following sports. So my own interests, or my own potential talents, didn’t emerge until I went to university. I went to Coláiste Eoghan, an all-Irish school. We had a very close class but I was afraid of the Christian Brothers, so there was always that thread of fear as well. Not with the Principal there but the one before that – so there was always anxiety. I drank too early and got involved with Gael Linn and got to hang around with a lot of traditional musicians in fifth or sixth year so it was a challenge to keep on the straight and narrow.
When did you start drinking?
Oh, 14, 15, 16 (waves hand). Trying to match adult drinking pint for pint and knowing that you couldn’t do it. Going to school in fifth year with a hangover was a challenge. It was no more than anybody else would be doing at the time.
Was it a religious upbringing?
I was baptised but, no, it wasn’t religious at all. Nor am I religious now, nor have I christened my children. I personally have a view that I didn’t want my children to have whatever relationship they had with their God to be mediated by men or mediated by the Church. I have an anxiety or a fear of organised religion. It’s a personal decision. I don’t believe in God myself. At all. I’m not sure if my children do or don’t. I don’t impose it on them.
So you’re an absolute atheist?
Yes. I think the challenge for us as human beings is to fulfil the potential we have now, and the cliché ‘this is no dress rehearsal’ is true for me. I do believe in karma. I believe in the notion that if you do good, or you are authentic and have some integrity, that that will come back to you, and vice versa. And I’ve experienced both sides. I certainly am an atheist and think that one should not put their house on the after-life, and should achieve everything now.
You studied politics and economics in Trinity.
I was the only person from Coláiste Eoghan to go to Trinity. I went there partly to get away from the culture that I knew. I wanted a new experience. Very much influenced by politics, loved politics.
You were taught by [the late] Tony Gregory, weren’t you?
I was taught by Tony Gregory for seven years. Tony was my English teacher. I was in the same class as [Sinn Féin’s] Aengus O Snodaigh. Tony was one of the best, had a profound influence on me, actually, as a teacher and as a person. I remember we all went canvassing for him in the general election in ’81 and ’82. That, and my father’s background in politics, made me want to do politics in Trinity.
Was your father politically affiliated?
He would’ve been well known as a Labour supporter. Before that he was the editor of Seven Days in the early ‘70s. He was the first journalist, along with Bill O’Herlihy, to be hauled before a tribunal – the money-lending tribunal in ’71. I remember the pressure that was on the family with regard to the power of Fianna Fáil enforcing journalists to justify the accusation that there was moneylending happening in Dublin at the time. I’ve felt to this day, that politics was my way into contributing to a better society. I found out later that it was through the arts that I could do it better. But certainly my way into how to deal with Irish society, how to make sense of Irish society, how to try to make it better, or certainly even selfishly, how to have a contribution in that, was through politics.
I presume your father was friendly with a lot of influential politicians?
He was very close friends with David Thornley, Conor Cruise O’Brien. I remember when he was working for the coalition government, the cabinet would come to the house. I used to wake up in the middle of the night and see the Fine Gael/Labour cabinet in our house. Michael O’Leary, Justin Keating… all these guys.
What was your first paying job?
I worked in a pool hall in Rathmines called Trumps, which no longer exists. That paid my way through college. I was basically the pool hall attendant, giving out change for the poker machines and playing a lot of pool.
Were you any good?
I still am, actually. Pool is my sport. It’s not cool enough, it’s not hurling. But my app on my iPhone is a pool game. I love it. That’s my skill, to be truthful. Not even snooker. After second year in college, I went to Copenhagen and worked in Burger King. I came back to Dublin to start third year, then dropped out at the start of third year and went straight back to Copenhagen.
Was it a woman that brought you back?
It was a woman that brought me there. I went back because of the money and the freedom. It’s funny. That was the last big recession. But I loved the freedom in Copenhagen.
What kind of freedom?
The sexual freedom, the social freedom, the political freedom. Also, money. There was a minimum wage. Even in Burger King, it was the equivalent of a fiver an hour but there was a freedom in that and you could raise your [college] fees. We all had to pay our fees then so I insisted that I pay my own fees. I got a bank loan for my first year and then went to Copenhagen! I had a lot of mixed up feelings at the time and I wasn’t ready to go to college so my two years out of college – mostly in Burger King and then coming back to Dublin to work in the theatre here – was my ‘gap year’ so to speak. It was a way to liberate myself from some anal middle-class shite that I was going through.
Did you experiment with any illegal drugs during this period of liberation?
I did in Copenhagen, yeah. There’s a place called Christiana (laughs). That was in full swing. It was all legal, so if you’re asking me if I did anything illegal, no I didn’t do anything illegal in Copenhagen – at all! But that was Copenhagen. That was a time where I became, as a person, more honest with myself, in all spheres. It was a time for me to experiment. And also to live outside of Ireland, which was claustrophobic. Also getting away from a small town. Even at that stage, Dublin was a small town.
What was your first job in the arts?
I came back from Copenhagen wanting to be an actor. In second year in Trinity I directed a play in Irish, Brendan Behan’s The Hostage, and I had Liam O Maonlaí playing the lead. That was a great experience. And I realised that I wanted to work in theatre. So I came back, auditioned for the Gaeity School of Acting.
How did that go?
I was terrible, awful. I gave the worst audition but I got in... and I thought, “that’s strange!” (laughs). I knew that the energy and the community was something that I wanted to stay in. But it wasn’t acting. So one of my first breaks as an ASM – assistant stage manager – was with Ray Yeates, who’s now the Dublin City Council Arts Officer. Subsequently, I worked in the Gaiety. Then I went back to Trinity, so I was working as an ASM in the Gaiety at night, doing all these amazing plays with Joe Dowling and Rosaline Linehan, and then going to classes in college during the day. Then I got a job as an administrator in the Gaiety School of Acting. My third year was studying politics and working in theatre. I loved that.
Did you do much acting?
I didn’t have the courage, actually. Even now, Olaf, when I have to go onto the Abbey stage to make an announcement, my knees are shaking. In terms of our business, the most courageous people I have come across are actors. To go on the stage, to strip yourself and inhabit another personality and to be authentic… That’s courage. I knew I couldn’t do that. Probably the only talent I have is knowing what I’m crap at. Whether it’s in a movie or in a theatre, you know when somebody is not authentic. Working as a stage manager for two or three years, I understood how important it was to support the actor. That to me was my big learning thing.
What was the biggest disaster you saw as an ASM?
I worked with the great Rosaline Linehan, who is about to come into us again at Christmas with The Dead. She did a musical called Gypsy. She played the lead… her character is trying to get her kid to be a Broadway star – Gypsy Rose-Lee – and she’s the classic stage mom. On the opening night, she turns around in her father’s apartment and steals a plaque from the wall – and it was my job to put the plaque on the wall.
Oh no...
Yeah (laughs). So, in front of 1,000 people, on the opening night, she turned around to take the plaque off the wall and it wasn’t there! It was a disaster. It was a disaster for her, she was quite rightly angry. She brought me up to her dressing-room during the interval and tore strips off me! That was my big lesson. It was a disaster.
How did you take to having strips torn off you?
It was very upsetting, but I was wrong. I also saw the impact it had on Rosaline. In my job now, we never get it perfect, but I understand the risks that actors have to take. And they have to be vulnerable – to take the risk of becoming someone else, to strip away themselves. They have to leave themselves offstage, become somebody else in front of an audience, and do it every night, and to make sure that everything around them is okay. I understand that, so everything from pay to backstage facilities to support… a lot of times we get it right, sometimes we don’t, but the memory of the missing plaque is a part of my learning of that.
Did you ever have any actors that you just couldn’t deal with?
No. I have to get on with actors, that’s my job. I understand the temperament of an artist so I understand when they go off the rails, I understand when they don’t go off the rails, I understand about their anxieties. Largely, I find, that’s a part of my skill.
Obviously, given that you married an actress [Bríd Ní Neachtain].
Yes, I did (laughs). I met her during Dancing At Lughnasa, a play that started here. At the time I worked here with Noel Pearson, and Noel gave me a brilliant break. He was the artistic director here at the same time that he produced My Left Foot and The Field, which became massive movies, big Irish success stories, so he wanted someone here with him to support what he was doing. So I was his PA, basically, for three years. I was lucky enough to have worked on Dancing With Lughnasa, which went to Broadway so I went on that journey.
That won a couple of Tony Awards, didn’t it?
Yeah, it won seven Tonys actually. Best Play, Best Director, Best Actress for Bríd Brennan, and it was a great experience for me because I think I was the third person in the Abbey to have read that play. I had great dealings with Brian Friel. Brian is still a close friend. He attended our wedding. It was a profound time because Brian was one of the people who supported me when I got the job here. Brid was in the original cast, so I have a lot to be thankful for, from the Abbey and from Brian.
Do you travel abroad often as director of the Abbey?
I travel a lot both to the US and the UK. I’d go to New York about four or five times a year, for a couple of reasons: firstly to see a lot of work, but also to develop financial contacts there. We do a lot of fundraising in the US and we’ve had a couple of plays over there recently.
Obviously you were already very familiar with the Abbey before you got this job. Did you ever see yourself in this role back then?
Honestly, in terms of hindsight, I think probably yes.
So you were ambitious?
I was, yeah. And I am ambitious. I’m ambitious and passionate about what I do. Because I’m not an artist, I’m not a writer, I’m not a director, I’ve nothing else to fall back on other than producing. And this is the national theatre – so it’s like playing for your national squad and leading it. My great-grandfather was the first person to bring Sean O’Casey to the Abbey. I must show you the letter, it’s hanging around the corner. My grandfather, the painter, designed a Sean O’Casey play for the first time in 1935, so there are connections there. But really because it’s the national theatre, I wanted to work here.
You produced a number of films.
My brother Cuan is a film editor, worked a lot in the BBC and has his own film company. We did a couple of movies with Paul Mercier, as writer and director. Paul is someone that I’m quite close to. I think he’s a great artist. So we did three or four short movies for TG4 and RTÉ. Before I Sleep with Brendan Gleeson, and Lip Service with Sean McGinley. And then we did a movie, Studs, with Brendan Gleeson in 2005.
What’s the greatest talent a producer has to have?
Patience, and a vision. Knowing why you’re doing it and knowing the right time to strike. Of course, there are practical talents that you need like raising money, like being diplomatic, understanding the creative process… but for me, if you have patience and a vision then you know when to press fast forward and accelerate and when not. Some projects happen over a short period of time. Others take longer.
Do you have a bad temper?
No. I’ve never lost my temper. Often I can be hyper. Sometimes my staff are wary of me when I go away for a week on business because I come back with lots of new ideas. The idea of sitting at a desk here and thinking of ideas isn’t… you have to go away, you have to go out there and socialise, see a show, that’s when you get the great ideas.
When you came into this job in 2005, the Abbey was in a real mess, wasn’t it?
It was nobody’s direct fault but there was a whole combination of things wrong. There were issues around corporate governence. The organisation wasn’t run as a modern organisation should be, in terms of structures, knowing what the cost of everything was, and managing the place. Secondly, there was a lot of writers that the Abbey Theatre failed to engage with, to the loss of the national theatre. You could argue that this should have been the home for Enda Walsh, Martin McDonagh, Conor MacPherson. It wasn’t, because there wasn’t that engagement there. So my biggest challenge was to maintain connection with all the senior writers in Ireland – Frank McGuinness, Brian Friel, Tom Kilroy, Tom Murphy – try to engage with Conor and Enda and make sure that people like Mark O’Rowe and Marina Carr, who are also important writers, were doing their work. And then buy myself time to bring up the newer writers. So the challenge was twofold – getting this organisation back to ship-shape in terms of being a shit-hot producing house and secondly, getting the writers and the artists coming back to us. Everybody expected me to be an overnight success. I ain’t gonna be an overnight success here. We’ve had some great success stories but I’m here seven years and I’ve some way to go, but a lot has been achieved.
I interviewed Martin McDonagh and he was bitter about having been rejected by the Abbey early in his writing career.
I tried to work with Martin in the early days. I think his own experience with the Abbey before that was too raw. I’ve actually never met Martin, so there is no relationship one way or another. I admire him as a playwright, but I’ve gone on to other writers now. I need to. So no good or bad vibe there.
When you came in in 2005, it was for a fixed five-year term.
The board have extended my contract. I’m going to be here until at least the end of 2016; that’ll be 11 years. I am the transitional director here. My job is to make sure that when my successor comes in they have a clean slate, loads of choices to make and a robust organisation. Now that’s all there now. Traditionally there was an artistic director and a managing director. Now there is only one. I’m the CEO, I’m the director, I programme the work, and I manage it. Now I’ve a fantastic senior management team that works with me and I have reorganised the whole organisation in terms of the way people do it. But I’ve to balance both the left brain and the right brain in terms of ‘how will I take the risk?’ and ‘where will I put that risky play?’ and all that, which I think is my strength.
Before you came to The Abbey, you worked as a special advisor to the then Minister for Arts, Sport and Tourism John O’Donoghue [from 2002 to 2005]. How was he to deal with?
Great! When I left the Project Arts Centre I spent most of the noughties working as a freelancer, working at international festivals. I did my movie. I set up the Irish Cultural Centre in Paris in 2002, and then John O’Donoghue approached me to work with him as arts advisor. It was a part-time job working purely on his arts stuff and I found him to be quite brilliant. Quite an intelligent man. Understood the brief well, understood that he didn’t know anything necessarily about the arts, but was prepared to learn and listen. He had a very good impact. I certainly enjoyed my three years with him. I know it seems like an unlikely thing for me to say, but I did find him to be a good person to work for.
Isn’t there something seriously wrong when the person appointed as Minister for the Arts doesn’t actually know anything about them?
He did know about the arts. He knew what was happening in Kerry. He particularly understood the art of storytelling. You could argue that about every ministerial portfolio anyway. What’s that line? We’ve too many school teachers running different portfolios: you could say that about anything. But he knew that – and isn’t that the strength of any human being? Knowing what you are not good at, knowing what you don’t know. Eventually he didn’t need me and I moved on.
Did you have much sympathy for him when he was forced to resign?
I did. I’m not going to talk about him now, but I’ll tell you.... I’m a senator now, as you know, and just on the human nature, the human frailty – I’m a frail, weak person. The bizarre thing about going into Leinster House is: one, everybody calls you by your title, and I defy anybody who doesn’t get a kick out of that. I defy anybody who doesn’t feel that that is something that is due to them. So if you are in Leinster House all day, everyday, and you are being called ‘Minister’ or ‘Deputy’ or ‘Senator’, you have to protect yourself. That’s often what causes some of the disconnection between politicians and citizens, that gated community that Leinster House can be. I think it is easier for back benchers because they are away in their constituencies, but it is a challenge so it can come across as arrogance and you can see where there is a disconnect. I work in the Abbey, I go up to Leinster House and make my contribution as a senator. I am aware of the challenge that inhaling too much of that appendage of a title can get to you. The other frailty is the frailty of expenses. Who is not going to take expenses when they are not vouched? It can lead to temptation. There is no doubt about that. For anybody to deny that, it’s just ordinary human frailty. The State quite rightly has now imposed strict regulations and vouched expenses. I get €22,000 a year that I don’t have to vouch! That’s criminal! Now, I do vouch it myself.
I thought you refused to take a salary.
I give my salary away. I had a choice: not take the salary or take the salary and have control over where it goes. So I pay my taxes on it, a significant amount of the remaining portion I give to the Abbey Theatre as a donation, and I also give to the National Campaign for the Arts and other arts programmes. I don’t personally gain from any of my salary. Then I am entitled to another three expenses: I’m entitled to nine grand a year travel from Inchicore to Kildare St. I don’t take that. Then I’m entitled to office expenses of 15 grand: I take less than three grand. That’s on the record. The final thing I am entitled to is Leader’s Allowance because I’m an independent senator, not a member of any party. It’s kind of vague what that is there for, which is actually a problem, but I use it to do research on issues around the arts that would help me to use it as a debate in the Senate. In other words, I commission data. I commission work that can be useful. But I don’t have to do that, and that’s the problem.
What’s your opinion of the current coalition government?
I’m impressed by a lot of the ministers. The challenge for the current government is communication. I think that sometimes they feel that if they don’t give us all the information quickly and fairly, that they are doing us a favour – and they’re not! What is happening is that every sector of civil society is starting a fight with each other. If we are going to get out of this mess together, with some solidarity and less of a gap in equality, two things I’m looking for: lessen the gap in equality and solidarity. You would think and hope that particularly the Labour Party would be able to do that, but what is happening at the moment is that small town politics is driving it. I would urge the government just to be as honest, frank and upfront as soon as possible about all of it. What is daunting is that we are probably coming to the worst budget in the history of the State. Are we all aware of that? Certainly I know that the arts community is. We have already taken a hit, and we accept that hit, but that hit has to be equal pro rata with everybody else, and I’m not sure that there is enough trust in that equality based approach to be done. Also of course education has to be protected so I am impressed with Ruairi Quinn. What I like about Ruairi Quinn is that when he made a mistake, he publicly said it. That’s how it should be.
The Abbey was to have moved a couple of years ago, but those plans were scuppered by the economic crisis. Were you disappointed?
It was meant to move a few times, but honestly? No. The original design of the Abbey Theatre that we wanted wasn’t the right one. So when I came in, not only did I have to deal with lack of new plays and disconnection with writers, and the funding and management issues... I did think that the design of the new building wasn’t good. Behind the scenes we tried to fix it. It didn’t work. There is no doubt that we need a new building for a load of obvious reasons, but to answer your question truthfully, I am sorry that there is no money at the moment to build a new theatre, but I’m not sorry because what we would have built wouldn’t have been good. My job now is to keep the pressure on the government that they first of all agree to give support to the Abbey in terms of its operating fund, and secondly, when they have the money, that they give us some support for the new building. My job at the moment is to come up with a Plan B as to how to construct a new building on this site.
A lot of people would object to the government spending money building a new national theatre at a time when they’re also closing down hospitals.
The thing is that every citizen has the right to come to the Abbey Theatre and the right to vote. I equate their right to vote, their right to attend their national theatre, and their right to free health, as all part of the same paradigm. The arts doesn’t cost as much money as the health system, and the arts has taken a cut, and we probably will face another, but I wouldn’t excuse, justify or be defensive about an investment in the arts. Still to this day you can come to the Abbey Theatre and see a play for 13 quid! So our investment is seen there. So the argument is that there has to be a holistic approach to the cuts and the arts won’t be found wanting. Just to single it out as a quango or whatever it is, I think that is disingenuous.
Given your reliance on State funding, would you feel compromised if somebody came in with a new play that was extremely critical of the establishment?
No, I wouldn’t feel compromised. This is what I truly believe about an artist and a writer – you’ll appreciate this and hopefully your readers will – I absolutely believe that artists are prophets in the old-fashioned sense of the word. A colleague of mine, Luke Gibbons, mentions how they have an antennae which is just vulnerable, clear, unmediated, it’s just out there. Sometimes they have no notion what they're writing because that is what makes an artist so great. Their skin is alive, they are listening and watching, and then they write what they have to write. They’ll know the structure and the technique – but what they write about is about here and now. Whether we choose to listen to that is the thing.
Do you think that Irish playwrights have failed to engage with the economic meltdown?
I think that artists do engage. Marina Carr wrote a play called Marble, which essentially is a play about failed marriage but it was also about the frenzy of the Celtic Tiger. Tom Murphy wrote an amazing play called The Last Days Of A Reluctant Tyrant. Some critics ignored it. Actually it was about lack of faith, greed, interest in property. What we do – as opposed to international playwrights – is we do allegory, we want be entertained, we love theatre but the message is always subliminal. So I would absolutely disagree with you, but I think artists do care about our society. It’s not their responsibility to comment directly on it, it’s my responsibility as director of the Abbey Theatre to put it into the programme and tell people what it’s about and we’ve done quite a lot of that and we will continue to do that. Sometimes we’ll do things like put David McWilliams on the stage speaking directly about what is happening. And that’s the answer to your earlier question: I’m not afraid to put something on. We actually commissioned McWilliams: it wasn’t theatre, but it was a show and it was an important response to my audiences. Two years ago we did a profound piece of theatre around the Ryan Report with Mary Raftery – a verbatim piece of theatre. The Abbey’s job is to reflect and engage what happens in our society and I do it in two ways, by engaging directly or listening to the writers and trusting what they have to say.
You joined a public protest outside the Peacock Theatre last year. How did that come about?
It was a very strange experience and a very embarrassing one. We did a play called No Escape based on the Ryan Report, written by Mary Raftery, about the horrors of what the Catholic Church did in institutional homes. A significant portion of the survivors that wanted to come to the play were in wheelchairs and could not access the Peacock. It was the most profoundly mortifying and embarrassing thing. I agreed with it straight away and we looked at how we could try to change it, consulted with a lot of people that cared about the Abbey but also had experience working with disability – and I changed it. In the meantime I felt I should also protest as an acknowledgement, as a piece of solidarity with people like Paddy Doyle, who felt that they couldn’t access the theatre. It was terrible. Paddy and I had some public spats over that, quite rightly, and then I moved the play to Liberty Hall for one night to make it accessible. Then I made a promise that I would make the Peacock accessible – and I put a lift there within ten months. I did the protest because I wanted to acknowledge the paradox and the embarrassment of it – and the only way I could feel more embarrassed was by picketing my own theatre.
I know that you’re on Twitter, but are you on Facebook?
No. I’ve been on Twitter for about two or three years, but I’m not on Facebook. One of the challenges of the Abbey Theatre is always to try to communicate and remind people what we do, and I find that we can do that in 140 characters (laughs).
Do you have a motto in life?
I don’t. I’m a very positive person. I’m genuinely half-full so whenever there is a crisis, whenever there’s an issue, I kind of step back for a minute and say, “now what is the positive about this?” I tend not to dwell on either mistakes or failures: you have to move on. Theatre is like that. I also follow QPR, and QPR are all about failure after failure after failure (laughs). I don’t have a motto, but I’ve a very positive outlook and that’s what gets me up in the morning.

The Picture Of Dorian Gray runs at the Abbey Theatre until November 17.