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In 1981, during the Sinn Féin Ard Fheis in Dublin—an assembly held yearly for what was commonly viewed as the Irish Republican Army’s political arm—Danny Morrison, who had risen to the position of Sinn Féin’s communications director two years prior, presented an assertion: “Who truly thinks we can secure victory in battle through elections? But will anyone here protest if, wielding a ballot in one hand and an Armalite in the other, we seize authority in Ireland?”
It’s not difficult to envision how Margaret Thatcher, who assumed the role of Prime Minister of the United Kingdom in 1979, must have reacted to this. Her irritation likely intensified in October of 1984, when the I.R.A. detonated an explosive at a Brighton hotel, nearly striking her. The I.R.A.’s declaration shortly after—“Bear in mind we need only succeed once, you must succeed every time”—underscored that she was confronting a formidable adversary, as adept at impactful and unforgettable statements as they were at employing explosives. In a speech the following year, Thatcher proclaimed, “We should seek approaches to deny the terrorist and the hijacker the media attention on which they thrive.” She urged the British media to exercise restraint in order to avert scenarios where a Sinn Féin representative could appear on television following an I.R.A. act of violence and calmly assert that it was all for Irish independence. The ensuing events constitute the core of Roisin Agnew’s insightful and expertly assembled documentary, “The Ban.”
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Morrison belonged to a wave of activists who assumed leadership of Sinn Féin in the early eighties, as did Gerry Adams, who became head of the Party in 1983. Together with Martin McGuinness, Adams’s second-in-command in Derry, they formed a potent force—eloquent and skilled media figures. For a concise sound bite, Morrison was always available. For a more intricate and nuanced defense of the Republican cause, Adams was the go-to person. Among the three, McGuinness was the most resolute and straightforward. A key aspect of the threat posed by these men was their capacity to present themselves as reasonable politicians while, in reality, orchestrating a brutal campaign of terror.
When the first television station was inaugurated in Dublin in 1961, the Irish government promptly reserved the authority to censor content intended for broadcast. In 1971, they escalated this measure, effectively banning groups such as Sinn Féin and the I.R.A. from the airwaves. This prohibition remained enforced until 1994, the same year the I.R.A. announced a ceasefire.
The British lacked regulations as entirely restrictive as this. However, in October of 1988, Thatcher’s government concluded that her initial appeal for media regulation was inadequate. The outcome was one of the more farcical, counterproductive, and awkward episodes in the extensive history of British attempts to navigate the complexities of Ireland.
The British government stipulated that the voices of Sinn Féin or I.R.A. members, amongst others, were prohibited from being aired on television or radio. Broadcasters quickly identified a way around this restriction: they started employing performers to provide voice-overs for conversations with Sinn Féin leaders and others impacted by the rule. During the six years that the ban persisted (mirroring the Irish ban, it concluded in 1994), while viewing discussions on British news outlets, one would try to determine which actor was providing the vocal replacement. I was situated in Dublin at the time, an era dominated by the imposing influence of Mrs. Thatcher. I pondered the purpose she believed these voice-overs served, beyond entertaining the populace. For instance, did she listen to Stephen Rea portraying Adams? Among all the performers, Rea was exceptional. Due to his marriage to a former I.R.A. bomber, reservations were expressed regarding his presence on air. Yet, the core issue was his unparalleled and remarkable ability to embody any character he undertook. He had previously portrayed Lord Haw-Haw (who broadcast for Hitler), Brendan Bracken, Churchill’s propaganda minister, Clov in Samuel Beckett’s “Endgame,” and Oscar Wilde. He now featured as one of the individuals providing Adams’ voice. Occasionally, he even surpassed Adams in delivery—appearing less conceited and self-righteous. As Adams himself acknowledges in “The Ban,” Rea’s rendition “was a notable improvement over my monotonous speech.”
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