RTE’s Liam Brady documentary gave us a glimpse back at when football was still a wild frontier (2024)

Liam Brady: The Irishman Abroad
RTE1, Mon

Lady Gregory: Ireland’s First Social Influencer
RTE1, Thu

Footballers never forget their greatest kicks. Liam Brady enjoyed a long and eminent career in top-flight sport, winning glory and silverware in England and Italy. Looking back, however, the 67-year-old music-besotted Dubliner reserves special affection for his days as an apprentice with Arsenal during the early 1970s. This was the first time he was paid for playing football, starting on weekly wages of six pounds. With money to spare, he could finally afford what he regarded as the plushest of luxuries: a new LP every week.

● For full TV listings for the week, click here

Itchy feet and fancy footwork were the primary concerns of Liam Brady: The Irishman Abroad, a slight but zippy documentary about the nimble midfielder’s adventures in foreign fields. But, alongside its chronicles of deft swerves and daring leaps, the programme made space to explore Brady’s lesser-known passion for rock’n’roll — the unifying backbeat to his often lonely wanderings. As we discovered, his most cherished scores weren’t always racked up on the pitch.

Rock music served as pacesetter and playmaker in Sean Casey’s elegant and visually striking film. Hit songs from hinge moments in Brady’s life were astutely deployed, adding texture and attitude to the storytelling.

Unfortunately, however, the documentary lost heft and steeliness as it progressed, a decline echoed by a gradual slackening in the soundtrack. Early in the second half, the narrative underwent a key change, shifting emphasis from the clear-eyed to the dewy-eyed. Nostalgia moved centre stage. The dominant tone slid from the ballsy to the bland; the hard-edged to the easy listening.

Brady was a shy 13-year-old when he began his traineeship at Highbury. He almost succumbed to homesickness, but persevered and soon found much to like about London. He revelled in its bustling nightlife and rapidly changing fashions, embracing bellbottoms, wing collars and frizzy hairdos with what, in retrospect, looks like imprudent gusto. He also became a regular concertgoer. Gigs by Bob Dylan and the Who still rank among his fondest memories.

The 1970s were not a comfortable period for any Irishman abroad. IRA atrocities dominated the headlines and enflamed anti-Irish prejudice. Brady wasn’t interested in politics or current affairs — his preferred reading was the NME. Nevertheless, he couldn’t escape the backlash. He was beaten up on the Tube during the tense aftermath of the Birmingham pub bombings; his assailants were apparently enraged by his accent. He grew accustomed to hassle and harassment at ferry docks and airports.

Even during the depths of the Troubles, however, Brady was revered by Arsenal fans. His departure from the club in 1980 was bitterly lamented — since by then he was being hailed as one of the best players in England. But, for Brady himself, it was a smart move. When he signed for Juventus, he was a lone foreigner. Within two years, he was seen as a trailblazer. Lake Como and its environs endowed the film with majestic backdrops as he revisited old haunts, old pals and old victories.

Brady has continued to work in and around football in multiple guises — but the documentary displayed scant interest in his post-playing activities. His later years were covered in broad brushstrokes and soft soap. Much of the tale was glossed over. Brady wanted to use the film to dispel the “myth” that his international career was scuppered in the late 1980s because of a personality clash with the manager at the time, Jack Charlton — and eloquently made that case. But, throughout this section, there was a sense of punches pulled and awkward questions sidestepped. At its best, The Irishman Abroad offered vivid recollections of an era when professional football was still a wild frontier, a risky but exciting place.

Brady made his own luck in ways that are no longer possible now that players and the game itself have become so thoroughly commodified. The concentration on his musical enthusiasms was actually central to the story. He was, after all, at his most fleet-footed when following the beat of his own drum.

Play acting was the ironic downfall of Lady Gregory: Ireland’s First Social Influencer, a two-part excursion through an influential era in theatrical history led by the unlikely duo of Miriam Margolyes and Senator Lynn Ruane. Much was made of the comforts and convenience afforded by the deluxe campervan in which the odyssey was conducted. But, in truth, the campest contrivance on-screen was the relentlessly giddy antics of the tediously camera-hogging co-presenters.

Like most celeb-fronted travel shows, the enterprise was framed as a selfless act of public service, an evangelical mission that just happened to provide a pleasure trip for the featured VIPs. Its stated goal was raising awareness about Augusta Gregory, the Galway-born writer and folk historian who, with her friend WB Yeats, founded the Abbey Theatre in 1904. In reality, of course, the story of the Irish literary revival and its guiding luminaries is well known and often told.

For all its bells and whistles, the arts-doc element was ploddingly conventional, adding nothing to our knowledge or understanding. Meanwhile, the effort to depict Gregory and co as the social-media trendsetters of their day was as cringe-worthy as it was condescending.

Fresh thinking is desperately rare in home-produced documentary-making, a genre with a chronic attachment to the beaten track. At first glance, the Margolyes/Ruane pairing looked like a welcome attempt to try something new. In all the ways that matter, however, it was actually a copycat endeavour, an ill-considered and ultimately botched attempt to replicate the bawdy charm of the Channel 4 travelogues that Margolyes makes with her fellow thespian Alan Cumming.

Margolyes and Ruane are not the odd couple they are cracked up to be. In fact, their double act fails to shine precisely because of their irreconcilable similarities. Both are bright, opinionated and articulate — but over-fond of their own voices. They can be amusingly acerbic and bracingly blunt, but their heavily mannered shtick is best enjoyed in small doses.

Whether honed on the stage or in the Seanad, a penchant for playing to the gallery isn’t always good training for TV presenting.

Related articles