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In Dublin, back in 1981, during the Sinn Féin Ard Fheis—an assembly each year for what was then largely considered the political arm of the Irish Republican Army—Danny Morrison, who had taken on the role of Sinn Féin’s publicity head two years prior, put forward a challenge: “Who truly thinks we can secure victory in the war via the ballot box? But will anyone raise concerns if, with a ballot in this hand and an Armalite in the other, we seize authority in Ireland?”
It isn’t difficult to fathom the sentiments of Margaret Thatcher, who became the U.K.’s Prime Minister in 1979, as she watched this unfold. Her discontent likely intensified in October of 1984, when the I.R.A. placed an explosive device within a Brighton hotel, nearly hitting her. The I.R.A.’s declaration soon after—“Remember, we need only get lucky once, you will have to be consistently fortunate”—underscored that she was contending with a formidable adversary, just as adept at concise, unforgettable pronouncements as they were at utilizing explosives. During a speech the subsequent year, Thatcher stated, “We must endeavor to discover avenues to deprive the terrorist and the hijacker of the media attention upon which their actions hinge.” She urged the British media to exercise self-restraint to prevent scenarios where a Sinn Féin representative could appear on television following an I.R.A. atrocity and calmly assert it was all in pursuit of Irish independence. Roisin Agnew’s penetrating and expertly edited documentary, “The Ban,” delves into what followed.
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Morrison belonged to a group of activists who assumed leadership within Sinn Féin during the early nineteen-eighties, as did Gerry Adams, who ascended to the role of Party president in 1983. Alongside Martin McGuinness, Adams’s right-hand man in Derry, they formed a potent team—eloquent and exceptional media performers. For a succinct sound bite, Morrison was always reliable. For a more intricate and Jesuitical set of arguments supporting the Republican cause, Adams was the go-to person. McGuinness, of the three, was the most resolute and forthright. The capacity of these men to speak with the demeanor of reasonable politicians while orchestrating a brutal campaign of terror was part of what made them such a menace.
Upon the launch of the inaugural television channel in Dublin, during 1961, the Irish government claimed the authority to censor content meant for transmission. In 1971, this was taken a step further, with groups such as Sinn Féin and the I.R.A. essentially being barred from broadcast mediums. This prohibition endured until 1994, the same year the I.R.A. announced a cessation of hostilities.
The British lacked legislation as comprehensively silencing as this. However, in October of 1988, Thatcher’s government determined that her initial appeal for media self-regulation was not sufficient. The outcome was one of the most amusing, futile, and awkward instances in the extensive chronicle of British attempts to manage affairs in Ireland.
The British government declared that the voices of those speaking for Sinn Féin or the I.R.A., among others, were prohibited from being aired on television or radio. Broadcasters quickly identified a workaround: they began enlisting actors to provide vocal performances for interviews featuring Sinn Féin leaders and others affected by the measure. During the six years this regulation was in effect (concluding in 1994, like the Irish ban), viewers watching interviews on British news channels would attempt to deduce which actor was providing the dubbing. I was living in Dublin at the time, when Mrs. Thatcher’s imposing influence was strongly felt. I questioned what purpose she believed these voice-overs served, besides amusing the nation. For instance, did she ever hear Stephen Rea impersonating Adams? Rea was distinct among all the actors. Owing to his marriage to a former I.R.A. bomber, objections were raised regarding his presence on air. But the true issue lay in his unparalleled and eerie skill in inhabiting any role he undertook. On stage, he had portrayed Lord Haw-Haw (who broadcast propaganda for Hitler); Brendan Bracken, Churchill’s Minister of Information; Clov, from Samuel Beckett’s “Endgame”; and Oscar Wilde. Now, he was one of the actors supplying Adams’s voice. Occasionally, he even sounded superior to Adams—seeming less complacent and self-righteous. As Adams himself acknowledges in “The Ban,” Rea’s performance “was a significant improvement on my monotone.”
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