The Banshees of Inisherin (2022)

Score: 4.5 / 5

I don't think anyone expected Martin McDonagh, amidst his successful films, to craft a new work that is essentially a filmed play. The Banshees of Inisherin would fit perfectly on stage, preferably in cycle with his earlier plays; even its title reminds us of most of those (The Beauty Queen of Leenane, A Skull in Connemara, The Cripple of Inishmaan, and The Lieutenant of Inishmore). In various ways and to differing degrees, each highlights the lives of rural, eccentric Irish characters around the Galway region; each also thematically deals with desperation, concerns over personal authenticity and coping with a bleak life, and the universality and inevitability of horrific violence. They are, as in all of McDonagh's work, formally challenging to theatre norms, vicious in their attempts to upset their audience, and wickedly hilarious if you're willing to tap into his particular brand of absurd black comedy. In these ways, The Banshees of Inisherin feels like the most purely McDonagh of McDonagh's films, and that's pretty surprising to see these days from an auteur so far into his career.

We knew Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson were among the best performers of McDonagh's delicious writing style -- and have terrific chemistry to boot -- from their roles in In Bruges in 2008. This time, however, they play lifetime best friends well at ease in their idyllic home, the titular (and fictional) island where it's sunny by day and only rainy by night. Pádraic (Farrell) is a milk farmer who lives with his sister Siobhán (Kerry Condon) in a comfortable life, in which his only real entertainment is going out drinking at the local pub with his longtime friend Colm (Gleeson). Apparently they've done the same routine for many years. One wonders exactly what is going on internally here, as neither show much interest in anything else. At least, until the inciting incident of this particular story.

Suddenly -- without warning or clear reason -- Colm starts to ignore Pádraic. He declares he no longer wants to be friends, which is tough enough, but he actively begins to ignore Pádraic's presence socially. Pádraic can't quite deal with it, and so he aggressively tries to clarify what's going on. Over the course of a couple stilted, deeply uncomfortable confrontations, we learn that Colm simply finds Pádraic dull and distracting; to be fair, Pádraic isn't a particularly insightful or engaging conversationalist, but he is mostly contented and genuinely sweet. Colm has decided he has better things to do with his time than sit and drink and talk about the same old things. He wants to compose folk songs on his fiddle, something he can be remembered for. We learn eventually why he wants to be remembered, as he tells his parish priest about his despair; he's also suffering medically, as it turns out.

Interestingly, and despite Farrell's bankable and reliable likeability, the first part of the film seems intent to make us sympathize with Colm. Though Pádraic is arguably the protagonist, he's a bit obnoxious in his understandable desperation to reclaim his best friend. Colm's peaceful stoicism and increased age prompts us to question more than once, "Why can't Pádraic just leave him alone?" It doesn't help that, during his grieving process, Pádraic befriends Dominic (Barry Keoghan), a shockingly rude and deeply troubled local boy who is the son of an abusive policeman. Dominic only really seems into the situation for personal gain, whether it's for entertainment value regarding the conflict or to get closer to Pádraic's sister, who rejects his advances. We can tell Dominic isn't good for Pádraic, but what else is the bereaved man to do?

Especially when, and this is the crux of the matter, Colm declares that if Pádraic continues to accost him and disrespect his wishes for isolation, Colm will begin to remove his own fingers with sheep shears. Remember that he's a fiddle player, and so this is a bizarre and indeed absurd reaction, gruesome and self-sabotaging in the worst way. I don't want to spoil too much about this development, because it becomes the primary source of tension and, oddly, humor, as the tragicomedy progresses. It's McDonagh's signature style, and it forces us into an absorbing horrific fascination as we ask just how far this story will go, and to what end.

In true McDonagh fashion, the film's eccentricities and absurdism belie deep and dark thematic truths. Namely, it's important here that the film takes place in 1923 as the Irish Civil War comes to a close; more than once characters mention hearing guns on the mainland. I suppose the relationship between Colm and Pádraic is meant to allegorize or symbolize the broken brotherhood of Ireland at the time, though I confess not knowing enough about the conflict to theorize much beyond that. But it's clear it means specific things to the writer-director, who is much more comfortable in this territory than he was in trying to dramatize police corruption and sexual crimes in rural America in his previous film. And, for anyone unfamiliar with his work, McDonagh is an extraordinarily talented master of difficult tone while allowing for surprisingly sensitive, tender moments. He empowers the actors to embrace silences, and then gives them some of the juiciest dialogue from any working screenwriter today.