The Banshees of Inisherin

 

Writer/director Martin McDonagh

McDonagh with Brendan Gleeson

McDonagh with Colin Farrell (left) and Brendan Gleeson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BANSHEES OF INISHERIN              B                                                                       Ireland  USA  Great Britain  (109 mi)  2022  d: Martin McDonagh

Banshees burrows into the stereotype of Irish people at pubs, guzzling pints to the tune of ebullient folk music, and moulds it into an emotionally resonant character study.  The starting point was to capture the sadness of a breakup, be it a love breakup or a friendship one.  Being on both sides of that is an equally horrible position.  To treat the sadness of both sides as truthfully as possible was the main thing I wanted to get right with this.                        —Writer/Director Martin McDonagh

Winner of Best Actor (Colin Farrell) and Best Screenplay when premiering at the Venice Film Festival, the film received a 15-minute standing ovation, and has received nothing but the highest accolades ever since, with many openly declaring this is the director’s best work, which may be an exaggerated overstatement.  Acclaimed Irish playwright Martin McDonagh reunites fellow Irish actors Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson for the first time since pairing together as criminal misfits in the subversively challenging dark comedy In Bruges (2008).  Many felt his follow up Seven Psychopaths (2012) got derailed by getting overly sidetracked in side stories, while Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017) was a huge commercial success, earning more than ten times the cost of making the film, winning Academy Awards for Best Actress Frances McDormand and Best Supporting Actor Sam Rockwell, with McDonagh additionally writing 5 Tony Award nominated plays as well.  For the first time since Shakespeare, he managed the feat of having four different plays running in London at the same time.  Known for hilariously inventive dialogue that often covers for darker themes, this may be his most deeply despairing work, with themes of isolation and ostracization, plunging viewers into a sad tale about the end of a friendship, but it’s also a fight between men who are basically brothers, with ominous overtones on a grander scale, yet what distinguishes this film is its commitment to exploring the Irish identity and character more deeply than his other films, described in such a precise way in their dialect and way of life, filled with eccentric quirks and idiosyncrasies, set on the mythical island of Inisherin in Galway Bay off the western coast of Ireland, where in the background you can hear bombs going off on the Irish mainland, engulfed in the 1923 Irish Civil War - Irish War of Independence, with Irish nationalists fighting for a free state, a conflict that still hasn’t been resolved 100 years later.  Shooting initially began on the sparsely populated Inishmore, or Inis Mór, the largest of the Aran Islands before moving to Achill Island, the largest of the Irish isles and much closer to the mainland, establishing a community defined by its small town nosiness, where everyone knows everyone else and all their hidden secrets, as people are creatures of habit, going about their daily routines, where the women working in town need the latest gossip to spread, while those on the outskirts lead more remote lives, their thatched roof homes situated on cliffs overlooking the sea, creating a picturesque landscape in an idyllic setting, where the story plays out like a Grimm Brothers fairytale, with Carter Burwell’s accompanying musical score accentuating the heavenly tones of the celesta, Colm Takes the Reins - YouTube (2:20), suggesting this darkly allegorical Irish folklore tale is bordering on make-believe.  Yet what immediately stands out is a fractured reality, with lifelong best friend Colm (Gleeson), seemingly out of the blue, refusing to talk to Pádraic (Farrell), dispassionately informing him “I just don’t like you no more,” where the suddenness of this clean break is having a traumatic effect on Pádraic, making little sense to him, thinking there must be some explanation, as the two have routinely met at precisely 2 pm every day for a walk to the pub to share a pint, but now Colm is refusing to sit anywhere near him, avoiding him altogether, which eats at Pádraic, thinking it must have been something he said.  When Pádraic’s sister Siobhán (Kerry Condon) confronts Colm, trying to get to the bottom of what’s wrong, he simply acknowledges that he can’t stand his dullness.  “But he’s always been dull,” protests Siobhán, wondering “What’s changed?”  Apparently Colm has simply had enough of it and decided he no longer wants to share Pádraic’s company, preferring to leave his mark composing music for the violin while sharing time with his beloved border collie.       

Pádraic increasingly despairs from the arbitrariness of this decision, going through an existential malaise, while other community members attempt to get to the bottom of it as well, as this separation has island-wide repercussions, suggesting the stability of their relationship was the one good thing people could count on.  The priest (David Pearse), for example, with Colm sitting in confessional, asks why he broke up with Pádraic, with Colm inquiring if it’s a sin.  Maybe not, says the priest, but it’s certainly not very nice, kind, and compassionate either.  Colm continually has to justify himself to the other members of the community who openly resent the break in friendship, from the bartender to the postal clerk, but it doesn’t change his resolve, if anything it only reinforces it, clinging to his stubborn beliefs, with Pádraic beginning to feel offended, as he’s always been viewed as an easygoing and nice guy, not the kind to rub people the wrong way, so he’s continually befuddled by this thorough rejection, leaving him more than a little humiliated, though much of the real impact comes from what’s left unsaid, still lurking under the surface.  As if to reinforce this rebuke, McDonagh intersperses music by the great Irish tenor John McCormack, Christ Went up into the Hills Alone YouTube (2:55).  Pádraic becomes convinced Colm is depressed and needs his help, yet his clumsy interventions only make Colm resort to drastic, self-mutilating measures in order to convince him that he’s deadly serious, threatening to cut off a finger each time Pádraic speaks to him again, cutting off all contact once and for all, developing new friendships with local music students, spending his time playing the fiddle.  When a drunken Pádraic publicly confronts him in the pub, eloquently standing up for himself, then apologizing shortly afterwards for creating a scene, Colm cuts off one of his fingers and delivers it to Pádraic in a stern rebuke, which only compounds Pádraic’s abrupt isolation, seeking solace with a new drinking companion, the village idiot Dominic (Barry Keoghan), and his miniature donkey Jenny, who is welcomed inside their home, much to his sister’s distress.  Dominic is the son of the local police chief, Peadar (Gary Lydon), who sadistically abuses his own son, with suggestions it could be sexual as well, with incest a lurking suspicion, yet this is never explored, never really part of the overall storyline, but becomes part of a grander theme of fatalistic cruelty, all part of the human condition, adding a darker depth to the story, which some may find overly manipulative, particularly when Peadar slugs Pádraic in the face, knocking him senseless, thinking he is getting too close to Dominic, too close to his inner sanctum, forcing him to mind his own business, where he’s left crumpled on the ground.  In what may be the most quietly affecting scene, certainly the most devastating, Colm calmly helps Pádraic home, but they don’t say a word on their journey, with Pádraic reduced to uncontrolled outbursts of emotions.  Siobhán, a voracious reader and the only level-headed character showing any signs of integrity, is forced to navigate a path through a minefield of inflated male egos, clearly loving her brother and is even fond of Colm, but her patience has worn thin, calling the people living on the island “bitter and mental,” telling Colm, “One more silent man on Inisherin?  You’re all feckin’ boring with your piddling grievances,” leaving nothing but “bleakness and grudges and loneliness and spite.”  As the tensions worsen, the ghoulish local elder Mrs. McCormick (Sheila Flitton), dressed all in black, inhabits the spirit of the banshee in Irish folklore, frequently seen roaming the island, reminiscent of Bengt Ekerot’s embodiment of Death in Bergman’s The Seventh Seal (Det sjunde inseglet) (1957), warning Pádraic that death will come to the island soon, like a Macbethian curse, or a foreshadowing omen.   

First intended as a stage play, having already written plays for the two other Aran Islands off the Irish coast, The Cripple of Inishmaan and The Lieutenant of Inishmore, McDonagh quickly realized the story lends itself more to a film, with a comparable setup as In Bruges, two characters trapped in a seemingly idyllic place, written with the two actors in mind, both with proven chemistry, where one can imagine parallels in Vladimir and Estragon in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, becoming a self-inflicted No Exit parody, where the humor is much more prevalent early in the film, with dripping sarcasm turning ugly, growing more somber and darkly disturbing, escalating into a blood feud that only confirms what we already know, never actually delving into what drives such atrocious human behavior, yet adding plenty of black humor that spices up a story about guilt, forgiveness, and personal purgatory.  Beautifully shot by Ben Davis, set against a magnificent coastal landscape, much like Ryan's Daughter (1970), with interiors warmed by candlelight, the drama is intensified by the constant repetition of the story, as the characters keep making the same mistakes and keep running into walls, where even the simplest things seem unattainable, evoking moods of loneliness, regret, and pathos, as expressed by Jessye Norman from Brahms Six Songs singing Brahms: Sechs Gesänge, Op. 7 - V. Die Trauernde (Volkslied) YouTube (1:33).  Pádraic’s wounded confusion grows in tandem with Colm’s gruff intransigence, with little of substance to show for himself in his life other than an escalating sense of despair, revealing a ghastly darker side, with ambitions and dreams of completing musical compositions that will outlive him, feeling his life is slipping away, where he’s now willing to nullify his lifelong friendship with Pádraic in the name of art and posterity, revealing the artistic ego at its most monstrous and selfishly all-consuming, where the self-inflicted act of losing his fingers drastically limits his ability to play the violin, becoming a macabre metaphor of grotesque human cruelty.  McDonagh’s incessant use of humor often obscures the pain lurking under the surface, becoming less about challenging the audience and more about camouflaging the operatic theatricality of the material, as underneath it all is a mocking tone of cruel absurdity.  The grotesque nature of self-mutilation speaks for itself, even mentioned as a sin by the priest, but Colm scoffs it off with a mocking aside, becoming purely metaphoric, never actually feeling real, yet this dark and mordant humor is no laughing matter.  What are we to make of this human depravity?  Perhaps best expressed by Siobhán, who has no use for it and would rather leave the island for a library job on the mainland than stay and endure any more nonsense.  Gently rebuffing Dominic’s romantic advances, she quickly and quietly informs her brother of her imminent departure, leaving him alone with his animals, the only family he has left, mentally exhausted and slowly beaten down by what’s happened, where his pain is written all over his face, abandoned by everyone, and he can’t for the life of him figure out why that happened.  A simple man who doesn’t expect much out of life, he feels wrongly cheated out of any peaceful existence, where living out his life in harmony with his surroundings is no longer an option, having been challenged, as if to a dual, where his moral standing in the community depends upon his response.  The inability of men to live in peaceful coexistence with sometimes difficult neighbors becomes a predominate theme, with hints of ignorance, vanity, and extreme stubbornness.  All of this can be read as an admittedly cruel parable of the pointlessness of war, living on a supposed paradise island sanctuary far from the seething hatred of the raging Civil War, yet the fatal cost of masculine reserve, as well as the unrelenting persistence of petty squabbles, can easily escalate and metastasize into larger battles that rage beyond Inisherin’s shores, where the sorrowful mezzo-soprano voice of Stefanie Irányi expresses the melancholic futility of loneliness and resignation, 6 Gesänge, Op. 7: No. 3, Anklänge YouTube (1:56).  Ultimately, this may be McDonagh’s least funny film, and also his most manipulative in order to achieve the desired dramatic effect, with suggestions that indifference, not malice, may be the most contemptible offense.   

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI           B                    

USA  Great Britain  (115 mi)  2017  ‘Scope  d:  Martin McDonagh             Official Site

Irish playwright Martin McDonagh broke onto the scene with the hilariously inventive In Bruges (2008), an absurd comic drama filled with repulsive dwarf jokes, ridiculous race humor, and a flurry of ethnic slurs, where the marvelously inventive dialogue is so brilliantly written that it serves as a catharsis for all modern ills.  His follow up Seven Psychopaths (2012), while thoroughly enjoyable, seemed to run off the rails, finding itself getting continually sidetracked.  In addition to movies, however, McDonagh has written four other Tony nominated plays, The Beauty Queen of Leenane (1998), The Lonesome West (1999), The Pillowman (2005), and The Lieutenant of Irishmore (2006), where he along with older brother John Michael McDonagh, The Guard (2011) and Calvary (2014), have demonstrated a niche for a scathingly incendiary, free-wheeling writing style that has all the makings of some of the best writing found anywhere in the world today.  And wherever you find writing of this caliber, unmatched, high quality performances are bound to follow.  Enter Frances McDormand, whose riveting work with the Coen brothers in Blood Simple (1984) and Fargo (1996) have elevated her into actress royalty, where this film only confirms her status as one of America’s greatest actresses.  Written with her in mind, McDormand epitomizes an actress fully inhabiting her role, always playing fiercely independent, no-nonsense characters, where in this film, she’s tough enough to stand up to any man, and then proceeds to do so throughout the film, showing uncommon fortitude, which eventually grates on those closest to her, feeling like they already have enough of a load to carry.  As Mildred Hayes, a single mother raising two high school age kids in a tiny rural setting in Missouri not far from the Ozarks (though actually shot in the mountainous hills of North Carolina), whose ex-husband Charlie (John Hawkes) ran off with a lame-brained 19-year old who’s closer to a daughter than a girlfriend, making a sick statement about the maturity of the men in the vicinity, yet her biggest ordeal was losing her daughter to a brutally vicious sex crime that remains unsolved after seven months, with no possible leads in sight.  Seeing three broken-down billboards along an isolated country road exactly where the crime occurred, Mildred gets the idea of using the billboards to make a provocative statement (much like the catchy Burma Shave billboard advertisements in the days of yore), going on local TV telling the public, “My daughter Angela was murdered 7 months ago, it seems to me the police department is too busy torturing black folk to solve actual crimes.”  It is no minor coincidence that the notorious racial disturbances of Ferguson just happen to be in the same state.  And lest we forget, Missouri was a late addition to the Southern Confederacy.    

What we have in the police department is a permanent state of dysfunction, with the relatively decent Chief Willoughby (Woody Harrelson) overseeing a bunch a derelicts, led by the hapless Jason Dixon (Sam Rockwell), a numbskull officer with a hair-trigger temper and a reputation for crossing the line into racist mistreatment of black suspects, which is conveniently overlooked by the other members of the department.  At home, living on the outskirts of town, Dixon is a Mama’s boy, urged on by his hateful mother, Sandy Martin, always seen with a cocktail in her hand, browbeating her inept son to be more aggressively intimidating, making a statement by his very presence, but actually making others around him more nervous, as he’s a hothead, viewed as a constant embarrassment, going overboard on the most trivial matters, yet he has an endearing habit of confessing his shortcomings, even if unintentionally, and telling the exasperated truth, as if he’s always answering to his mother.  No doubt motivated by all the attention the billboards cause in town, Willoughby pays a visit to Mildred, whose initial response is classic, “The time it took you to get out here whining like a bitch, Willoughby, some other poor girl’s probably out there being butchered.”  Reporting there is no blood match in any national DNA database, Willoughby even acknowledges he’s dying of cancer, but Mildred is unsympathetic, claiming they could be doing more, as they’re hardly the picture of a dedicated and hard-working police department, especially with a goofball on the loose like Dixon.  The entire town, it seems, turns against Mildred, as their sympathies lie with Willoughby, a popular family man, but the more they try to get her to back down, the more resolute she is, knowing there is a greater chance of success in breaking the case if the event remains in the public headlines.  Mildred’s own son, however, Robbie (Lucas Hedges), is disgusted by his mother’s antics, as it’s a constant reminder of his sister’s loss, something already dominating his thoughts, where he seems to have no peace from the subject when its continually being shoved into his face.  At school, after her car windshield is egged by anonymous students unhappy with her tactics, she kicks the shit out of a few of the closest suspects, fully demonstrating how a bad ass behaves, much to Robbie’s displeasure, as that’s only adding more fuel to the fire.  When the police start arresting her friends for some trumped up charge, this only escalates the terms of engagement for Mildred, who goes on the warpath. 

While there is a prevailing sense of humor throughout, much of it surprisingly offbeat, which typifies the director’s earlier works, but this one has greater dramatic reach, mirroring a prevailing feeling that there is something flawed about our criminal justice system, as so often the wrong criminals are charged, often languishing in prison for decades for crimes they didn’t commit, while the guilty parties are never charged, including a host of white police officers that are exonerated after killing unarmed black teenagers, a customary practice that never seems to end.  Mildred’s outrage at the lack of accountability for such a heinous crime taps into a similar mood felt throughout the country where there is no appearance of justice anymore, as no one is held accountable for some of the biggest crimes, like corporate theft and the layers of lawyers and lies that protect the guilty parties from prosecution.  In Mildred’s case, it’s like a hit and run, with no one witnessing the crime, where the culprit gets away scot free.  In a brief flashback sequence, there is an extra layer of guilt heaped upon Mildred for the last words coming out of her mouth just before Angela was raped and murdered, which only add to what is already an excruciating pain that never dissipates.  Mildred is an angry women, apparently mad at everyone, cursing out everyone she encounters with a mouth like a sailor, where she just feels like there is no justice left in the world.  Yet there are moments when her anger subsides and she turns instantly tender and understanding, where her mood shifts on a dime, such as when Willoughby coughs up blood during an interrogation, where a shock of mortality brings us all to our knees, becoming instantly sympathetic, no matter our beliefs.  These moments occur throughout the film, having a humanizing effect, even as it comically grows even more absurd.  There’s an interesting use of music, particularly a mournful Joan Baez rendition of a Civil War lament, Joan Baez - The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down - YouTube (3:26), which comes at a particularly incendiary moment, adding yet another layer of Civil War madness and grief, recounting the escalating saga of brother against brother unending violence that seems to perpetuate itself when every act is retaliated against, leading to a neverending stream of aggression and hostility, leaving hordes of victims in the wake, each one an inconsolable loss exactly like Angela.  There’s also an interesting use of letters in the film, each one coming from the grave, which are read out loud, offering a reservoir of wisdom and humor that seems to catch viewers by surprise, if only due to how unorthodox this technique seems to be, unearthing formidable emotions that have a healing effect on the community, where the anger and bitterness remain, but there is a chance it may subside into something else altogether, like forgiveness, perhaps even a friendship.