I see Phantoms of Hatred and of the Heart’s Fullness and of the Coming Emptiness, W. B. Yeats, Meditations In Time Of Civil War

1923. At a distance, on the opposite shore, the “large” shore, one can see the raging fires of the Civil War, but the inhabitants of Inisherin, an isolated island in West Ireland, are going on with the insignificant details of their own existences. The major, historic conflict is overshadowed by the individual one, by a friendship that suddenly unravels without any apparent reason.

14 years after directing In Bruges (2008), Martin McDonagh reunites Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell in yet another memorable duo, about two newly ex-best friends, a fact that comes after Colm’s (Gleeson) sudden decision that he wants nothing to do with Pádraic (Farrell) anymore. This makes no sense to Pádraic; just the other day, they had had their customary beers in the village tavern, just like they had calmly had it at the same hour, every single day, for what seemed like a million times. Did Pádraic commit any mistakes? The answer is a startling no. In a type of absurdity that is typical for McDonagh, Colm has simply decided that he no longer likes him. And that’s it. The Banshees of Inisherin starts with an ending. 

After the perspicacious insistences of Siobhan (Kerry Condon),  the motherly and better-educated sister of Pádraic, herself in a stupor at the two buddies’ abrupt separation, Colm admits that he realized that his friend is much too boring and “dull” for his tastes. But the man’s deeper reasoning actually has to do with himself. Colm’s decision hides in itself the tacit desperation that is haunting the entire island, the kind of depression that is steeped within the very fiber of a hostile place where nothing ever really happens, a place that is complacent with its derisory nature. Colm aspires for much more, but in particular, given the fact that he is a talented fiddle player, he is seemingly gripped by the horror of not having left something behind. Art is one of the things that makes life worth living, and we all remember Mozart, he finally explains to Pádraic, threatening him that he will cut off his playing fingers if he won’t allow him to peacefully dedicate himself to practice. In his benevolent “dullness”, Pádraic still refuses to accept the loss of a friend, or rather, of his only friend except for his sister and farm animals. The simpler of the two friends is also haunted by his own horror – that of not being left alone. 

The Banshees of Inisherin stages an absurd and darkly humorous study of rural microcosms that are all coagulated around a single village tavern, where everyone knows everything about each other. Despite the rainbow that opens the film, and despite the ravishing, rocky natural landscape of the Aran Islands, beyond the face of community politeness, Inisherin is an unwelcoming society, one that is profoundly patriarchal and intolerant, where kids are smacked behind closed doors and where the weak are terrorized, lacking in both the cultural atmosphere sought out by Colm or Siobhan, as well as in the atmosphere of minimal mutual understanding sought out by stages an absurd and darkly humorous study of rural microcosms. A hidden violence smolders in Inisherin, but that inevitably contaminates all its inhabitants, creeping even into the separation between Colm and Pádraic – and culminates with an irrational and gratuitous, yet caricaturesque brutality, the same one that the director employed in In Bruges.

However, McDonagh falls prey to the many self-evident truths about provincialism and about the places one must escape to save themselves from a life that is dry and uneventful, allowing the script to fall into dogmatic and predictable corners at times. The mise-en-scene of a place that is isolated, picturesque, yet vast and empty, is cumbersome whenever The Banshees of Inisherin glaringly tries to function as a philosophical drama, whereas its theater-like tone aids its satiric aims, however, it insists too much upon vigilance. The specter-like crone that can foresee the future comes across as a rather hamfisted and didactic metaphor that gives a mythical dimension to the space, bringing the word “allegory” to the forefront of spectators’ minds in a way that is much too indiscreet. The metaphors are not at all subtle either where the lines about the absurdity of the two buddies’ sudden separation after so much time spent together indicate a key to understanding the very strange and illogical nature of the Civil War that is unfolding in the distance. Even so, despite his hyperbolic treatment of Irish rural life, McDonagh doesn’t venture into overtly launching himself into other considerations of the conflict or Irish identity, and just turns the pain and despair of the individual into a focal point.

What elevates the film to its zenith are McDonagh’s caustic qualities as a dialogue writer, enhanced by exchanges that are searing and precise, delivered grimly and with dry humor by character performances that are almost catatonic, as if they had already internalized their exasperation long ago. But more than a general sarcastic tone that would have lost its edge much sooner, in The Banshees of Inisherin there is ample space for tenderness and understanding, aided by the Farrell-Gleeson duo. Farrell uses much ingenuity in performance as a farmer that is simple par excellence (yet slightly exaggerated as an archetype of naivete), the blissfully ignorant, led on by quotidian happiness and the animals on his farm, especially by his innocent affection for his donkey, Jenny. An absolutely devastating line, whispered by Farell in an almost broken voice, his eyebrows furrowed by profound sadness, about the way that history will never recall good people, “people who are nice”, is the film’s moment of grace, the moment that is perfectly capable of excusing all of its shortcomings. Barry Keoghan contributes to the film’s unexpected warmth with the childlike candor he infuses into the role of the so-called village idiot, Dominic – who is, at the same time, the only soul in the community incapable of judging, and also the one who happily offers himself as Pádraic’s new best friend. There is something from Gleeson’s biography as a talented musician that further induces the film with an auratic feeling, the actor himself composing the fiddle pieces his character plays, including the so-called requiem that Colm struggles to write throughout the entire conflict, and that he dedicates to friendship. The moments where Gleeson sings, which are allowed to flow in long sequences, give off the impression of a strange mix between utmost respect for the other and of an in-the-moment kind of beauty of the music, which transcends the mere dimension of the film. 

„That my intention is not satire but humaneness, an eagerness to understand more about sad man, frightened man” Patrick Kavanagh once said, in lyrics that illustrated the differences between Irish city life and rural life. Beyond his comedic intentions, Martin McDonagh takes a look at the universality of despair and of the fear of being left alone. There is nothing more human than the terrible thought of mediocrity, and of a world that is all too small for oneself. The Banshees of Inisherin ends, predictably, in a cynical fashion, and nobody’s happy. It ends with an even bigger conflict, like an ode to the inevitable futility of human existence. But Pádraic’s closing thought is, in fact, the opposite of his tragedy: maybe the apparent insignificance of our world isn’t entirely tragical – as long as you have a friend to sit by your side, even if said friend is just a mere donkey (sic!).

Dora Leu

Graduated with a BA in film directing and a MA in film studies from UNATC; she's also studied history of art. Also collaborates with the Acoperisul de Sticla film magazine and is a former coordinator of FILM MENU. She's dedicated herself to '60-'70s Japanese cinema and Irish post-punk music bands. Still keeps a picture of Leslie Cheung in her wallet.