The Banshees of Inisherin
“I just don’t like you no more.”
This simple sentence, spoken by Brendan Gleeson to Colin Ferrell in Martin McDonagh’s new film, The Banshees of Inisherin, is delivered with such heartbreaking aplomb that it can’t possibly be meant as a statement of fact. Yet, as is made abundantly clear throughout the film, it is indeed true, and mightily so.
What’s more, the lengths to which one former friend is willing to go to prove this unfortunate truth to the other is a shocking reminder of how misplaced stoicism and swallowed emotion are a ruinous combination when left unchecked, and how bitterness can destroy lives, communities, and nations.
It’s the spring of 1923 on the small isolated island of Inisherin off the coast of Ireland. Gunfire and cannons can be heard in the distance as the Irish Civil War rages across the channel on the mainland. As Provisional Government forces clash with the Irish Republican Army over the future of an Ireland only recently wrested from British control, life on the island remains largely untouched by the fighting, and seemingly from any significant modernization as well.
The politics of the war — which sees former allies in the fight against British rule now violently at odds with each other — are not important to the people of Inisherin, but routine and convention most certainly are. When Inisherin’s order is disrupted in any way, everyone notices.
We never see the war or its repercussions, but its presence is crucial to understanding the central conflict that forms between two old friends. Their unusual rivalry begins one afternoon when Colm (Gleeson) refuses to answer the door for Pádraic (Ferrell), who’s called on him, as he does every afternoon, to join him down at the pub. Confused, Pádraic stops at home to consult his sister Siobhán (Kerry Condon), who is generally regarded as the smartest person on the island.
“Maybe he just doesn’t like you anymore,” is her half-joking response, but as it turns out, she’s right. Pádraic, Colm eventually confesses, is dull, and the aging man has no more time for dullards in his life, especially when he could be doing meaningful things like composing songs on his fiddle. Completely dejected, Pádraic wanders around the island as if in a daze, baffled by his best friend’s sudden rebuff.
Determined to save their friendship, Pádraic repeatedly accosts Colm in an effort to understand his actions, only to be humorlessly rejected again and again. Eventually, sick of the constant pestering, Colm tells Pádraic that if he talks to him again, he will cut off his own fingers with a pair of sheep shears he keeps in his house — a threat especially unhinged, considering Colm’s love of playing the fiddle.
What follows is best left unspoiled, but suffice to say, McDonagh’s knack for portraying the bitterness of betrayal and the very real and destructive consequences of conflicts big and small is nothing short of hypnotic.
Ferrell and Gleeson give career-defining performances as the pig-headed men who refuse to understand each other or themselves in any meaningful way. While Pádraic and Colm each possess the ability for self-reflection (as evinced by their contemplative talk of depression and despair), neither is willing to go to any lengths to resolve their sad loneliness — and it shows all over their faces.
Drawing reference back to the civil war raging across the water, both men would rather destroy what’s best about themselves and the place they call home than come to any sort of compromise that might benefit themselves or their community. And as is often the case in any bloody skirmish, it’s the most vulnerable and innocent among us that reap the worst of the damage.
McDonagh paints his story with long brown and gray strokes, peppered with the occasional burst of bright blue sky. Life on Inisherin is dreary and tedious, but true happiness is possible, if only for those brave enough to escape.
Pay close attention to the foreboding words of the island’s resident fool (Barry Keoghan, in a near scene-stealing performance) and oft-avoided crone (Bríd Ní Neachtain). The omens they share (knowingly or otherwise) provide insight into what remains of the past as it clashes with the uncertain yet inevitable future of the world that, up until now, has only existed across the water.
Through an infectiously dark and dry sense of humor, and the use of shocking symbolism and pronounced, relatable grief, The Banshees of Inisherin easily becomes one of the year’s most poignant films.
Grade: A-minus. Rated R. Now playing at Carolina Cinemark, the Fine Arts Theatre, and Regal Biltmore Grande.
(Photo: Searchlight Pictures)
