This is easily the quietest film writer/director Martin McDonagh has crafted to date. But it is also a smoldering one, one which understatedly revels in multiple layers of complexity.
It’s at times a devilishly dark and fractured fairy tale, an anti-war film masquerading as a swervedriving comedic drama, and a scathing indictment of how routine can kill one’s mental—particularly philosophical—growth. It’s also a movie about loneliness, isolation, and the dissolution of friendship. Or perhaps it’s just a quirky yarn about two blokes living on an island off the coast of Ireland. The joy of this film is that you can make of it what you want. At times absurdist and other times achingly poignant, it moves along at a gentle pace, slowly building tension, but never wasting well-timed comedic inserts either.
Set against the backdrop of the Irish Civil War circa 1923 there’s a cleverly subdued riff about the futility and folly of conflict, war, and revenge that weaves its thematic thread through an seemingly simplistic story about nice men living simple lives. But as with any good melodrama worth its weight in salt, there’s a dark underbelly lurking just beneath the surface of the idyllic landscape and regular visits to the pub for a pint. Oh, and there’s a witch, a village idiot, and a policeman who enjoys a good wank in his living room most evenings.
Those familiar with McDonagh’s previous works, both in cinema and the stage (The Pillowman, In Bruges, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri) will relish in his rich dialogue and snaky plot structure. And the thespian turns from both Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson are beyond stellar. Supporting work from Kerry Condon and Barry Keoghan (damn, this dude is chameleonic as hell) balance things out. Additionally, the score from Carter Burwell (best known for his longtime collaborations with the brothers Coen) sets a wonderful tone that wavers between the whimsical and calamitous and lends the whole affair an air of the Bros. Grimm.
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