âA rainbow slides over a harbor as PĂĄdraic SĂșilleabhĂĄin, presumably our hero, walks into frame. He is good-looking and clean. Do we think he is a nice man? We do: he looks like Colin Farrell. He raises his million-dollar eyebrows. He waves to someone. Heâs wearing dark woolens with just a splash of pinkâ
âIt is, based on these clothes, somewhere in the past, maybe in the never; âidyllicâ practically doesnât cut it. The world appears halcyon in this instant, soundtracked by an Irish choir and every inch the image of an Irish Country fantasyâ
âPerhaps our first indication that history and memory are being played fast and loose is that the Irish choir, labeled as âsoft folk musicâ by the closed captioning, is not Irish at all. âPolegnala e Todoraâ is a traditional Bulgarian love song arranged by Filip Kutev, one of the co-founders of the State Ensemble for Folk Song and Danceâ
âIts inclusion, however, reveals a strategic disjunction, a subtle feint. What does the cultural object look like, absent of historical context? What is the role of nationalism in cultural production? And what responsibility, if any, does the artist have to the world around them?â
âTo make art about Irelandâto make art in Irelandâis to grapple with a second civil war (1969â98) not 40 years removed from the first (1922â23), itself an outgrowth of the Irish War of Independence (1919â21.)â
âAll of this violence is neither glorious nor incidental but rather the only action left for people living under imperialismâ
âThis is the story of two men who ended their day as friends and woke up the next morning as strangers, or worse. This is the knot in the Irish idyll, McDonagh suggests. It is a land defined by these dark realizations and an almost fanatical, infinite capacity for men to inflict violence and melancholy on themselves and each otherâ
âa broken friendship has to stand in for the whole of Irish revolutionary struggle and the friends have to stand in for warmed-over concepts of niceness and depression, art and aspirationâ
âThe Banshees of Inisherin has been rightly criticized for its creatorâs flimsy relationship with its setting and people, nowhere more righteously than in Mark OâConnellâs recent essayâ
âAccusations of blarney have pursued McDonagh through his careerâthe Londoner (born to Irish parents who moved abroad in search of work) built his playwriting bona fides on the backs of two loose trilogies of plays set in Leenane and the Aran Islands, all coastal Irish localesâ
âThe plays establish McDonaghâs penchant for pinching; everything from dialect to physicality is fair game in the creatorâs pursuit of his own particular truthâ
âRather than excuse McDonaghâs bad politics merely by saying heâs a man with bad politics (true as that may be), I would argue that an aesthetic principle that insists on aesthetic principles as not just plausible but ideal tools for engaging with a world ravaged by imperialism itself creates bad politicsâ
âMcDonagh metaphorizes history: the struggle to create a genuinely free Irish State becomes âa breakupâ (The Banshees of Inisherin); police violence against Black people in the United States becomes âreconciliationâ (Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri); traditions of paramilitary activity become âmadnessâ (The Lieutenant of Inishmore)â
âmetaphorâabsent a desire to disrupt the power structures of languageâbecomes merely a different way to say the same thingâ
âpersonal liberty is not political liberation, and an inability to conceive of the latter is often the result of an overabundance of the formerâ
âdespair masquerading as profundity, an artist in search of a world to believe in, let alone a worldviewâ
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