Movie Review: McDonagh’s ‘The Banshees of Inisherin’ Sound an Enjoyable Tune

Hath not a critic eyes? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you give us In Bruges and Seven Psychopaths, do we not hope that Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri will be just as good, if not better? And if that hope is bitterly disappointed — if we find that your signature blend of skewed realism, charming wit, and grim violence has curdled into something contrived, smug, and maudlin — do we not react to the news that your next project as writer-director will be to re-team with In Bruges stars Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell with a stomach-tightening admixture of excitement and anxiety? Oh dear —will this be a glorious return to form or a sad attempt to recapture the old magic? And faith and begorrah, it’s set in Ireland during the Civil War. Nothing could go wrong there! By which I mean, everything could go wrong there.

All of this is to explain that watching Martin McDonagh’s The Banshees of Inisherin was a complicated business for your humble correspondent. As a critic, you try to go in clear-eyed and open-hearted, to keep your own expectations and affections out of the equation. But every now and then, you get your hopes up despite yourself. Once in a while, you are gloriously rewarded with something like Mad Max: Fury Road. But only once in a while. I’m happy to report that Banshees is another such occasion: a delicate but devastating depiction of the tension between greatness and goodness that uses (reflects?) its setting to profound effect. It is as hard on the heart as it is easy on the eyes, as ugly in its convictions as it is lovely in its construction. It’s deep without putting on airs, moving without reaching for sentiment, and intimate without becoming insular. It’s good, is what I’m saying.

ML

About the Author

Matthew Lickona

Matthew Lickona is a writer and editor living in Southern California. From 2010 to 2019, he was a film critic for the San Diego Reader.

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Hath not a critic eyes? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you give us In Bruges and Seven Psychopaths, do we not hope that Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri will be just as good, if not better? And if that hope is bitterly disappointed — if we find that your signature blend of skewed realism, charming wit, and grim violence has curdled into something contrived, smug, and maudlin — do we not react to the news that your next project as writer-director will be to re-team with In Bruges stars Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell with a stomach-tightening admixture of excitement and anxiety? Oh dear —will this be a glorious return to form or a sad attempt to recapture the old magic? And faith and begorrah, it’s set in Ireland during the Civil War. Nothing could go wrong there! By which I mean, everything could go wrong there.

All of this is to explain that watching Martin McDonagh’s The Banshees of Inisherin was a complicated business for your humble correspondent. As a critic, you try to go in clear-eyed and open-hearted, to keep your own expectations and affections out of the equation. But every now and then, you get your hopes up despite yourself. Once in a while, you are gloriously rewarded with something like Mad Max: Fury Road. But only once in a while. I’m happy to report that Banshees is another such occasion: a delicate but devastating depiction of the tension between greatness and goodness that uses (reflects?) its setting to profound effect. It is as hard on the heart as it is easy on the eyes, as ugly in its convictions as it is lovely in its construction. It’s deep without putting on airs, moving without reaching for sentiment, and intimate without becoming insular. It’s good, is what I’m saying.