The Banshees of Inisherin

The Best of Enemies and the Worst of Friends

or

A Tall Tale About Small People Giving Their Neighbors the Finger...

 

Banshee—"hence bean-síghe, plural mná-síghe, she-fairies or women-fairies, credulously supposed by the common people to be so affected to certain families that they are hears to sing mournful lamentations about their houses by night, whenever any of the family labours under a sickness which is to end by death, but no families which are not of an ancient & noble Stock, are believed to be honoured with this fairy privilege"

O'Brien's Irish- English Dictionary

 

The island of Inisherin sits off the West Coast of Ireland, close enough to hear the cannons from the Irish Civil War over the expanse of water that separates the conflict from its citizens (at least in 1923, when the film, The Banshees of Inisherin, takes place). One would think it was a peaceful respite for its denizens, which contain many Irish folk and the animals in their keep and their trades. But, as close as they are to the fighting that couldn't be further from the truth.

Take Pádraic Súilleabháin (Colin Farrell), for instance. A local milk-man, he has a stable farm with cows, a horse, and a donkey named Jenny on whom he dotes and allows too much domestic privileges. At least in the mind of Pádraic's sister, Siobhan (Kerry Condon), who has shared the farm's duties since their mother and father passed many years ago. Pádraic makes the rounds, then, like clock-work goes to see his neighbor Colm Doherty (Brendan Gleeson) promptly at 2 pm, where they will proceed to O'Riordan's pub to quaff a pint (or three) and Colm entertains with his fiddle. At least, that's the way it's always been for as long as things have been.

Except for today. Pád goes down to Colm's shack of a place and sees him inside smoking. He tells him he'll meet him at the pub later, but Colm doesn't even acknowledge him. He goes home and Siobhan is surprised he's not gone off drinking with Colm. Pád tells her what's transpired and immediately has a question and an answer: "You been rowin'?" "I don't tink we've been rowin'! We was fine yesterday!" "Well, maybe he doesn't like you anymore!" she scoffs. He blusters back to Colm's and sees the door's open, Colm's gone and, well, there he sees him, off in the distance, heading for the pub. By himself.

At O'Riordan's, Pád sees Colm and confronts him. "Sit somewhere else," Colm says without looking at him. It's a clear rejection, and Pád schlumpfs off to an outside table to stew in his beer. Colm finally has enough pity to come out and explain the situation, but it's no comfort. "I just don't like you no more," he puts it bluntly. He finds Pád dull, talking about the minutiae of his life that Colm just isn't interested in...at all...not at this point in his older life. He's concerned now about legacy and his fiddle-playing and Pád's harping on his donkey and his life is just on another plane of existence now...a far lower plane, and as his days get shorter, he has fewer hours to waste.

Pád just doesn't understand. "How am I different from yesterday?" And it being a small isolated island, everyone starts to get involved, even Pád's sister. "He's ALWAYS been dull!" she shouts at Colm. "But ya live on a feckin' island off the coast of Ireland! What are ya hopin' for?" Colm starts to get it from all sides, even the local priest—who's just as prickly and easily offended as the rest of them. Finally, Colm has had it. He draws the red line. He has a pair of sheep shears. "Each day you talk to me, I'll cut a finger off and give it to you." Which is madness; he's a fiddle player and his fiddling is uppermost in his mind right now.

But, Pád just can't...and won't...let it go. He's a man who keeps chewing long past he's swallowed and he's lost in the squirrel-cage of his mind. On a small "feckin'" island what else does he have to do? Alcohol doesn't help with any restraint. And Pád starts to see himself in a different light. "I thought I was one of the nice guys!" he grieves when a confrontation sees Colm cut off index of his fingering hand and throw it at the Súilleabháin door. And he is. But, outside forces are starting to change him and his behavior and his opinion about his behavior.

If only he'd consider the lilies of the field. Or better yet the animals that co-habit with the Inishereens. McDonagh, the director, has them as a silent chorus throughout the movie, doing their jobs and not complicating matters. Like the singular deer in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, they are silent witnesses going about their business while the bi-pedals mess things up. Even the gun-reports from the Civil War don't phase them. I found myself in sympathy with the animals, especially a random shot of goats with one facing the camera as if asking "What the...?"

The Banshees of Inisherin may well have been inspired as a result of the Covid-19 prácás and its long periods of forced isolation and the fevered carousels of people's minds running without brakes (or consideration) without any one around to slow down the ponies. Little things become big issues and they can escalate to the point of irony and beyond to the absurd. Self-fulfilling prophecies and being our own worst enemies should have been among the list of symptoms for humans who either don't think or think too much. Even with disaster looming like some hectoring banshee because we think we know so much, when we don't even know what we don't know.

So, The Banshees of Inisherin is going to stay with me for a good long while—even if it sounds depressing and dark, one should see it for the brilliant performances, particularly of Farrell and Gleeson and Barry Keoghan's turn as the village not-quite-so-idiot ("i'm agin' 'em—wars and soap"), with its O. Henry sense of black irony of how red lines can be as thin as skin and how crossed swords turn quickly to crossed purposes. But, also, how even in the worst circumstances, there can be small moments of grace like a rainbow piercing a cloudy day.