REVIEW: THE BANSHEES OF INISHERIN. "I Just Don't Like You No More." But It's Complicated.

Time: March1923. The Irish Civil War continues but appears to be winding down.

Location: Inisherin, an imaginary island off the west coast of Ireland in Galway Bay, a location NY Times film critic A.O. Scott describes as a place where "the picturesque and the profane intermingle, where jaunty humor keeps company with gruesome violence."

Scott's description of this remote, almost other-worldly place, provides an apt explanation of what is to follow. This quaint, if sometimes odd and, at times, extreme tale of a lifelong friendship gone sour, is a film by writer/director Martin McDonagh, after all, whose previous works are marked by the dark, the violent, and the edgy: In Bruges, Seven Psychopaths and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri.

McDonagh often cites another extreme writer/director, Quentin Tarantino, as a major influence. Need I say more? Where there's wit, blood is sure to follow. And, in this case, the benign premise of an estranged friendship between two unlikely souls: the sweet, but dull Padraic (Colin Farrell) and curmudgeonly musician Colm (Brendan Gleeson) begin their falling out quietly, gently, lulling the viewer into a false sense of banality. What follows is anything but.

A split second before the camera sweeps widely over the Irish countryside, the music begins: the plaintiff sound of a heavenly choir, ethereal yet foreboding....just like Irish culture and evocative of U2's trademark rock sound. I knew watching the clouds roll over the lush green Irish farmlands that I was hooked. I know that, no matter how this story unwinds, I'm in until the credits roll. Besides, I'd read a good deal about McDonagh's new film - enough to know that it's the story of a broken friendship that is both funny and poignant, with great performances from the two leads: Farrell and Gleeson, reunited from their previous McDonagh pairing, 2008's In Bruges. With all that - a new story from Martin, great performances all around, and the anticipation of a tale layered in deeper significance, what's not to like? Let's just say that I was not expecting some of the plot twists and turns that lie ahead.

The camera's opening panorama slowly zooms in to focus on a lone figure making his way across the vast farmlands to a tiny cottage - it's Padraic taking his daily walk to Colm's place where the two will walk and talk as they head to the local pub for a pint. As he trudges up the hill and arrives at Colm's door, Padraic is unprepared for what is to follow. No one answers. As he peers inquisitively through a dirty window, Padraic sees Colm sitting calmly in a chair, staring ahead. But he never moves, never acknowledges Padraic's presence and so Padraic retreats to the pub alone, confused by his best friend's behavior.

At the pub, no one seems to know what's wrong with Colm. Later, when Colm finally arrives for his daily pint, he makes it clear he's not there to talk to Padraic. "Why?" Padraic asks. No reason. What did Padraic do? Nothing.

"I just don't like you no more."

What?

With additional prodding, Colm tells Padraic that he's "dull" - not stupid or dim-witted, but that he's boring. Colm doesn't want to spend what time he has left on this earth (no, he's not ill or dying) talking about shit: literally, as Padraic has apparently regaled him w/stories about his donkey's bowel habits. The range of emotions Farrell displays - from disbelief to anger to disappointment to sadness - lays the foundation of an Oscar-worth performance. By no means a one-dimensional character, Padraic becomes the unfortunate metaphor for the desperation that defines life in Inisherin. And, as the story unfolds, we see some of the ways Padraic's niceness can be irritating.

The desolation of Inisherin is evident in its sparse population: with less than 300 people on the island, everyone knows your name, and also in the bleak, grey atmosphere that envelopes every nook and cranny of this tiny, incestuous island. The owner of the local general store reads everyone's mail and knows everyone's business. The local policeman, a closet alcoholic who nightly abuses his (truly, sadly) dim-witted son Dominic, is both hero and bully. Padraic's sister, Siobhan, with whom he shares a tiny house, longs for a life away from the tedium of Inisherin. Her ultimate escape to a job in England where she optimistically writes to Padraic that "immigrants are welcome," is just one example of the length she goes to in seeking a better life. An Irish woman seeking refuge in England in 1923? Not a common occurrence.

But it's Padraic and Colm's dance around life and friendship that forms the core of McDonagh's tale, and when Padraic persists in trying to talk to Colm about why the latter doesn't like him, the plot takes a dark and bloody twist. An exasperated Colm, tired of Padraic's puppy dog sadness, gives him an ultimatum: Colm will cut off one of his own fingers each time Padraic tries to talk to him.

Is he serious? Reminder: This is a Martin McDonagh film. What do you think?

As soon as Colm announces his threat of incremental self-mutilation, I started imagining how the rest of the film would go. I remembered all too well the last hour of Seven Psychopaths. Maybe it was better to leave now. But I couldn't. I'd already been sucked in to this strange, gentle, affecting, if weird bromance. Despite numerous warnings and advice from his sister, the pub owner - even Dominic - Padraic cannot accept Colm's rejection of their friendship. Fingers thus fly and blood spurts, but not in the way you might think. There is nothing simple or predictable about how this tale will be resolved. In the process, we are treated to philosophical musings on the meaning of life, what is necessary to find joy and fulfillment, what will be remembered. It is here that Colm and Padraic discover how different - and how similar - they are, how deeply bonded in friendship. Then, when an unanticipated event affects Padraic's beloved miniature donkey (Jenny, in a superb performance), the tables turn on how this battle of wills will end.

Remember: Some things, after all, might best be left unresolved.

McDonagh's treatise on the consequences of living lives of quiet desperation might be too extreme and quirky for some. Threatening to cut off one's digits seems like an unusually desperate warning to keep a former friend at bay. Still, there remains something very ordinary and understandable within Banshees' dark and violent tale. While the script pits the humorous (the banter among the characters is sharp and acerbic) with the horrific as Colm systematically makes good on his ultimatum, the result is ultimately heartbreaking. And, in a deeply affecting way, relatable to us all. How far has each of us gone in the name of love and/or friendship? It's hard not to be drawn simultaneously to Padraic's kindness and Colm's world-weary skepticism, as both are a very real part of life's daily routine, its challenges, on one's view of the world and how we live in it.

The Banshees of Inisherin is a beautifully told tale of life and fellowship. McDonagh's "crew" - the cinematographer Ben Davis, the composer Carter Burwell and the costume designer Eimer Ni Mhaoldomhnaigh, are major contributors to the framing and mood the director wants to create and convey. Every scene, every conversation, every movement is meticulously set, crafted to evoke the underlying hopefulness that cannot seem to find light in this otherwise dark and bleak experience. I will likely see this film again just to revisit the exquisite design in its production which only enhances the emotional wallop (it's a quiet but powerful one) in the film's final shot.

So who are the Banshees of Inisherin? In Irish folklore, a banshee is depicted as a spirit, whose form usually takes the shape of a woman and warns of an impending death. In the film, the character of Mrs. McCormack, an old crone who wanders through the streets and farmlands of Inisherin with a large walking stick, dressed in a forboding black cape, offers a perverse delight in her predictions of impending deaths. It's not what you think, and you must watch Banshees to the end to feel the full impact of McDonagh's story.

Late in the film, with no fingers left on one hand, Colm tells Padraic that he's writing a song called "The Banshees of Inisherin." Padraic tells him it's a good song, and Colm replies that he'd hoped to play it at Padraic's funeral. Padraic is crestfallen that Colm would be thinking of his death, but also touched that Colm would write something so beautiful for him.

No one remembers "niceness," he tells Padraic. People remember music, art, poetry. Will they remember Colm? Padraic? Do any of us matter? I told you it was complicated.

McDonagh doesn't say. There's a lot he doesn't tell us, but even more that he reveals.

Do Banshees even exist? Only in your heart.