Five-fingered parable

I don't know that I'd say it's essential to have an appreciation for black comedy to be able to enjoy Martin McDonagh's films, but it probably helps. Tricia will often give me a disapproving look when I bust out laughing at some morbid development in public affairs or other situation in the world. I just have a deep understanding of the level of stupidity inherent to most of humanity, so it's amusing to me when someone reaches a pinnacle moment. And that's really what The Banshees of Inisherin is all about; a few people striving to escape the dolorous inanity of the rest. Of course, it's also a parable about friendship, how a neighborhood (mal)functions, and the Irish Civil War, so you can be as high-minded as you like. But when it comes down to it, it's mostly about trying not to be a drone, or at least feeling free enough to not be identified as one.

There's no doubt that this is one of the darker of McDonagh's films, which is saying quite a bit. The moments of levity to break up the angst-ridden Pádraic (Colin Ferrell) and the brooding Colm (Brendan Gleeson) are sparse for the first act and only become more frequent because we've begun to understand our characters and their situation and not because they were specifically written that way. Layering on top of that the exasperation and loneliness of Siobhán (Kerry Condon) and the tragedy that is Dominic's (Barry Keoghan) life and there's not a whole lot to find humorous or light-hearted for some time. But then it dawns on you, just as it does with most of his works: It's the absurdity of the situation that turns out to be funny. When Siobhán rails against Pádraic being woeful about losing the friend who never treated him as an equal in the first place or when Colm bemoans the fact that he'll never be remembered as the genius from a tiny island off the coast of a nation at war, it's difficult to stop laughing at the lack of perspective on display. That kind of foolishness is also, of course, a metaphor for the Irish Civil War, one of the more inane of modern conflicts, which is setting the bar quite high, and which continues in the background of our story, with the occasional shrug of the shoulders by one of our characters and a "Hope things are going OK" acknowledgement. 

Beyond anything else, I think it's irrefutable that the cast was stellar, which is what you might expect from a solid collection of character actors given a McDonagh script to work with. Another regular aspect of his films is the very interesting and genuine characters that he summons up for each of his stories. From the world's most genial hitmen of In Bruges to the barely self-contained and bereaved mother of Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, MO, it's often hard to forget the people portraying his stories. Banshees is no different. Reuniting Colin Farrell with Brendan Gleeson almost guarantees chemistry on the screen and the two of them didn't disappoint, returning to the easy connection they carried in In Bruges, albeit in a somewhat different situation. It's still Gleeson leading Farrell to the deeper meaning of life, but this time it's not an act of courtesy, but one of bitterness and, eventually, resignation. Sheila Flitton was also fantastic as Mrs. McCormick, who represented one part of the film's title, as she walked around portending death like the spirits of old. The fact that she also annoyed everyone she encountered to the point where she engendered the same level of dread as the legendary creature is just another moment of comedy hidden under layers of scorn and despair for the local neighbors. Dominic was another high point, as he presented someone to look down upon for the lowly Padráic but was one of the more heartfelt characters of the story. The moment where he professes his affection for Siobhán in his halting style and then confesses "There goes that dream." is a genuinely emotional moment in a sea of cynicism and an unwillingness to admit the depression that drives them all to their individual isolated existence. This is a neighborhood of people who often refuse to acknowledge that they're all swimming in this pond together which, again, hearkens back to the war clattering across the strait and the overall search for meaning in what  otherwise seems a rather pointless life, which is, of course, the primary complaint of Colm about his existence and his relationship with Padráic.

Banshees will probably not be an easy film to like for many people; just as many of its characters will be likewise difficult to warm up to. Overall, it lacks some of the dynamism of McDonagh's earlier work. The deeper meanings are prevalent, but not exactly pronounced and there's a great deal of time spent in the common activity of early 20th century, rural Ireland. But if you can stay with it and just appreciate the little details that create a much greater skein, I think you'll be able to appreciate the subtle cues that say far more than what's immediately obvious. Personally, I thought it was feckin' brilliant.

Horror from the niche to the mundane

As noted before, there are many different types of horror. As one of the more flexible of modern popular genres, it's quite easy for it to be an "additional" category or subcategory of a story that would already be identified as science fiction or crime or even something that arcs toward the "literary"categorization, as Frankenstein or some works by Edgar Allan Poe now do (Nevermore!) It's with that flexibility in mind that I tried to consider the final two episodes of Guillermo del Toro's Cabinet of Curiosities. One of them worked well in a classical, albeit mundane, sensibility. The other didn't really work in any proper, constructive sense. Neither of them really turned out to be interesting.

The Viewing: I believe that director and co-writer Panos Cosmatos' intent was that you really couldn't get more 70s than what he put on the screen; from cars to cocaine. Complete with garish orange furniture, mood lighting where it wasn't needed, and a vaguely disco-riffic soundtrack, this was an attempt to depict the decade in all of its artificial glory. Of course, it felt artificial because it was, as it also lacked any of the humanistic touches which defined that era's films, but exemplified the plastic and gallons of hairspray that often defined that era's TV. I'll leave it up to you to figure out whether that was a deliberate approach for something being shown on a streaming service. But the problem I had with The Viewing was that the majority of what it depicted had neither tension nor horror. It was 40 minutes of people on a serious snorting binge while Peter Weller (most notably of RoboCop and Buckaraoo Banzai fame) told them about this cool toy he had in the back that he was going to let them be the first to see. Meanwhile, he had to expand their consciousness and "get them all on the same wavelength" with drugs because that's always a good idea in a scientific experiment. When we do finally get to something resembling a plot, we end up with what looks like an homage to the ending of Raiders of the Lost Ark (an 80s film, just by the by) and an alien/demonic force that implies some greater threat to society but which really doesn't come to any kind of natural conclusion after that. We had these stories in comics back in the day. They used to use them to fill space and didn't care if the people reading them felt cheated because they still assumed that their audience was made up exclusively of 8-year-olds. I confess to having no idea what the "story" was genuinely supposed to be about, other than the opportunity to show Paul Freeman and the departed Ronald Lacey that they're not the only ones that can have fun with disintegration. It was endless waiting for something to actually happen and then some mildly interesting moments when it finally did, but not enough to sell me on any deeper meaning.

The Murmuring: Speaking of attempted deeper meanings, we had the final episode in our series, which arced away from Cosmatos' heavily time- and culture-influenced presentation and back toward what one might consider a "classic" ghost story; akin to the aforementioned Poe and those like his creations. However, like The Viewing, this episode also contained a great deal of build-up to a payoff that was surprisingly pedestrian. With our two lead characters running away from their personal grief, it was the typical setup that found them running into the embedded past grief of an old country house. While the ornithology angle seemed to set up something that hearkened to one of the most famous works of Alfred Hitchcock or at least a deeper involvement of their field of study, the "murmurings" amounted to literal background noise in what was otherwise a routine story about a woman who's experiencing various kinds of distress with a male associate who keeps telling her that she's imagining all of it and then complaining when she doesn't appreciate his side of the story. But it's that "routine" label that causes most of the problems here because there's absolutely nothing original or unusual about anything that happens. This is a perfect example of the "seen one, you've seen them all" phenomenon. Nothing happens that isn't entirely predictable and the ending leaves the white picket fence intact, marriage saved, haunting "solved", and the birds vaguely bored onlookers to everything. This is the difference between a ghost story and a horror story. The former is generic. The latter usually has to have something that at least mildly excites the reader/viewer, even if it's as strange as a murderous orangutan with a straight razor. Now that I think of it, the color of the creature in The Viewing was orange (like everything else...)

So, yeah. That ended on a bit of a down note. Given the first six episodes, I was hoping that the last two might deliver a bit more of a punch or at least a couple moments of the unknowable that del Toro's better films have displayed. Maybe next time.

Can't miss the point. Maybe even three of them

I'm fine with message films. In our current political climate, there should probably be even more of them, despite the fact that they likely wouldn't change the minds of those who need it most. Triangle of Sadness is just such a message film. The dominant theme of the picture is that rich people aren't simply self-absorbed and largely dehumanized by their wealth, but that they're also parasites on what would be an otherwise functional society. Anyone convinced of the concept of "trickle-down economics" or "job creators" or how money defines "success" need only look at the current debacle occurring with Elon Musk and Twitter to recognize that all of those concepts are not only flawed, but usually deliberate lies to cover up the actual reality. Triangle lays this bare in very, uh, pointed terms. The problem is that it doesn't create a very good film, no matter how much the message may be needed.

Similarly to my reaction to Don't Look Up, I tend to like my political films with a bit more subtlety. When they're constantly hitting me over the head with the message, I start losing interest because I want to see more of the "real people" within the characters that are supposed to be carrying said message. The heavy-handed approach often means that the roles become less characters and more caricatures. Triangle basically tells us that rich people are all assholes. HBO's Succession tells us the same thing. But the difference is that all of the assholes in Succession are quirky people with recognizable hang-ups and idiosyncrasies. In other words, they're human, which is what makes them compelling to watch in the same way that many reality TV shows are driven by the very strange, very normal people that they present. No one in Triangle feels like a real person. From the anguish of Carl (Harris Dickinson) remonstrating about escaping gender roles with his girlfriend, Yaya (Charlbi Dean), to Clementine and Winston (Amanda Walker and Oliver Ford Davies) getting wistful about how they made their fortune in the weapons industry, no one seems real. In fact, they're so into their assigned roles that it often becomes tedious waiting for them to get through the obvious cues. There's nothing wrong with absurdist characters. Some of my all-time favorites are the creations of filmmakers like the Coen Brothers. But even over-the-top characters like Ulysses Everett McGill or The Dude have enough humanity within them to make it plausible that you might know someone a lot like them. No one in Triangle fits that mold.

Appropriately enough, the highlight of the film is the one person who not only isn't rich, compared to his passengers, but also speaks out against the people that he's supposed to be entertaining. That's Captain Thomas Smith, played by Woody Harrelson. The funniest moment of the two-and-a-half hours was hearing The Internationale blasting from his cabin loudly enough that the kitchen staff could clearly hear it while they assembled whatever decadent masterpiece was to be presented later. There's a point where irony becomes so thick that it reaches the point of humor and this was one of them; not because it wasn't just as obvious as the rest of the plot (captain of the ship full of wealthy vermin is an ardent Marxist) but because it perfectly suits Harrelson's acting style of the genial, regular guy who seethes with hatred against the people he has to be nice to. The casting, in that respect, was perfect. Given that he was the perfect choice for it, does that make it just as obvious as the rest of the film? Maybe. When we get to the island and enter the Lord of the Flies situation, we've unfortunately lost Harrelson and are returned to the obvious message: Abigail, the only one who works for a living, is also the only one that keeps society running because she knows how to do things like fish and make a fire, while the wealthy parasites can do nothing but enjoy the fruits of her labor, straight out of Das Kapital. Abigail uses this opportunity to take control of the group and not only arrogates the upper end benefits to herself, but reduces Carl to the reversal of gender roles that would seem to be a "careful what you wish for", except that he was arguing for a removal of said roles, so maybe not quite the message that was originally aimed for.

I will say that director Ruben Östlund did a solid job, creating a real sense of chaos when the boat enters a storm that is then interrupted by a puking scene that is straight out of Stand By Me. He also did an excellent job with the ending, which is left to some degree of self-interpretation by the audience, since we aren't shown exactly what happens between Abigail and Yaya, but we can see how fiercely the former is ready to cling to her newfound position against the woman whose mate she's already effectively stolen. Is this where Östlund was trying to say that there aren't really any heroes or that the vermin sitting atop the money pile aren't any worse than those scrabbling for a piece of it? Again, a mixed message in the midst of a film trying to beat you over the head with one seems questionable, although I suppose it could just be my overall dreary feeling about the whole picture that's interfering with my ability to appreciate what he was trying to do. Part of that dreariness is the length. 150 minutes was simply way too long and the counterpoint to my previous thought is that I may have thought the ending was more interesting just because I was glad that it was actually the ending. There's just not enough material here, in addition to the complete void of interesting characters outside of the captain, to justify that running time. Of course, for all of my complaints, it won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, which could just be more one more plank in my disaffection with French cinema and its devotees. Or maybe it's just because I'm a Marxist and already knew all of this.