I loathe films such as The Banshees Of Inisherin. Oh, I love a good tragedy; I’m a sucker for ’em. But a senseless tragedy? Feck that. Isn’t life full enough of that already?
Granted, Banshees has some absolutely gorgeous scenery, scenery that’s as much of a character as any other in the film. Screw that, too. I can watch a PBS documentary on Irish coastlines.
What Banshees boils down to is that living on a beautiful beach can drive a fellow insane if there’s a lack of interesting friends or willing, wanton women. A bit of electricity could’ve helped, too. By the end, the film’s only living, redeeming qualities are reduced to props, senselessly killed. The lead characters? Who could give a feck about them by the time the credits roll. I sure didn’t.
Reportedly, Banshees is an allegory for the Irish civil war of 1923. Feck that, too; who cares? All I cared about was a castoff boy (who is also, apparently, the most perceptive and only interesting inhabitant of the island) and a donkey named Jenny.
Banshees left me very upset, and pissed. More so the morning after. There’s no great story here, no parable or moral; a story of boredom and wretched, heart-wrenching, throwaway death. Well-acted with fantastic cinematography, a film that has so much going for it… except my recommendation to anyone.
Feck this movie, and those who made it.
