In Bruges

Martin McDonagh’s background as an award-winning playwright would have been enough to persuade us all by itself. Since he swaggered into our consciousness just over a decade ago, Mr. McDonagh’s unique fusion of the patois of John Millington Synge and the pop culture obsessions of Quentin Tarantino has seemed destined for screen. The Oscar he received for writing and directing duties on the 2006 short Six Shooter simply confirmed as much.
Regardless of the unlikely Belgian setting this may be the Irish film par excellence, as surely as There Will Be Blood is the American equivalent. At its centre we find two of our finest actors operating as a kind of Hibernian yin and yang. Brendan Gleeson, in what may be a career best, plays Ken, an embodiment of ‘ah sure’ Irishness. Colin Farrell’s Ray, meanwhile, is Ken’s mutual correction, a hero for every national who ever looked at a wondrous spectacle before dismissing it as ‘shite’. In Bruges dumps these two bungling killers in the tranquil medieval enclave of the title – an unlikely refuge after a hit goes horrifically, devastatingly wrong.
Ken determines to enjoy the sights but Ray finds their unexpected holiday boring and purgatorial by turns. His frustration is somewhat relieved by the appearance of Clémence Poésy, a pretty hired hand on a nearby movie set who sparks some lively romantic comedy into the adventure. But a real Irish movie was never going to waste too much time on the squelchier plotlines. Sure enough, we’re soon twisting and turning into thriller territory as Ray and Ken’s terrifying boss (Ralph Fiennes) comes a-calling.
Dark, twisted and extremely funny, it’s hard not to think of McDonagh’s equally impressive Galway Trilogy, his opening gambit onto the stage. Like those early plays, In Bruges taunts, seduces and shocks its audience with a series of macabre tricks. The director works hard at extending his schtick into glorious Technicolor. It’s McDonagh the film director not McDonagh the playwright who fashions a strange feverish quality that reminds you this is set on the same continent as Don’t Look Now.
How this surreal, glaringly Irish concoction goes down abroad remains to be seen. For domestic audiences, however, it’s your national duty to fork over the admission price. You will not be disappointed.