Martin McDonagh’s 2001 play, set on the island of Ireland in the early 1990s, has been described as a black comedy and savage satire on the violence of terrorism. Watching this new production, it struck me that is can also be seen as a burlesque on James Bond-style action films.
In an early scene, Padraic, our anti-hero, is explaining his rationale as he tortures a Belfast drug pusher, rather as Blofeld does before he consigns Bond to a grisly fate (the dealer’s crime is supplying Catholic children as well as Protestants). Padraic, though, does not have Blofeld’s means at his disposal; he must do his dirty work himself. Preparing to slice a nipple off his victim, Padraic is interrupted by a call from home. His cat, Wee Thomas, is ill. Setting aside his blade, he races back to Inishmore. Disaster ensues.
As in a Bond film, the “hero” gets the girl (if with a twist) and the plot entails an excess of violence. On a low budget, however, instead of hundreds of extras being blown up, four of seven characters are gunned down. Lack of numbers is compensated for by gore and gristle. Corpses are dismembered by survivors with a Bond-like sangfroid, although lacking 007’s public-school manners or honed wit (“feck” is the most frequently used word).
McDonagh’s comedy depends for effect on incongruities of exaggeration and inversion. Chris Sonnex’s direction highlights the humour but his committed cast cannot disguise the tediously repetitive scene structures. If satire is intended, it lacks bite. Padraic, rejected by the IRA and, ultimately, by the INLA, for being “too violent”, is no more representative of either organisation than is Bond of the British secret service. Other characters are too comically “thick” (another favourite word in the text) to provide a credible critique of the dangers of excessive devotion to ideology.
The Lieutenant of Inishmore is at the Everyman, Liverpool, until 12 October
