The Lieutenant of Inishmore: When Irish eyes are spitting fire

In the opening moments of The Lieutenant of Inishmore, which had its Quebec premiere on Thursday night, the audience is greeted by Eric Mongerson’s comforting, homey set. It even includes a framed “Home Sweet Home” sentiment, nailed to the wall.

And that’s the last bit of comfort to expect from Martin McDonagh’s horrific, bloody, grating and hilarious skewering of the Irish character. An interconnected group of bungling characters threaten each other throughout the play, each setting off new levels of violent intervention, the most brazen of them vowing to free Ireland forever.

First performed in 2001, McDonagh’s work has received high praise for taking the Troubles to new heights of obscene comic absurdity. The playwright (who is probably now most famous for having written and directed the Oscar-nominated film In Bruges) deserves kudos for setting aside any political or aesthetic sensitivities, and just letting the fur fly (quite literally).

The fuss begins when a beheaded cat is discovered on a roadside. Panic ensues when it’s learned that the feline was that of Padraic, a ferocious member of a splinter group of the IRA, who is intent on blowing up as many fish and chip shops as is humanly possible. The fumbling characters who find the cat’s remains know that when Padraic learns his cat has been killed – worst of all, decapitated – there will be hell to pay. The absurd even meets wishful thinking, as one character gazes upon the cat’s corpse and suggests, “Perhaps he’s just in a coma.”

That McDonagh mines our collective horror at the prospect of an innocent cat being mutilated is part of his farce, pointing out that we have become inured to excessive depictions of graphic violence against humans, but similar acts against animals somehow still elicit visceral terror and repulsion.

McDonagh takes careful aim at the Irish traditions of violent protest, suggesting that the militant stances many take have more to do with routine than with actual worthy political mission. (Given its assault on every Irish cliché imaginable, it’s particularly hilarious that the Irish Tourism Bureau saw fit to sponsor the play, taking out a full-page ad on the back of the program.)

Director Kate Bligh delivers McDonagh’s Tarantino-esque violence with wicked pleasure, dragging us into the depths of revenge, all in the name of a beloved cat. The universally excellent cast handles the gore with the necessary realism, routinely inspiring gasps in the audience. Bligh doesn’t simply direct her actors well, she has shaped an ensemble. Certain artists have understood the fine line between horror and laughter – Hitchcock once referred to suspense and comedy as Siamese twins –and Bligh has tapped into McDonagh’s subversive wit with the kind of enthusiasm his play deserves. To inspire horror and laughter almost simultaneously certainly makes for a strange emotional experience for an audience – and is no small feat.

Given what Ireland has been through in the decade since The Lieutenant of Inishmore took its first bow, it’s impossible not to reconsider it in context of Ireland’s recent woes. Five years ago the country was being touted as one of the great miracles of modern Europe, a new economic powerhouse that, at long last, had found relative peace and increasing prosperity. Alas, that fortune has now been cruelly yanked from the Irish, much like a lottery win being withdrawn from a poor family in a Sean O’Casey play. That long-suffering Ireland – birthplace of a number of the greatest playwrights of the last century – has again fallen on desperate times makes this play that much more painful. And in its own dark way, funny.

The Lieutenant of Inishmore