‘The Banshees Of Inisherin’ Masterfully Depicts How Self-Love Kills Friendship

In Martin McDonagh’s latest film, “The Banshees of Inisherin,” Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson play a pair of friends on a tiny island off the coast of Ireland. It’s 1923, and they can hear artillery fire as the Irish Civil War rages on the mainland. But for them, there is only the steady rhythm of caring for animals, idle chit-chat, Mass on Sunday, and drinks at the pub. 

Then, everything changes. Or, rather, one thing changes, and that changes everything. Quiet, contemplative Colm (Gleeson) tells simple, talkative Pádraic (Farrell), without warning, that he doesn’t want to be friends anymore. The collapse of their friendship, which occupies the rest of the film, serves as a microcosm of the carnage that political and cultural polarization inflicts not just on our society but on our very souls. 

When Pádraic demands an explanation for the sudden change of heart, Colm offers one: He’s tired of listening to Pádraic blather on about the minutiae of island life. Colm would rather compose songs on his fiddle. He fears dying without having fully realized his talents. Yes, ending his friendship with Pádraic isn’t very nice. But great artists live on forever. Nobody remembers nice people.

Colm’s philosophy is pure, expressive individualism. It’s the “modern self” whose rise and triumph Carl Trueman so skillfully traced. Such people see their lives as blank canvases rather than as thin threads connecting their ancestors to their descendants.

That modern self, of course, has nothing to do with one’s family or neighbors or unchosen obligations. It’s what’s left when those things are stripped away. Colm has to withdraw to pursue his art because, for him, community and creativity are opposing forces.

The traditionalist’s response to the expressive individualist is predictable: “No. Stop. Don’t reject the ties that bind us. Pursue self-actualization if you wish; only let us remain friends while you do so.” 

To the transgressive, these terms are unacceptable. Any restraint on total self-creation is violence, even if that violence is, in practice, self-inflicted. When Pádraic refuses to accept that their friendship is over, Colm promises to cut off one of his fingers each time Pádraic pesters him. Of course, the more fingers he cuts off, the less able he is to play the fiddle. Therein lies the irony.

Colm’s spiritual descendants in the 21st century claim to be crippled by the oppressive -isms and -phobias of the “cishet” white patriarchy. They list six mental illnesses in their Twitter bios. They pursue risky sexual encounters, zonk out on SSRIs, and disfigure their bodies with facial piercings and double mastectomies. They even threaten suicide (“Would you rather have a live son or a dead daughter?”). In each case, they refuse to believe that they’re hurting themselves. They insist that the solution to their anguish is always more transgression. The more they pursue freedom, the less free they become.

Inevitably, the negative externalities of expressive individualism begin to take their toll on everyone else. Fond as transgressives are of insisting that “gay marriage

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