We get the trio together to talk reunions, break-ups and — of course — donkeys

Having bottled some very sweary lightning with In Bruges, mischievous collaborators MARTIN McDONAGH, COLIN FARRELL and BRENDAN GLEESON are at it again with THE BANSHEES OF INISHERIN.

WORDS JOHN NUGENT

PORTRAITS GREG WILLIAMS

IT’S 14 YEARS since Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson and writer-director Martin McDonagh headed to Belgium to debate whether or not the pretty medieval town of Bruges was, in fact, “a shithole”. In Bruges, McDonagh’s feature debut back in 2008, was a cult hit almost instantly, beloved for its stout-black sense of humour, revealing performances, unique take on the crime genre, and endlessly quotable dialogue (“You’re an inanimate fucking object!”).

Director Martin McDonagh with Brendan Gleeson on set.

As that film’s cachet grew over the years, so did the call for a reunion. Farrell and McDonagh did team up again, on 2012’s Seven Psychopaths, while Gleeson worked with the older McDonagh brother, John Michael, on The Guard and Calvary. But though they didn’t lose touch, the original Bruges trio never found a way to rekindle that cobbled spark.

Now, though, they have found something to reunite on: a break-up film. Set on a small fictional island in the West of Ireland in 1923, The Banshees Of Inisherin is a deceptively simple story about two pals who go to the pub every day, only for one of those pals (Gleeson) to terminate the friendship, effective immediately. It’s a grand, sweeping tale about a tiny community, a quiet allegory for the Irish Civil War, and an intimate character study of two men who don’t know how to talk to each other anymore. There’s also a lovable miniature donkey named Jenny, a rusty pair of shears that have some violent purpose, and an unsettling sense of mysticism in the mist. It’s a strange, sad, darkly funny brew.

On the eve of its rapturous Venice premiere (at a film festival measured in standing ovations, it goes on to earn over 13 minutes of clapping), the three men gather in a hotel room to speak to Empire about collaborations past, present and — maybe — future. They share an easy comfort and familiarity that only comes with friends of over a decade; even the normally reserved Gleeson descends into schoolboy-ish giggles in this company. They are obviously mates. But they’re also painfully vulnerable and honest with each other, like soldiers back from conflict, still raw from their fictional break-up. Over an hour, souls are bared, laughs are shared, scars — both mental and physical — are revealed. Just like a Martin McDonagh joint, then.