He said nothing.
He did not do anything.
But Colm can't take it anymore.
Padraic doesn't understand.
How can you draw a line under years of friendship?
Every day they went to the pub together.
All that is over.
Colm is adamant.
Padraic, who is not the smartest in the village, does not want to believe it.
He tries to pick up the pieces.
Wasted effort.
Colm threatens to cut off his finger every time the other tries to reconcile.
The musician will keep his word, thanks to a shears of prehistoric dimensions.
We can imagine the consequences that the gesture will have on this violin player.
This brutal episode takes place in 1923 on an island off the coast of Ireland.
Civil war seems a long way off.
Hardly if its echoes reach here.
Martin McDonagh films a fable à la Beckett.
The reasons for the estrangement remain buried.
“He is hollow.”
The explanation is a bit short.
She devastates the youngest who continues to lead his herd of cows.
A grandiose breath sweeps over this simple story.
Because it wasn't him anymore, because it was still me.
Absurdity invites itself to the counter studded with rounds of beer.
Silences oppose prayer.
In the smells of bacon and porridge, Padraic's sister is overwhelmed with these nonsense, these low-ceilinged neighbors.
This great reader dreams of something else.
She knows Mozart is from the 17th century, not the 18th.
Roughness and good-natured replies
Colm, in the evening, strums his instrument with the means at hand.
There's a witch who predicts a dark future by the side of the roads, an obsessed teenager who contemplates the raging waves a little too much, a police officer with a low IQ.
The sea attends, impassive, to these devouring torments.
Between two pints of Guinness, the drama turns to tragedy, a mixture of bitterness and good-natured replies.
The faces of the inhabitants are wrinkled like ancestral cliffs.
Unreal green hills harbor the madness of this scramble that takes on epic proportions.
Souls are bubbling in this Celtic inspired cauldron.
Read alsoOur Irish walk with actor Colin Farrell
Colin Farrell walks his frail figure in these landscapes beaten by the winds, wanders in the middle of these houses with thatched roofs.
He is fragile, helpless, his gaze lost.
His sudden despair is a bottomless pit.
All he has left is this black donkey, a poor animal lost in the violence of humans.
Stubborn, intractable, Brendan Gleeson looks like a menhir.
It is closed like a fist.
Blood punctuates this slow descent to the sources of the unconscious.
The director recreates the duo from
Bons Baisers de Bruges
.
The tone, you guessed it, is quite different.
All this has no equivalent in contemporary cinema.
No need to look for Inisherin on the maps.
The place does not exist.
However, in the flickering light of peat fires, it will henceforth populate our dreams, our insomnia, our memories.
Do we dare to pronounce the word masterpiece?
We will dare.
The Figaro rating: 3.5/4