The debut film of John Michael McDonagh (brother of the playwright/screenwriter/director Martin, of In Bruges) seems to me a good example of where the success of Pulp Fiction 17 years ago has led film. What little plot there is - some big time drug dealers have come to a tiny hamlet in West Ireland to cause some trouble; only foul-mouthed local policeman Brendan Gleeson, “working” with FBI agent Don Cheadle, can stop them - only serves to give the characters a situation to stand in and talk about any number of things. The thugs debate philosophers, our hero throws out racial stereotypes at Cheadle to see what sticks, and so on. It’s fun to have all your characters have this surprising intelligence, debating everything save for what they’re actually doing. Like the debate over a foot massage or what a chopper is in Tarantino’s game-changer, you’re watching just to see what they say next. So it’s a good time, grounded very well with a great performance by Gleeson, but it tends to become a bit of a one-trick pony. The McDonagh boys no doubt have a gift with words, and as a writer I appreciate the extra focus on dialogue as a way to create character. But the action as a result is so thin that I was left focusing solely on the dialogue, which led to quite a few laughs but not a lot of direct engagement with the film.
