The Butcher Boy: Bloody brilliant

Reviewer: Dylan de Thomas
Rating (out of 5): ****

Ireland was in vogue in the early 1990's. The Troubles were continuing on their troubled course, epic films about the history of the conflict in Northern Ireland — In the Name of the Father, Michael Collins, Some Mother's Son — were all the rage, and heretofore flat, Midwestern-sounding Hollywood stars were trying on a wee Irish brogue. Chortles could be heard as Brad Pitt (in The Devil's Own), Jeff Bridges and Tommy Lee Jones (both in the execrable Blown Away) and Julia Roberts (in Mary Reilly) strained their vocal cords and their credibility all to pin a shamrock on their resumes, and there followed a series of glorified Irish Spring ads like the treacly Circle of Friends.

Then the woefully underappreciated Neil Jordan dropped in with the tart little gem The Butcher Boy (1997). I'd like to say that it put the nail in the coffin of those sorts of films, but no one saw the thing. It did mark the end of that era, however, with an off-kilter almost-masterpiece about a boy from a small town in 1960's Ireland who goes from merely troubled to completely unhinged.

Based on the novel by Pat McCabe (who also wrote Breakfast on Pluto, later adapted by Jordan, too), the film follows one Frankie Brady (Eamonn Owens, in a revelatory debut) bombing around their town with his best friend Joe, lounging along burbling streams, hanging out in secret hideouts and stealing apples and comic books from the rich kid. Which, on the face of it, seems like fodder for your standard coming-of-age flick, but The Butcher Boy turns it all on its head, showing the impish guise of Frankie as a front, hiding a home life of privation with the alcoholic erstwhile musician Da and the suicidally depressed Ma as the shattered heads of the broken household.

In an early set piece, we're invited to watch a classic Irish house party – one not unlike a low-rent version of the famed shindig in James Joyce's The Dead – with the multitudes of family members showing up, singing songs while everyone slowly becomes more jovial and rosy-cheeked. As the party goes on, however, it becomes clear that something's not right and as it ends, it explosively goes off course with the father lashing out at his closest family members. It's a riveting scene, with the great Stephen Rea – a frequent Jordan collaborator -- giving a fresh take on the boilerplate drunken Irishman. As the director says in his commentary over this scene, "The guy just vomits snakes."

The film follows a skewed cant for the remaining running time, confounding expectations for a genre filled with hoary cliches. By the time Sinead O'Connor shows up as a vision of the Virgin Mary, dispensing bad advice for our protagonist, the movie's already winnowed its way among the greatest--and strangest--coming-of-age films of all time.

See Also: The 400 Blows, City of God, The Young Poisoner's Handbook.