Film: Irish ties

Intermission

By Jeannette Catsoulis

Barely five minutes into Intermission, the first feature from Irish theater director John Crowley, we get a shocking glimpse of the movie's tonal schizophrenia as a gently flirtatious conversation suddenly, and sickeningly, reveals its true nature. From that moment on, you won't know whether you're supposed to laugh or gasp--but you'll have one hell of a good time finding out.

The flirter in the opening scene is Lehiff (Colin Farrell, cleaning his palate between Hollywood gigs), a sociopathic career criminal with a crazed stare and a manner desperately in need of Ritalin. Keeping a jaundiced eye on this recently paroled charmer is hard-ass detective Jerry Lynch (Colm Meaney), an adherent of old-school policing and Celtic mystical music. When not goading Lehiff into arrest-worthy violence, Lynch dreams of reality-TV fame as the subject of a local news special.

Elsewhere, John (28 Days Later's Cillian Murphy), a morose petty thief-cum-supermarket stock boy, mopes over his impetuous dumping of girlfriend Deirdre (Kelly Macdonald), consoling himself with endless cups of tea spiked with brown steak sauce (a story in itself). The businesslike Deirdre, meanwhile, has moved on to yet another kind of loser--middle-aged, married, bank manager Sam (Michael McElhatton). Faring even worse in the relationship arena is Deirdre's traumatized sister, Sally (Shirley Henderson), whose most recent amour has taken his leave with scatological ingenuity. Like a warning to would-be lovers, a line of fuzzy hair marches across Sally's upper lip. "You look like Burt Reynolds," offers Deirdre, disgusted.

Set in a featureless chunk of suburban Dublin, Intermission may be the vanguard of an entirely new subgenre: the sadomasochistic romantic comedy. Walking out on Noeleen (Deirdre O'Kane), his wife of 14 years, with the words "You're not part of the equation," Sam's behavior is only marginally less callous than John's willingness to use Deirdre as bait for the psychotic Lehiff. Yet whether you like your romance with or without fists, the movie offers surprising moments of honesty and poignancy: an over-painted, over-the-hill woman at a club for aging lonelyhearts speaking her mind to the young man who has just rejected her; or Sally and her mother finding a way to admit to painful memories. Were it not for a cast skilled at maintaining the balance between slapstick and sincerity, screenwriter Mark O'Rowe's high-voltage inventiveness would, eventually, wear you out; but as characters collide and rebound--and a ubiquitous, rock-flinging kid causes mayhem--the actors ensure our commitment to their fates.

Merging the plot structure of Altman with the coked-up energy of Danny Boyle, Intermission is a blarney poem about the blank spaces--between relationships, between one action and another--that decide the shape of our lives. Connoisseurs of street-cred filmmakers from across the pond, like London's Guy Ritchie (Snatch) and Ireland's own Paddy Breathnach (I Went Down), will recognize the aimless hyperactivity, the stalled lives, the desperate humor and the abysmal self-esteem. (I have rarely experienced a more powerful image of self-loathing than the movie's frenzied, and unsuccessful, masturbation scene. It gives new clarity to the term "self abuse.") Intermission is perhaps the kind of film you'd expect from someone weaned on Trainspotting and Tarantino; what's surprising is its absolute lack of cynicism. Looking for love in all the wrong places, its characters fight to keep hope alive. "It's all shit," mutters Sally, staring out a rain-spattered bus window at the dismal view. "But it's all there is."