Review of "Bring Them Down" Starring Keoghan and Abbott
A Bleak Sibling to "The Banshees of Inisherin": A Debut Tale of Violence’s Endless Loop
Sheep farmer Michael (Christopher Abbott) wears an impenetrable mask of stoicism, forged in the harsh furnace of his upbringing under Ray (Colm Meaney), a gruff, domineering old man who ruled with fear and demanded reverence. Years ago, Michael’s mother, worn thin by this stifling life, tried to break free. Her timing couldn’t have been worse—she chose a car ride to tell her son of her escape. Siding instinctively with his father, Michael’s emotions erupted, his foot heavy on the gas. The crash that followed stole his mother’s life and left his then-girlfriend Caroline (Nora-Jane Noone) scarred across her face. Now, years later, Caroline is married to Gary (Paul Ready), Ray’s arch-rival, locked in a bitter feud over a shared hillside. When Jack (Barry Keoghan), Gary and Caroline’s son, steps into the fray, a decades-old wound festers and bursts, spilling its poison unchecked.
First-time director Chris Andrews crafts a story that unfolds through shifting lenses—first Michael’s, then Jack’s. These perspectives don’t clash but layer the dread, amplifying an inescapable sense of doom. A third character looms silently throughout: the Irish wilderness. Cinematographer Nick Cooke’s lens captures its rugged beauty, a vise that grips its inhabitants tight. Here, nature isn’t mere scenery—it’s a living, breathing force, sustaining people too blinded by vengeance to see its splendor. The camera pulses with the characters’ ragged breaths, reels under their raw emotion, and darts across the muted landscape as if desperate to flee. It trembles in rage, shivers in stillness, pausing only briefly to peer into the hollow wells of their eyes—searching for a flicker of hope, finding only a dull, clinging weariness. At times, it feels as if the lens might turn away, recoiling from the ceaseless human squabble.
Violence is the only language these characters speak fluently. Michael’s calm is a thin veneer over a seething volcano, fueled by childhood scars. Jack, still green, teeters on the same path—striving for independence but dragged down by his parents’ bickering, poverty, and a goading delinquent friend. His misstep plunges him into a bloody spiral with no exit.
The first blood flows with the slaughter of sheep. The camera flinches from the animals, locking instead on the growing horror in Keoghan’s eyes as Jack grasps the nightmare unfolding. When innocent lives become pawns in a power play, something snaps in him. Words fail, but his hands, his gaze, his halting breath, and his silence scream louder. And where human voices falter, the sheep wail in their stead.
The personal saga of two families mirrors a broader clash, echoing the centuries-old tension between Ireland and England. Language becomes a marker of allegiance: Michael and Ray speak Gaelic, while Gary and Jack stick to English. Caroline, fluent in both, is the fragile bridge between worlds—a woman trapped in a conflict not her own, yearning to break free. She confesses her new job in Cork with a quiet defiance, reminiscent of Noone’s rebel in Peter Mullan’s "The Magdalene Sisters"—a woman chafing against imposed shackles.
The film’s deepest tragedy lies in the men’s failure to connect. It’s not hatred that drives them but an inability to express anything beyond force. They don’t talk—they suspect, they probe for confirmation of their fears, then lash out without a thought for what follows. This vicious cycle shatters families, fates, and lives. "Bring Them Down" is more than a personal tale or a nod to Anglo-Irish strife—it’s a parable of humanity’s knack for repeating history’s mistakes, blind to their origins. Of people carrying the anger of generations, long forgetting why it began.
There are no victors in "Bring Them Down"—violence offers no release. You can keep dancing to hatred’s tune, mirroring the steps of those before, or you can break the rhythm, take a breath, and walk away. Chris Andrews leaves that choice to you.
