The Butcher Boy (1997)

dir. Neil Jordan
writ. Patrick McCabe (novel), Neil Jordan and Patrick McCabe (screenplay)
feat. Eamonn Owens, Stephen Rea, Alan Boyle, Brendan Gleeson, Aisling O'Sullivan, Sinead O'Connor

It's hard to determine where The Butcher Boy goes wrong. The film suffers for two equally important reasons, a child actor who shows no range and a story that has no notable arc. Francie Brady (Owens) springs forth as a devil child, not easily explained away as a result of a drunken, virtually absent (at least mentally) father. And while his terrorizing of the small Irish town is spirited, it lacks depth or more importantly charm. Rea's narration as the adult Francie manages a skillful bit of wit despite a deadpan tone that suggests a sense of humor for evil deeds done long before, but that doesn't translate to Owens' monotonous performance. Whether this is a result of asking too much of a young actor or that Francie has nowhere to go and nothing much to learn over the course of his young life is left an open question.

Not that Jordan doesn't make a sincere effort. His usual attention to detail is evident, particularly in the dark, claustrophobic rooms of the boy's home as contrasted by a fort hideaway along a lush stream bank to which Francie escapes with his best pal Joe (Boyle). And Rea's ever understated performance is beautifully rendered throughout. But other creative lunges fail, namely Francie's frequent conversations with the Virgin Mary (O'Connor,) a device that begins as a curious bit of faked revelation that develops into something more substantial, but then falters, quickly turning into a bland, implausible conscience for Francie. This external (and, in casting Sinead O'Connor, deliberately controversial) voice undercuts the chance for believable character development as a result of actions and consequences, as though the filmmakers don't have faith in the story itself without yet another narrator to help communicate their ideas.