‘In Bruges’ hits the target

Alonso Duralde Film critic

There have been so many American comedies about love-starved hit men, alcoholic hit men, intellectual hit men and every other kind of kooky hit men, that one tends to forget that these people commit murder for a living. People wind up dead in their wake, and the killers have to deal with the psychological realities of killing. But most of these movies skirt these ugly truths, fearing they might get in the way of the comedy or the romance or whatever.

But then you get a movie like “In Bruges,” the feature directorial debut of acclaimed Irish playwright Martin McDonagh (“The Lieutenant of Inishmore,” “The Beauty Queen of Leenane”), which gazes directly into the abyss of hired killers and how their job affects them. Which is not to say that “In Bruges” isn’t hilarious and unpredictable.

Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson star as Ray and Ken, two Irish hit men who get sent to the postcard-pretty Belgian town of Bruges by their boss Harry (Ralph Fiennes) to let things cool off after the pair have committed a murder in London. While the comedy originally deals with Ray’s restlessness at being stuck in “f---in’ Bruges,” we soon discover that the hit didn’t quite go as planned and that Ray is eaten up with guilt over it. Harry eventually phones Ken with another assignment, but by that point, the fugitive duo have gotten involved with an enigmatic Belgian beauty (Clémence Poésy) and a dwarf American actor (Jordan Prentice).

Quick facts Starring: Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson, Ralph Fiennes, Clemence Poesy, Jeremie Renier Director: Martin McDonagh Run time: 1 hour, 41 minutes MPAA rating: R

The film’s third act offers many surprises, mainly because of McDonagh’s willingness to travel to darker places than most black comedies would dare. The fact that the laughs keep coming indicates that McDonagh, having already conquered the theater world, is a filmmaker to watch. (There’s a chase sequence towards the end that’s clangingly out of place, but beginners are allowed a mistake or two.)

McDonagh also shines as an actor’s director — Farrell and Gleeson are a delectable comic duo, and Fiennes (who so rarely gets to play comedy) digs his teeth into what may be the screen’s most foul-mouthed mobster since Ben Kingsley’s bravura turn in “Sexy Beast.” Prentice, whom I don’t think I’ve seen onscreen before, steals every scene with his very dry delivery; I hope casting directors can start looking past his height and giving him more opportunities in film.

There’s a Mametian rat-a-tat to McDonagh’s dialogue, but the offbeat humor and the characters’ genuine pain and regret feels unique. And structurally, one is reminded of Chekhov’s dictum that a gun that is introduced in Act One should be fired in Act Three. Only in this case, it’s two guns, a fat American tourist, an obnoxious ticket agent, an irritated Canadian tourist and a pregnant hotelier. Anyone who can get payoffs out of that many setups is bound to be an exciting new voice in cinema.

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