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Martin McDonaghA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
Throughout the play, the murderous Padraic’s soft spot for his kitty is an ongoing joke, but it’s also part of a larger motif in which pets are endowed with more humanity and intrinsic value than humans. Padraic and Mairead are the two most fervent cat lovers in the play, but all the characters assign human traits to cats. According to Mairead, “every cat has its own separate personality, sure, not to mention its eyes and its miaow” (20). Davey describes Sir Roger as “a snooty little bitch” (20) and takes it personally when his sister’s cat destroys his comic books, claiming that the feline did it purposefully. Conversely Wee Thomas “would always say hello to you were you to see him sitting on a wall” (6). Cats are even granted a role in the nationalist cause, often identified as “Irish cats” (28) who deserve to be free in a free Ireland. Padraic has built up Wee Thomas in his mind as a fellow revolutionary who encourages him to throw bombs. Sir Roger is named for an iconic revolutionary who was martyred for Irish republicanism, and he is martyred himself by Padraic. He isn’t the only martyr cat; according to Christy, Oliver Cromwell liked to murder innocent Irish cats, although he insists that cats sometimes have to be martyred because Joey must choose between “happy cats or […] an Ireland free” (30). Cat devotion in the play ranges from the relatable to the absurd, with no parallel concern for human death. The characters all recognize that killing a cat (or even contributing to a cat’s death) is a capital offense, at least within the world of terrorist vigilante justice, demonstrating materially that cat lives are worth more than human lives.
The cats in the play also serve as projections of the characters’ anxieties about gender, sexuality, and identity. There are no “boy-preferers” (33) allowed in the INLA, but being a cat lover in the world of the play makes a man’s sexual orientation suspect, and Padraic certainly loves his cat. The play is not implying that Padraic is secretly gay, but rather it’s challenging the rigid notions of gender and sexuality that create his anxieties and defensiveness about his own identity. Mairead insists that cats are unique, suggesting that their personalities are stable and recognizable, an idea that she is invested in, as though her appearance may fall somewhere between feminine and masculine, she is the same person whether she’s in a dress or pants. Sir Roger, that “snooty little bitch” (20), is named for an Irish rebel who was both a celebrated republican hero and a “boy-preferer.” Even Wee Thomas’s “identity” is in flux throughout the play, despite Padraic’s certainty that he can identify his own cat. When Padraic sees Sir Roger, an orange cat half-covered in shoe polish, he is disgusted at the imposter and Donny’s suggestion that “cats do change quick” (40). Padraic later says that he shot the cat on the spot because he saw him as unhygienic, but Sir Roger also represents Sir Roger the boy-preferring revolutionary, who was (metaphorically) also a cat trying to cover himself in shoe polish to blend in with the others. When the presumably real Wee Thomas wanders in at the end, Donny and Davey assume that he was out “chasing fecking skirt” (68), assigning human ideas of heterosexuality to the mating instincts of cats. Wee Thomas is also played by a real cat, which means that his actions aren’t fully predictable. He may or may not eat the Frosties in the final scene, so the end of the play is also in flux.
The play also implicates the audience in the prioritization of animals over humans, exploiting the way media representations of animal deaths are heavily sentimentalized to the point that there are websites to check whether an animal dies in a movie. Human death doesn’t receive the same attention. Human violence and death saturate the media, whether stories of real violence or violent fiction. Consumers of media become desensitized because violence is normalized. The play presses hard on an audience’s soft spots for pets, beginning with the opening image of a realistic and gruesome dead cat. As a punchline, Donny picks up the cat, and his brains plop out. If this doesn’t cause a visceral enough reaction, the live cat playing Sir Roger is brought out to invite the rustling excitement and cooing that typically runs through an audience when a real animal comes onstage. But then Padraic, who is such a cat lover that he spares a torture victim for claiming that he has a cat, shockingly and mercilessly shoots the sleeping feline “point blank. It explodes in a ball of blood and bones” (40).
At the end of the play, the image of another live cat staring blankly at the two guns pointed at him is a moment of tension. The audience knows that the playwright is willing to brutalize fictional cats. Instead, Davey and Donny decide to pet and feed him. Choosing pacifism over violence is a relief, and there is finally a free Irish cat who gets to decide how the play ends. Whether or not he eats the Frosties is unchoreographed; it is legitimately random and meaningless, but audiences will try to find meaning in the ending anyway, illustrating the absurdity of searching for meaning and logic in a random world.
When The Lieutenant of Inishmore ran Off-Broadway in 2006 at the Atlantic Theatre, the production spilled an average of five gallons of stage blood per night, using nine specific formulas designed to create a variety of effects. Performed violence is rarely fully realistic, even on film. Dramatic depictions of violent injuries and death typically avoid giving the full visceral effect that one might receive when viewing real crime scene photos, even with the capabilities of cinematic special effects. This is even more true in live theater, where the practicalities of bloody puddles and ruined costumes are a necessary concern. The infamous Théâtre du Grand-Guignol in Paris, which presented violent plays such as Shakespeare’s dramas and Jacobean tragedies with naturalistic gore from 1897 to 1962, discovered that a certain amount of blood achieved the intended horror effect, but too much blood just made the audience laugh. McDonagh’s plays push the limits of graphic violence and cruelty, staging acts of violence that should be more horrifying than funny. The Lieutenant of Inishmore pushes the limits of even McDonagh’s signature comic violence. By the end of the play, the set is soaked in the blood and gore that has accumulated in Donny’s kitchen from the play’s excessive acts of violence. Half of the characters are dead along with two cats, and the stage is strewn with realistic-looking bits and pieces of human bodies. In practice, the carnage spilled beyond the limits of the playing space, as pooled blood oozed off the stage, and front-row audience members sometimes found themselves in the splash zone.
Extreme amounts of gushing blood are accompanied by McDonagh’s witty dialogue and absurdist narrative to elicit roaring laughter. The play is about the materiality of violence and the horror of broken bodies—but as a comedy. In the opening scene, the dead cat is shocking and gruesome, but it is an object. There was no live cat, and audiences recognize it as a grisly prop. But in the second scene, Padraic is torturing James, a live victim. The bruises and injuries on his body are make-up, but the actor is really hanging upside-down with his chest bared. Padraic doesn’t actually torture James in front of the audience, although his hands are covered with gore and he describes the material reality of ripped-out toenails and the practicalities of healing from the injury. However, the actor’s living, breathing, vulnerable body is enduring an element of torture right before the audience’s eyes as he hangs upside down. This blurs the line between reality and performance, and the audience becomes complicit. This sets the tone for the brutality and cruelty that the characters inflict on each other and the gory violence that escalates steadily until the final bloodbath. Padraic shows that even cats aren’t safe when he turns the previously live Sir Roger into a second grisly dead-cat prop. Later, Padraic tortures and kills Christy as the other bookend of his violence in the play. Like the first torture, Christy’s happens in the time gap between scenes. Audiences are left to imagine the horror from the wounds on his body, including the comical yet gruesome use of the grave marker that Davey made for Wee Thomas as a spike to impale his head.
As the unwilling and innocent civilians of the play, Donny and Davey have their terrorist-imposed death sentence commuted to forced labor, dismembering the bodies of the three dead terrorists. Like the cats before them, Christy, Joey, and Brendan become lifeless objects. The bodies that Donny and Davey chop up are realistic dummies that they spend the rest of the play graphically dismembering in front of the audience’s eyes. Padraic emphasizes their objectification by briefly using Christy’s lifeless body as a couch. In the original London production, blood squibs were placed in random places in the bodies, creating little unexpected explosions of blood as Donny and Davey try to hack them apart. They push the audience’s squeamishness by chatting casually about how much work it takes to sever a spine, messily flinging bits of fake flesh or blood into the audience. This breaches the audience’s safe separation from the action, compelling them to become participants. When Mairead kills Padraic, she forces Donny to confront the ghastly corporeality of hacking apart his own son. The fragmenting of bodies makes the abstract idea of death real. Throughout their dismembering, Donny and Davey talk about the IRA and the INLA, mentioning some of the real violence that they’ve committed against innocent people. The explosion of blood, gore, and the bodies of people who transition suddenly from people to objects is the reality for victims of paramilitary bombings.
At 11, Mairead tried to convince 16-year-old Padraic to take her with him to join the INLA. He brushed her off, and she tried to give him her air rifle, which he refused. When Padraic returns to town and they meet again, he ruffles her hair and says, “A lot of use that would’ve been to me up North” (35). The air rifle is a lighter gun that only shoots pellets, and Padraic sees it as ineffectual as a girl would be in the INLA. Undoubtedly, her air rifle wouldn’t have been an effective weapon for killing, but Mairead proves that she can do enough damage with it to be useful. She is never seen without it, and she brandishes it as an ever-present reminder to others to respect her. But as the youngest and only female character, Mairead is constantly struggling with disrespect. The air rifle is like her body, identified as feminine and therefore treated with misogynistic condescension.
Mairead has developed impressive shooting skills with her air rifle, able to hit cows’ eyes at a distance. She is mocked for shooting cows with no attention paid to her feat of accuracy. Without the strength of a more powerful gun, she has learned to use what she has to an advantage, pinpointing a weak spot and disabling her target precisely. The men treat her as if she’s invisible, and she uses her air rifle to force them to see her as substantial, even shooting at her brother. But everything changes when she uses that invisibility and disregard to save Padraic’s life by ambushing his three attackers and blinding them with six accurate shots. Suddenly, Mairead is using her air rifle to fight alongside Padraic as his equal.
If Mairead’s air rifle represents her femininity, Padraic’s style of weaponry symbolizes masculinity. Unlike Mairead’s shooting, Padraic uses little to no skill. He points two guns at his target’s head and shoots them at point-blank range. As Donny and Davey discuss while they are hacking up bodies, “The two guns is overdoing it. From that range, like,” and “Mairead sees more of the sport” (56). The play doesn’t address what Padraic would do if he couldn’t walk right up to his victims, which suggests that he typically goes after much weaker targets. His two-gun shooting style turns out to be impractical against the three other terrorists until Mairead blinds them, making them easy prey.
Padraic’s lazy, talentless shooting commands respect and status in the INLA, while Mairead’s highly skilled shooting, which ought to be invaluable to a militant organization, isn’t good enough because she’s a woman. The use of brute force and weapons that require little skill to create massive damage seems to be the INLA’s main tactic. Though made by a skilled bombmaker—although Padraic complains that recent bombs have been duds—lobbing a bomb into a crowded pub isn’t a challenge of precision. Car bombs and chip shop bombs are for creating terror with maximum destruction, not for taking out specific enemies. Theoretically, Mairead would have to trade in her air rifle for a full gun to join the INLA. When she decides to kill Padraic, she uses his method. He is a weaker target because he trusts her and obeys her when she tells him to kiss her. Mairead uses his guns to shoot him in the head, but she decides that shooting men is boring, trading the guns for her air rifle again. Terrorism doesn’t take enough skill to interest her.
By Martin McDonagh