Beers, bros, and Boston.
Come with me, on this holiest Day of Patrick’s, on a magical journey of one average Bostonian who followed his dream, and finally brought to life the dumbass story of two Irish brothers/angels/superheroes/sharpshooters/philanthropists he must have been daydreaming and doodling about in his notepad since the 5th grade.
The Boondock Saints was the first and only movie directed by a man named Troy Duffy, whose desire to bring this story to life was so great, he would have done anything to achieve it. The story goes that Troy wrote this screenplay whilst playing in his band- can you guess the name of it?
YUP, it’s The Boondock Saints. So desperate was he to bring these heroes to life, he went around to every movie studio that would listen and pitched the idea. Shockingly, all but one studio basically laughed at the first time writer/director who wanted to make a movie named after his band, and in his desperation, Duffy settled a deal with Franchise Pictures for a one-time payment of several hundred thousand dollars for his work. He was given no back-end distribution royalties, and with a production budget of $6 million, the film grossed just $30,000. Only later would it go on to achieve cult status.
Now, the plot of The Boondock Saints centers around two Irish-Catholic brothers who, sickened by the recent slew of mob activity and crime in their city, are inspired by the (real-life) murder of Kitty Genovese in broad daylight to become vigilantes- bringing down the righteous fury of God on the various crime syndicates of Boston. Decades of repressed Irish Rage bubbles over in their various rampages. Look, I grew up eating bland food and getting slapped around for fidgeting in church, too; you don’t see me murdering anyone.
Starring Norman Reedus (The Walking Dead‘s Daryl) and Sean Patrick Flanery (who, hilariously, plays Powder in the film of the same name), Troy Duffy’s brainchild tries its hardest to paint these two as totally justified in their killing sprees. When we meet our protagonists, the brothers MacManus are innocently plugging along in their meat factory jobs, bustin’the chawps of the resident Dyke coworker, getting drunk on St. Patrick’s Day (ugh), and just generally being universally loved, faux-Irish goofballs that everyone knows as kind-hearted ruffians who din-do-nuffin’ wrong, when they kill a Russian mobster in self-defense.
From there, the boys go into hiding and team up with their foul-mouthed, alcoholic friend Funny Man, who has connections to the most stereotypical Italian crime family in history. As it turns out, a good portion of this movie revolves around stereotypes. It’s the type of movie a 5th-generation Irish Bostonian would make, had they never met an actual Irish person in their life. The Irish are fucking Irish, what with their Lucky Charms accents and fluent knowledge of Gaelic (seriously?). The Italians are Italian as shit, delivering half-hearted mobster lines a teenager could have written. The Russians are cold-blooded Ruskies, constantly sounding like they have a mouth full of peanut butter. Weirdly enough, not one mention of the Irish Republican Army, let alone any Righteous Murdering of anyone even remotely Irish.
The Boondock Saints is a guilty pleasure movie, to be sure. When I first watched it, I was a frustrated, teenaged, “half-Irish” suburbanite who basically envisioned my adult life to hopefully end up like these two vigilantes. In other words, I loved it. What could be better than speaking 8 languages, getting hammered all the time, starting fights, and justifiably killing weird-sounding foreigners? Later viewings in my 20’s gave way to a new type of nostalgia I was unfamiliar with- Nostalgia PTSD: the horror of realizing that something you loved is dumb as shit. This movie is basically lifestyle-porn for every guy who’s ever had a throbbing erection for being able to blow some crook away with a shotgun for breaking into their home and not only suffer zero consequences, but deep-down knowing that the cops approve. Their fantasy seems to entail a foaming-at-the-mouth drug addict/rapist/murderer who’s there to take your hard-earned money, have his way with your wife, and then kill you both. The reality is usually much less glamorous: somebody who just drunkenly stumbled into the wrong house, and after they’re scared off and the lights come on, you realise that you froze in place and pissed yourself.
Watching The Boondock Saints later on in life feels a bit like that. You could have sworn that it was going to be awesome and glorious, but as it turns out, it wasn’t nearly as much fun as you imagined.
Look, if you still love this movie, I don’t blame you. Nostalgia plays The Hits. Ultimately, if you enjoy it, my review will mean very little to you. The acting is rough, the accents are terrible, and every kill is followed by a screwball comedy punchline. A cat is accidentally blown to pieces, Ron Jeremy is in it, Willem Defoe cross-dresses (and is legitimately mistaken for a female prostitute?), everyone is constantly drunk, and Billy Connolly eventually arrives as the boys’ Angel of Death father who writes their Murder Poems and without a second thought, immediately joins their cause. They place coins over their victim’s eyes (presumably so they don’t have to watch them roll their fucking eyes), say a prayer every time they kill someone- they’re Irish, you see. It’s all very Catholic, you wouldn’t understand.
At the end of the day, if you’re already in love with The Boondock Saints even after all this time, chances are you’re probably going to spend ol’ Paddy’s day getting hammered and watching it with friends, wistfully pretending you’re the long-lost third Brother MacManus. Maybe you’ll laugh at how cheesy and kitschy it is, maybe you’ll change your mind and decide to swear this movie and drinking off forever (only one of those resolutions is likely to stick). Much like the Shamrock Shake, this movie comes around once a year, and every time I think I want it, I typically just end up disgusted with myself.
You Should See This Movie If: You enjoy cheesy movies about killing mobsters with a clear conscience, being beautifully Irish (and somehow tan? what the fuck?), getting drunk, and ending up universally loved, instead of grtting divorced over your chronic alcoholism and murderin’.
You Shouldn’t See This Movie If: You like good movies and are over the age of 20, or are actually Irish.
THREE THUMBS DOWN
Really Bad Reviews 