In “Small Things Like These” the first and last scene includes the ringing of church bells. In the beginning the bells create the cold, festive feel of the Irish town and its preparing residents. However, in the end the bells take on a different meaning as they remind us of the omnipresence of the Catholic Church and its power which we see throughout this powerful quiet film on Ireland’s “tradition” Magdalene Laundries.”
The laundries form a basic mindset of orphanages, homes for unmarried women and single mothers who then turn into workhouses. It combines the idea of women and girls performing slave labor for the community. In other words, they are prisons. These slaves where referred to as mothers and unfortunately turned into slaves against their will. This institution then became “profitable” through the renting of children held in captivity. There’s also the idea of them being seized due to their physical traits. These girls would be deemed charming hence the lock-up. Slaughterhouses where ladymen were imprisoned at came at the hands of catholics like Sisters of Charter of Mercy and then funded by the state. The power structures that these women suffered brutally under was best described as shocking: physically, mentally and sexually.
To our sheer surprise, the laundry systems were not dismantled before the mid 1990s, and the aftermath is still very visible.
Tim Mielants is directing the film adaptation of Claire Keegan’s 2020 novel, “Small Things Like These.” (Keegan was the author for the short story behind “The Quiet Girl”, nominated for The Best International Film.) Enda Walsh, an Irish playwright, adapted the book to screenplay and “Small Things Like These” remains faithful to the narrative. I noticed one omission, but there were no additions or deviations from the source material, which is a nice touch. Keegan’s writing is very economical, it is well-controlled and dense, and in just 116 pages, her story was told. Walsh’s adaptation captures the suggested interiority of the story beautifully. How does one convey deep thoughts when the character does not express emotions verbally?
Cillian Murphy answers that question perfectly by embodying Bill Furlough. This is a marvel of a performance, extremely expressive and yet deeply inward-looking. When the depths are stirred, you can’t see the bottom. Bill’s family consists of his wife, Eileen (Eileen Walsh), and five daughters. The family is serene, while Bill heads the local coal community. He delivers coal bags across the town and washes his hands when he returns home.
Somewhere in between, he is noticing a boy drinking a bowl of milk left on a stoop. It’s a shivering boy standing barefoot; a man trying to forcibly kiss her friend is something a woman is trying to resist. So, she eagerly tries to undo a habit of the dead mother-her mother, probably- as her head gets pulled back in one of her favorite but not so easy to get out of and around one of her favorite, flattering dresses. Having rounded off the abomination, the binding is torn; for a moment, blissful stark is enough to unclench. The girl’s madness tears through the frontal cortex and all the slits channel directly into Bill.
Bill cannot un-see what he saw. They are indeed safe, but the risk exacerbates simply owing to them being girls. What Bill wanted is fundamental. So while trying to bring order to the turbulence underway…has he does not recover the thoughts out in the open.
The result is so seamlessly atrocious, like watching Eileen Walsh in “The Magdalene Sisters”, where deeply “You’re not a man of God!” makes one retract every wish- scream makes one hope for the kindest world imaginable, only hearing those words devastates for as many days to come as chest pounding sobs for ideology through hymns kept after washing barriers down desperate clear need through chock full sailing slides orchestrated cries them inconsolable.
When Bill unlocked the door wide open, crying, a hidden room came to unfolded aside. In ruta hess they encountered was “is” not before witnessing devise today’s cool shed system astounding lofty carbon raw containers, splendid lacquer behind matted blood based remaining unfold they prehistoric steps refine interaction, cursh.
Bill is now escorted to Sister Mary’s office, where the icy while the while Mary together serves tea. The first time the rigid sister gazed at the nun, the tea was undoubtedly already served. Mary always speaks grandma like lies that have been wrapped with flowery bits of prose. The ever so polite manner might seem pleasant but scans with sneakers in the background like thinly veiled threats. He warns her calmly but firmly not to engage. She who manages the nunnery and the girl’s boarding school right next to it (which his daughters happen to attend), covers high ground. Because if he spills the beans, she puts all the cards of power on the table, she seals his fate with a stroke of complete control. It is casing one power most power goes unchecked.
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Murphy has traditionally been given the courtesy to be filmed at his back with a turned profile. The way Mielants prefers to work is more from above, a view from above who casts downward view gaze view over Bill’s figure. Towards the seemingly disengaged Bill serving to accentuate the solitude of his vision but once he does focus, Bill emerges branded as a tucked away, gazing at a distant boxed daydreamer. But this simple vision is paid back to us tenfold when the closeups offer the blunt requirements from what is residing behind. Oh, the handsome visage possesses an ample number of life experiences – not merely brought winds, sprites of pain, windig women, beauty and evil. There exists a load of traumatic recollections to. Winds cartoonement not fully close over. Trauma identifies trauma.
Mielants is also aided by two 360-degree pans capturing the sphere in which Bill moves, the cloister hallway and the central town.
There is nothing extravagant, and every visual element serves a function in the narrative. The sound design is rather peculiar too (voices in the distance, babies wailing from afar, cartoons from the 1980s playing in the adjacent room), although at times, sound completely fades, leaving only the sound of Bill breathing, which is infused with things he wished he could say.
The backstory of Bill is revealed through several flashbacks, but these are integrated so seamlessly that I didn't even notice the first one was a flashback. Child Bill, played by Louis Kirwan, lives at a big house with his mother, played by Agnes O’Casey. Bill’s mother is a maid and we first see her weeping while she scrubs his coat, which is dirty from spittle because other children mocked him for being illegitimate. Mrs. Wilson is kind and McKenna’s character, the farmhand Ned, is Bill’s friend. And Bill’s dad is? He tries explaining to Eileen why the convent scene had such a strong impact on him. If Mrs. Wilson hadn't taken the two of them in, his mother would have ended up in a convent, and Bill would have been placed up for adoption. It is not “none of our business” what happens up there.
It is everything us, the girls, silence has supported the system that controls us.
The remarkable Irish novelist John McGahern offered a window into his world of growing up in Ireland in the 1940s and 1950s.
“By 1950, the State had become a theocracy in all but name. The Church controlled Nearly all aspects of education, hospitals, orphanages, juvenile prisons, and even parish halls. Church and State worked in tandem”
And in the last scenes of “Small Things Like These,” the church bells emit sounds of warning rather than prayer or celebration. They are not a symbol of joyous faith. Instead, they are a reminder that “We will always be watching.”