A young girl experiences love for the first time when she is sent to
spend a summer with distant relations.
Review by
Eric Hillis
Directed by: Colm Bairéad
Starring: Catherine Clinch, Carrie Crowley, Andrew Bennett, Michael
Patric, Kate Nic Chonaonaigh
Like its eponymous protagonist, director Colm Bairéad's
An Cailín Ciúin (The Quiet Girl) is what we in Ireland
might call "a little dote" of a film. It's filmed in the Irish language,
but it's the unspoken words that fuel its narrative. This is a very
Irish movie about how we Irish keep our troubles to ourselves. Contrary
to the false American invented "Fighting Irish" stereotype, we're a
nation of people who will do anything to avoid confrontation, who find
it difficult to ask for help, to confess our feelings. Betrayed by the
Church and wary of psychiatry, we have nowhere to turn to for therapy
but art, and Bairéad's film is as therapeutic as they come. I've often
said that Japanese movies feel a lot more Irish than Irish movies, but
An Cailín Ciúin is an Irish movie that plays like a
Japanese movie. Could Bairéad be Ireland's Ozu?
The quiet girl in question is Cáit (Catherine Clinch), a
nine-year-old member of an overcrowded household ruled by a father (Michael Patric) who couldn't give a damn and a mother (Kate Nic Chonaonaigh)
who simply doesn't have enough love to go around. When her mother gets
pregnant once again (this is 1981, when contraception was still shunned
by many Catholics in Ireland), Cáit is sent to spend the summer with her
mother's cousin Eibhlín (Carrie Crowley, an actress with the
warmth of Maureen O'Hara) and her husband Seán (Andrew Bennett).
There, Cáit finds everything she's been lacking from her real home and
her real parents. Eibhlín is sympathetic rather than scornful when it
comes to her bed-wetting and teaches her the ways of farm life, and
there's lots of space for Cáit to explore. But that space is filled with
a lot of emptiness. There's an unspoken sadness shared between Eibhlín
and Seán, and while the former dotes over Cáit, the latter finds it
difficult to have the child in his presence.
An Cailín Ciúin thus becomes a story of a young girl
finding a surrogate father and a troubled man discovering a daughter. We
watch as Seán slowly opens his heart to Cáit in a very Irish, very male
way. Like the great Japanese films, this is a movie that plays out in
small gestures that speak volumes. The simple sight of a biscuit (that
Irish favourite, the Kimberley) left on a table makes for one of the
year's most cinematic moments. Nobody breaks down and delivers
expository speeches about what they're dealing with here, because
they're Irish and that's not how we roll. Eibhlín and Seán never tell
each other they love one another, but you'll struggle to find a couple
more infatuated with each other's presence. The love on display in
Bairéad's film is as tactile as the tension in a Hitchcock
thriller.
It's a movie that possesses a soothing quality. Watching its
beautifully composed images flicker by is like thumbing though a
forgotten pop-up book rediscovered in an attic. It may evoke feelings of
how your childhood was, or how it should have been. It features one of
the best child performances I've ever witnessed, and it's made by a
director who seems possessed by the spirit of John Ford, who knows that
how people look at each other is more important than what they say to
each other. Cáit wishes she could stay on this farm forever, and by the
movie's end you'll know exactly how she feels.
An Cailín Ciúin (The Quiet Girl) is on UK/ROI VOD now.
