'Small Things Like These' mini review

I am once again undone by Claire Keegan's story

Last year, I finally read Claire Keegan’s bestselling novel Small Things Like These and absolutely loved it. I raved about it, in fact;

That Furlong is a colaman conjures the Dickensian character of Ebenezer Scrooge, who permits his clerk - Bob Cratchit - one coal for a fire. Furlong's persistent memories too, of a childhood raised in a stately home where his teenage mother was servant but also permitted to raise her child out of wedlock, have a touch of the 1946 classic 'It's a Wonderful Life' for how George Bailey looks backwards and forwards on his life and all its turning points. Nothing Keegan does is by accident; her sentences are sharp, the thoughts cutting, and her decision to set this as a Christmas tale is especially clever ... after all; what better time of year to contemplate the good and bad of people, to reach for our higher-selves?

This novel was extraordinary. Keegan does more with a mere 110-pages than some authors will in their lifetime, and you cannot help but feel you are in the presence of greatness with every page-turn.

When I heard that Cillian Murphy was going to star in an adaptation of the book, I was immediately invested and keen to see one of the finest actors of our time - a proud Irish actor, also - appearing in this movie, based on one of the best Irish author’s works.

And my gosh, does Murphy - and his could-cut-glass jawline - do a phenomenal job in what is a near-perfect adaptation. It truly is nearly beat-for-beat, the book. There’s no heavy-handedness in director Tim Mielants’s film; and the screenplay by Keegan and Enda Walsh has a very light touch indeed, just taking all of the book and staying true to it for the screen.

That is perhaps why it’s a near perfect adaptation, only because it’s so true to the book it almost begs; why adapt? The book is so swift, but haunting. There is something beautiful in the bruising via a solitary mechanism of reading … but that’s a very pedantic criticism that maybe sounds snobby; “ugh, film?” and I don’t mean it to be.

Because the film is truly stunning. The blue hue of the town, and a palette that emphasises the flecks of coal-black in the corners of Furlong’s life … only Mother Superior’s (Emily Watson) office is aglow in firelight and warmth. The only scene between Bill Furlong and Mother soon plays with that firelight warmth; suddenly the flames are casting shadows, as the scene turns and turns sinister.

My favourite parts of the novel were Bill trying to articulate what is weighing on him, to his wife and to himself;

As they carried on along and met more people Furlong did and did not know, he found himself asking was there any point in being alive without helping one another? Was it possible to carry on along through all the years, the decades, through an entire life, without once being brave enough to go against what was there and yet call yourself a Christian, and face yourself in the mirror?

And I did find these on the screen to be even more relevant today. Those in America who call themselves good Christians, while cheering for mass-deportation. Anyone trying to make excuses for Israel’s genocide of Gaza, the slaughter of Palestinians while claiming to be for the rule of law, empty rhetoric about protecting civilians without any punishment when Israel gleefully ignores … and face yourself in the mirror, indeed?

I particularly loved the lack of music score to the film, instead relying on natural music from the world (birdsong, the tolling of church bells) - diegetic sound or source music - and my favourite of this was Bill’s breathing. It’s laboured, black-lung breath from his work with coal; an audible manifestation of his struggle, that acts almost like a metronome beat. Utterly haunting, and perfect for the film.

I thank my friend Kevin for organising us to go and see this, knowing what a fan I am of the book and this author. It really was a cathartic and tender experience all over again - just as the reading was.

5/5