an
international and interdisciplinary journal of postmodern cultural sound, text
and image
Volume 3, January 2006, ISSN
1552-5112
Interrogating Intermission
Paula
Murphy
Introduction
Winner of the 2003 Irish Film and Television Awards
for best Irish film and best director, Intermission
was one of the most successful Irish films of the last few years. Damien O’Donnell, maker of the recent Irish
film Inside I’m Dancing, describes the
importance of Intermission as
follows:
What was
great about something like John Crowley’s Intermission
was to open people’s eyes to an Irish film by an Irish director about an Irish
subject. That, I think, has been the
most important Irish film in recent years.
I think Intermission was as
important a debut Irish film as My Left
Foot was, but for different reasons.
Intermission was a film that I
heard people talking about on buses. (MacCartaigh 2004, 16)
Although Intermission
did enjoy some international success, aided in no small degree by its high
profile cast that includes Colin Farrell, Colm Meaney and Cillian Murphy,
Damien O’Donnell rightly assesses its significance as something more than
that. An unusual entity in Irish film,
it is not obviously marketed for a British, European or American audience. Perhaps because of this fact, the common
motifs of Irish film like religion, rurality, inter-generational conflict and
politics are almost non-existent.
Through Lacanian psychoanalytic theory and
postmodernism, this article analyses Intermission
as an example of how the enormous social, cultural and economic changes of the
last two decades have resulted in a dramatic shift in how the Irish identity is
constructed. The Lacanian subject is a
socially determined being, structured by the laws and language of the symbolic
order. He explicitly states that the symbolic
order is not an overarching structure applicable to every individual. On the contrary, since the symbolic is
derived from social and familial contexts, there are differences between
cultures, societies and individuals[1]. The Lacanian
Other is a part of the symbolic order that can be represented by an other
person in the imaginary sense, but which is ultimately derived from the order
itself. In this sense, the Other is how
the symbolic is manifested for a particular individual. As the Lacanian subject is in this way
symbolically-determined, changes in the symbolic order effect change in the
individual subject, and this I argue is a way of understanding changes in
individual and national identity that have occurred in recent years. Jean-François Lyotard makes a similar
argument for the importance of language in determining behaviour, and
consequently, as an object of study.
Echoing Lacan, he states, ‘even before he is born, if only by virtue of
the name he is given, the human child is already positioned as the referent in
the story recounted by those around him in relation to which he will inevitably
chart his course’ (Lyotard 1984, 15). A
film like Intermission is valuable
because it provides a barometer of that change.
If people were talking on buses about Intermission, it is because it is the first high-profile Irish film
to accurately reflect the urban and suburban life of Dublin and its lower
middle class and working class inhabitants, and also because it is one of the
first films to show how much these strata of society have adapted to social
change. It is also a film that portrays
The ostensibly indigenous quality of this film is
paradoxically contradicted by the film’s director, John Crowley, who states
that ‘the script…was quite influenced by American models, and
The production is not the only aspect of this film
that is indicative of the transitional nature of Irish society. The film consists of a number of different
stories which are cleverly interwoven.
Almost all of the characters are at a pivotal juncture in their lives in
relation to work and/or love. As Richard
Gorelick points out, ‘[t]he title…refers to the transitory state that most of
the characters find themselves in. Jobs
have just been lost or are in grave peril, relationships are ending, have just
ended, or are slowly beginning’ (Gorelick 2004). The multiple perspectives of the story adhere
to what Lyotard describes as a characteristic of postmodernism: that which
‘puts forward the unpresentable in the presentation itself’ (Lyotard 1984,
81). Joyce does this through a plethora
of literary styles of writing, which affirm the impossibility of a full and
unified narration. In Intermission, the
same effect is achieved through the variety of perspectives. While many Irish filmmakers rely on
historical narratives for their subject matter[2],
Identity
Constructs
The film opens with Lehiff, the character played by Colin
Farrell, entering a bakery and chatting up the young, attractive sales
assistant behind the counter. They
flirtatiously discuss the unpredictability of love, and Lehiff states, ‘love is
not somethin’ you can plan for, is it?’ (Crowley 2003). This sense of chance and randomness
characterizes the film as a whole and is indicative of the post-Catholic
culture that is being depicted, in which many of the characters in the film
engage in promiscuous sex with people they meet in bars and nightclubs. Linked to a sense of liberation from a
destiny controlled by the Church, is how freely characters adopt personas and
identities. Lehiff foregrounds this in
the opening sequence, when he tells the sales assistant, ‘[a] fella like me
could be just a bit of fun in the sack, or, or,
and it’s not that crazy, I could be your soulmate. Or…I could be just a thief or somethin’, some
villain…just waitin’ for the chance to [he punches her] smack your jaw and rob
the register’ (Crowley 2003). The shock
of this unexpected violence underscores how identity is always chosen to some
extent, which means, as Lehiff states while he is making off with the cash from
the till, ‘you just never know…what’s gonna happen’ (Crowley 2003). Lacan claims that the individual participates
in the creation of linguistic meaning, and consequently, in the structuration
of subjectivity[3]. While this
determining ability is a characteristic of subjectivity in general, it has been
enhanced by the climate of personal sovereignty in which we now live in
Lehiff
is the pivotal character in the film, as it is through him that the lives of
the other characters cross paths. While
he displays a degree of personal autonomy, it is evident later in the film that
he is also programmed by the symbolic structures which surround him. Lehiff, in his early twenties with a thick
Lehiff’s only option is to fulfill the role he has
been given by society to its ultimate potential. For him, the desired objet petit a is
a position of status in society, which he only attains through its loss in his
total disregard for the law, cutting himself off from the community entirely,
but paradoxically, earning a degree of autonomy. Lacan coined the phrase le pére ou pire to describe this forced choice, which means the
father or worse: the choice is not one between good and bad, but between bad
and worse. Lehiff cannot escape symbolic
construction and so his choice is not a choice at all. Lehiff can either choose to submit to the
Name of the Father and repress his desire, or chase his desire, his objet
petit a, and position himself
outside of the community. From a
Lacanian point of view, the song that plays over the opening credits, The
Clash’s ‘I Fought the Law and the Law Won’ is highly appropriate: the subject
has always already chosen to submit to the law because there is no other
alternative.
Lehiff’s desire is primarily for respect and status
in society, because this is what has been denied to him. He gains this respect from a certain portion
of the community through criminal acts, but still wishes for precisely what his
own choice has rendered impossible: a stable domestic base. At several points in the film, Lehiff’s
fascination with woks is alluded to, which serves as a shorthand for
domesticity. Interestingly though, in
keeping with the exogenous representation of Irishness in the film as a whole,
it is a cosmopolitan domesticity influenced by the Orient. He mentions it to the sales assistant in the
opening scene, later he is seen circling woks in a catalogue while staking out
a bank, and at the end of the film, he questions the girl who he is holding to
ransom in her home about the utility of her wok and the best kind of oil to
use. Lehiff epitomises the teleological
illusion. The subject has always already
been structured by the symbolic, which demands that they accede to an
intersubjective position in the first place.
As Žižek states, ‘Lacan’s exposition of the way a letter arrives at its
destination lays bare the very mechanism
of the teleological illusion’ (Žižek 2001a, 9-10). The destination of the letter is ultimately
the Other. Because of this, imagining
that a subject has control over their fate is ultimately false, since they can
only think this because of their
place in the symbolic. Lehiff believes
that he chooses to break the law, but has already been decided by his symbolic
position. His desire for a home life is
also a symptom of his position within the structures of desire, which is always
directed towards an unattainable object.
Through his portrait of Lehiff,
Gender
Two other characters who are at the bottom of the
socio-economic ladder are John and Oscar, both of whom work on the shop floor
of the local supermarket. Their
overbearing boss, Mr. Henderson, makes their lives almost unbearable by his
constant bullying. John has recently
broken up with his girlfriend Deirdre, and is heartbroken. On discovering that Deirdre has moved in with
an older man only a few short weeks after their split, he barges into her house
at the end of his tether: ‘[y]ou don’t just hook up with the next fella that
walks by – the only reason you do that is if you never cared in the first
place…that is the behaviour of a whore!’ (Crowley 2003). John has no idea how to discuss his emotions
without becoming at best defensive, or at worst, aggressive.
A possible reason for John’s behaviour is the shift
in gender roles in contemporary Irish society, and the difficulty he
experiences adjusting to them. While
there is still inequality between the genders, the divide is certainly
lessening. The number of women in the
workplace has more than doubled in the two decades between 1976 and 1996[4], and although this is only one aspect of moving
towards equality, it does indicate a significant social and psychological
change. If, as Lacan maintains,
subjectivity is constructed in the intersubjective space between self and other,
then it is logical that if female subjectivity has changed radically, then so
has male. Previously, men were expected
to be emotionally strong, perhaps in order to fulfill their primary role as
providers. Now, the list of desirable
characteristics for heterosexual men has changed considerably, with a
concurrent shift in stereotypes of masculinity in the media. From a male point of view, this means that
men now take more responsibility as carers of children and are also expected to
be comfortable articulating their emotions: a trait previously regarded as
feminine. John is an example of an
individual who has not completely adjusted to this change, and who is suffering
the consequences. His friend Oscar is
going through romantic difficulties also.
Unable to find a girlfriend, his sexual frustration has become such that
he confides in John in the pub that he is unable to orgasm: ‘I’m at a stage
where I can’t even wank, d’ya know?
Pullin’ away like a madman…couple of occasions, I wept like a woman man,
with the fuckin’ frustration’ (Crowley 2003).
His equation of crying with femininity, and his horror of crying in
public (later in the film the audience see him reduced to tears after failing
to orgasm watching a porn video, alone in his flat) makes evident the fact that
social and symbolic change does not happen in one movement that sweeps every
subject into its wake: change will always encounter resistance.
This paradox
is evident from the point of view of the women in the film also. To some extent, their self-worth is still
predicated on their romantic relationships with men. Noeleen, a woman in her forties whose husband
leaves her after fourteen years provides a good example. She is distraught at his departure and feels
that it is somehow her fault for not being a good enough wife: ‘[i]s it my age,
huh? Is it something I wouldn’t do? Is it my look, huh? Don’t you fancy me
anymore?’ (Crowley 2003). Her husband
Sam leaves her for a woman in her twenties, Deirdre, the erstwhile object of
John’s affections. Deirdre too espouses
a traditional ideal of a man’s role as provider when she tells her mother that
they are moving in together, defending her decision on the basis that he is
well off, reasonably attractive and has a high status job as bank manager. However, at the end of the film both women
reconsider these traditional positions.
Noeleen rediscovers her sexual attractiveness and reasserts herself in a
fling with the frustrated Oscar. Deirdre
too decides that compatibility is more important than money at the end of the
film and leaves Sam, who finds her decision incomprehensible in another
instance of male resistance to change in gender roles: ‘I pay rent here. I pay your rent as well as my own. I give you money; I treat you well. Is that not enough?’ (Crowley 2003). It is not enough for Deirdre, who rekindles
her relationship with John, after he realises that all he needed to do was tell
Deirdre how he was feeling.
The transitory status of male and female
inter-subjective relations is enacted in the film and it is obvious that while
stereotyped gender roles still have a certain currency, this is beginning to
change. It is obvious too that neither
men nor women are conditioned by religious sexual morality. The film shows scenes of adultery between Sam
and Deirdre and casual sex between Noeleen and Oscar. It is significant that while difficulties
exist in negotiating the complex territory of heterosexual relationships, there
is no indication that religion has any influence on sexual choices. The absence of religion is also evident in
the characterization of authority figures in the film.
The Ideology of Authority
In every symbolic order and every society, the power
bestowed on figures of authority derives from a shared agreement on the value
of the ideology that they represent. For
example, the former Taoiseach[5] of Ireland, Eamon De Valera frequently used
religious imagery in his speeches and often invoked familial metaphors, because
in the symbolic order in which he lived, these were things which were assumed
by the population to be unquestionably worthy of respect. These are master signifiers, which Bracher
describes as ‘simply accepted as having a value or validity that goes without
saying’ (Bracher 1993, 25). It would be
logical to conclude that an examination of the ideology of the authority
figures in this film, Henderson, the supermarket manager and Detective Jerry
Lynch, might be enlightening as to what has replaced the master signifiers of
the old Irish symbolic order. Henderson,
or ‘Henno’ as John and Oscar call him, asserts his authority at every available
opportunity. He catches the two men
taking a break soon after starting work, and tells them to ‘get back on that
floor, youse little pups’ (Crowley 2003).
He gives each of them a strike, three of which will result in
dismissal. This strike is John’s second
and
If, as I have argued, factors like class affect the
Other of particular individuals, then it is probable that there may be
discrepancies between these different strands of society in relation to the
rate of change. One of the bleakest
messages of Intermission is that
social, economic and cultural change has been slow to impact on the working
classes. Lance Pettitt has noted that
contemporary Irish film often focuses on these marginalised groups, describing
it as a ‘cinema of the have-nots and the left-outs, the criminals, loser and
misfits’ (Pettitt 2000, 268).
Furthermore, Henderson is an exemplar of one of the major themes in this
film: the assertion of power to make up for inadequacy, which reveals itself in
the relationships between Noeleen and Oscar, Detective Lynch and Lehiff, and
Ben and his boss, who are discussed in the following section, and Henderson and
John. The final scene of the film shows
De-mystifying Myths
The authority figure who is explored in the greatest
detail in the film is Detective Jerry Lynch, played by Colm Meaney. He is approached by a young television
producer, Ben, who wants to make a documentary film about his work, an offer
that Lynch greets with unveiled arrogance.
Lynch revels in his image as a tough detective who is unafraid of
physical violence. He tells Ben that ‘my
only really human quality to speak of is a fondness for Celtic mysticism’
(Crowley 2003) and goes on to name Fáinne Lasta, Rainneach and Clannad as
‘artistes’ whom he admires. Lynch’s
admission is striking because it is so incongruous with his image, but also
because it is soon apparent that these bands are just a symbol of an entire
ideology in which Lynch has invested.
The music has a vague association with pre-Catholic
The heroes that he identifies with are those of Irish
folk tales, represented for him by the music of Celtic mysticism. Such identifications are revealed as an
effort to fill the void in being, or manque
à être, that characterises subjectivity.
It is no surprise that in contemporary
Lynch’s machismo is constantly threatened by the lack
of respect his superiors give him. He is
seen in his car staking out a drug dealer on a street corner with Celtic music
playing to get him in the mood for the ensuing arrest. He pulls up in front of the dealer with a
dramatic shriek of brakes and proceeds to chase him on foot through a block of
flats. Lynch eventually catches him and
as he suspects, finds drugs on his person and arrests him, but when he returns
with the handcuffed dealer, he finds his car has been stolen and is enraged
when the dealer sniggers at his predicament.
Feeling rather demeaned, Lynch handcuffs the dealer to a pole and rings
the station from a public phone, but is informed that there are no available
cars to collect him and he is humiliatingly forced to order a taxi. When Ben calls to tell him that his boss has
rejected his film idea, Lynch is at a low ebb indeed, and asks, ‘[h]as nobody
any balls these days? Faggot’ (Crowley 2003).
Having bragged to his work colleagues about his forthcoming television
appearance, the potential embarrassment is likely to be enormous. Lynch retorts in the only way he know how, which
is to brand Ben’s boss a homosexual, which allows him to remain in his position
as macho maverick hero. Later, Jerry
accompanies two of his colleagues to view a burnt-out car that has been
abandoned on some waste land, and discovers that it is his own. When the two men mockingly ask, ‘are you
gonna put this in your film, Jerry?’ (Crowley 2003), Lynch decides that in
order to save face, he must convince Ben to join him in rebellion and make the
film without his boss’ consent.
Ben agrees and shadows Lynch on his daily
rounds. Lynch introduces him to drug
users, drug dealers and criminals under surveillance, all of whom he treats
with the same contempt. Entering the
flat of one man,
All three men get out of
their cars and through Ben’s camera, the audience see the ‘mythic’ shot of
Lynch. This has been foregrounded
earlier in the film, when Ben oversees the filming of an interview with two
local heroes and insists that the cameraman perform a mythic shot, which is a
shot from the ground that points upward at the person, making them look taller,
more powerful and more heroic, so when it happens again at this stage of the
film, it is an index of how Lynch sees himself.
Lynch confronts Lehiff about stealing his car and worse still, his
music, but the latter retorts by saying that Lynch’s Celtic mysticism CDs are
‘shit sounds’ (Crowley 2003). An
argument explodes as the two exchange insults:
Lynch: The power of
certain artistes is beyond the ken of
cunts like you. You don’t have the
requisite Celtic soul, man.
Lehiff: Yes I do.
Lynch: That’s a brave fuckin’
statement. Would you like a chance to
back that up, wha’? (Crowley 2002)
Lynch takes off his jacket, places his gun on the
bonnet and challenges Lehiff to a fist fight, saying that if he wins, Lynch
will let him go, adhering to the code of heroic honour and fairness that he
believes himself to be an exponent of, and telling Ben that this episode will
be called ‘Personal Justice’ (Crowley 2002).
As
soon as Lynch is far enough away from the car on which his gun rests, Lehiff
takes a gun out of his pocket, points it and shoots and the last shots of the
scene, from the perspective of Ben’s handheld camera, show the camera falling
onto the grass. The duel between Lehiff
and Lynch connects
Both are ideologies which subjects cling to in order
to fill the vacuum of being that is the result of their entry into language,
but they simply do not work in contemporary society, as Lehiff shows when he
pulls out his gun, after agreeing to a fist fight. Lynch may be operating in accordance with a
Celtic code of honour, but others are not and it proves impossible to transpose
an ancient set of values onto a modern society.
Moreover, the heroic ideal that Lynch invests in is as elitist and
hierarchical as the modern class structure, which becomes obvious when he
accuses Lehiff of not having the requisite Celtic soul to appreciate his
music. The knowledge that Lynch thinks
he as possesses about Celtic Ireland is in the postmodern sense
‘delegitimated’. As Lyotard states,
‘[t]he grand narrative has lost its credibility, regardless of what mode of
unification it uses, regardless of whether it is a speculative narrative or a
narrative of emancipation’ (Lyotard 1984, 37).
Finally, these scenes also serve to defeat the urban/rural divide that
has been at the heart of Irish literature for decades. Rural
Although these insights
are revealed to the audience, Lynch continues to identify with the Celtic
warrior as a way to cover over his lack, and is delighted when the media report
the incident with him as the conquering hero.
At the end of the film, he walks in on Ben who is looking back over the
video, and the audience realises that Ben saved Lynch’s life by shooting
Lehiff. ‘The way it was told is the way
it has to be’ (Cowley 2003), he tells Ben, giving him his Fáinne Lasta CDs as
token of his respect and admiration.
Their parting words are so choreographed and clichéd that the effect is
comical:
Lynch: You’ve
earned ’em – a warrior soul Ben, a kindred soul [they hug]. We’ll meet again, no doubt.
Ben: On
the streets, yeah?
Lynch: On
the streets.
Intermission examines numerous aspects
of the contemporary Irish subject. Its focus
is on urban identity with particular emphasis on the lower classes. Its shows that in spite of economic
prosperity, there are many Irish people who have a poor quality of life, few
prospects for the future and who live in areas with little if any amenities. It also depicts in a bleak but humorous way,
the realities of drugs, crime and violence on
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1993. Lacan, Discourse and Social Change:
A Psychoanalytic Cultural Criticism.
Clash, The, 1979.
‘I Fought the Law and the Law Won’, The
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[www.indiewire.com/people/people_040322crowley.html]
Gorelick, Richard, 2004. ‘Irish
Kiss’ in City Paper Online.
[www.citypaper.com/film/review.asp?id=3536.htm]
Intermission, 2004.
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an
international and interdisciplinary journal of postmodern cultural sound, text
and image
Volume 3, January 2006, ISSN
1552-5112
Notes