Kneecap
Irish-Language Rap Group Goes Brogue
From Left to Right: Mo Chara, DJ Próvaí and Móglaí Bap. Credit: Sony
Rich Peppiatt’s Kneecap is an electrifying musical dramedy that leaves viewers feeling rebellious just for having seen it. Like Curtis Hanson’s 8 Mile—a fictional version of Eminem’s origin story—Kneecap’s plot is loosely inspired by the eponymous Irish-language rap group, Kneecap. And like early Eminem, the Kneecap lads—Mo Chara, Móglaí Bap, and DJ Próvaí, all of whom star in the film—are fueled by fury and feeling. Their fierce anti-establishment bars blend Irish and English, authenticity and irreverence. Threading the needle between social justice and satire, this film crowd surfs its audience, turns viewers into a mosh pit, then (with a playful wink) reminds them to question authority.
So what’s the craic—er, the point of all this? Kneecap’s cause is to popularize the Irish language through rap. The island’s native dialect—sometimes known as Irish Gaelic—was formerly banned by the British, then recognized as an official language by the UK only in 2022. Now, Kneecap’s music serves as a symbol for the contentious legacy of British colonialism in Northern Ireland—and empowerment for indigenous groups everywhere.
The film is set in modern-day West Belfast, where disenchanted music teacher JJ Ó Dochartaigh (stage name DJ Próvaí) teams up with hedonistic hoodlums Naoise Ó Cairealláin (aka Móglaí Bap) and Liam Óg Ó Hannaidh (aka Mo Chara) to awaken their hitherto unharnessed talents. And do a lot of drugs. JJ brings form to the ruffians’ function; they bring mischief into JJ’s predictable domestic life. Condemned and chased by police (“fook the peelers”), paramilitaries and politicians, the group uses their own Troubles to evolve from lowlifes into revolutionaries (still on drugs).
The cast is a major selling point.
Kneecap-the-band passes the truth serum test of appearing on-camera in Kneecap-the-movie: so adeptly that they may find themselves cast in other onscreen roles. (Most likely something loud and unruly.) Nor does it stop there: the three rappers’ mania is grounded—and eventually foiled—by an effective supporting cast. Jessica Reynolds plays Georgia, a sharp-tongued, protestant love interest to Liam Óg. Josie Walker plays a sympathetic antagonist in Detective Ellis. And Michael Fassbender delivers gravitas as Naoise’s estranged father. At first, it’s odd seeing a Hollywood face next to these scrappy newcomers, but before long you believe Fassbender is really Arló Ó Cirealláin, runaway revolutionary.
Beyond the cast, the real star of this film is language.
Like the band’s lyrics, Kneecap is a mix of real and surreal, an Edgar Wright-sensibility where dream sequences and subtle plot development co-exist. Putting rap to good use, it delivers cheeky narrative turns. At one point, voiceover at a funeral introduces the sub-groups in attendance: “One third thinks he’s dead, one third thinks he’s alive, one third are undercover cops.” Then sudden gunshots ring out, a character we care about is threatened— absurdity snaps back to reality. And then there’s that unforgettable scene in a police interrogation room, where one character pretends not to speak English, the other translates with mixed motives—all in satisfyingly lilting brogue.
“May the lowest stone in the sea be on top of your head,” one character imparts to another. “Remind me, how do you take your tea again,” another asks slyly. “From a cup or straight in the face?”
The film’s visual flourishes are equally noteworthy. Onscreen handwriting, doodles, and VCR style fast-forwarding harken back to early MTV and 90’s music videos. Some choices feel truly inspired: a father-son conversation between a British and an Irish-style telephone booth; a Claymation sequence; self-aware vignettes.
The only drawback? This film relies so heavily on eccentricities—including bursts of violence and an overreliance on drugs as a punchline—that its final act feels predictably safe: incendiary performers meet Screenwriting 201. Perhaps the filmmakers decided that a clean-cut wrap-up would help them reach a wider audience—and perhaps they’re right.
Overall, Kneecap is quintessential “audience award-winner” material. (It won at Sundance and was a fan-favorite at Tribeca 2024.) Unlike Colm Bairéad’s The Quiet Girl (a state-funded drama intended to preserve the Irish dialect) and Kenneth Branagh’s Belfast (a historically-rooted depiction of The Troubles), Peppiatt’s dramedy shoots from the hip. Without sacrificing sincerity, he favors an anarchic tone similar to Trainspotting instead of heavy-handedness.
The result is supremely accessible. Filled with nods to Gaelic trauma and cultural idiosyncrasy, there’s enough for insiders to appreciate and newcomers to learn. No homework necessary: you might even learn a thing or two … and then find yourself googling colonial history after the credits roll.
As a subtitle tells us near the film’s end: “Every 40 days an indigenous language dies.” Who or what is killing them off? Root causes include colonialism + globalization + economic pressure + climate change. You can look that up if you really want.
Or you can sit back and enjoy it. The point of Kneecap—film and music—is to deliver a “fook the man” attitude that inspires education … all while tickling your funny bone, heartstrings and eardrums. For a film about fraught colonial history, Kneecap is a ton of fun, and it’s hard to argue with that.
Reviewed at the Tribeca Film Festival.
95 Min. Kneecap was released in theaters by Sony in Summer of 2024. Now streaming.