SMALL THINGS LIKE THESE - Mark Reviews Movies

Small Things Like These, Lionsgate

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Review by Mark Dujsik | November 7, 2024

As played by Cillian Murphy, Bill Furlong is a man weary to his bones and to his soul. At the start of Small Things Like These, his physical exhaustion is apparent. Here's a man, living and working in an Irish town in the 1980s, who spends his days loading and unloading bags of coal to various homes, businesses, and institutions. By the time his workday is finished, Bill is covered in coal dust, which takes a long session of scrubbing in the bathroom sink to clean, and spends the rest of the evening sitting—at the dinner table with his family and in front of the television. He's so worn out before going to sleep that undressing for the night happens as Bill sits on the bed.

He does all of this because it's what he must do. Bill has a wife named Eileen (Eileen Walsh), five daughters of assorted ages, a roof to keep over all of their heads, and, at this time of year, Christmas presents to buy for the entire family. This is a good and decent man, not only because he's a financial provider for his family and kind to those in need, but also because he understands the job is a means to an end. That end is having a family, whom Bill loves and who love him.

There is, though, the matter of Bill's weariness of the soul, which director Tim Mielants' film reveals by way of flashbacks to the man's childhood and the silent conflict of morality that emerges as Bill goes about his ordinary, day-to-day life in this specific time and place. Murphy's performance here is extraordinary in how much the actor communicates with so little. The physical exhaustion of the daily grind is one thing, because we see the repeated toil of lugging heavy bags of coal over his shoulders result in those shoulders slouching whenever the work is finished.

As this deliberate and quietly devastating story progresses, though, there are much heavier loads weighing on Bill's mind. On Murphy's face and in his eyes, we can see the load of those things—a childhood of feeling different, unnoticed, and as if he doesn't have a family, as well as the guilt and uncertainty that come with the actual plot—come close to crushing this man to his very being. One of the things we notice here is how Murphy's face somehow can simultaneously and alternately appear young, when Bill is spending time with his family, and older, when the man is overcome by those feelings of loneliness and that pressure of trying to figure out what the right thing is—and if it's possible for him to do it without ruining everything he has worked so hard to build.

Indeed, much of the power of this film, adapted from a Claire Keegan novel by screenwriter Enda Walsh, doesn't necessarily come from what happens, within the context of a small town in a country and at a time in which the Catholic Church and its various institutions hold a lot of sway over people's lives, attitudes, and actions. That story is important, obviously, because it's a reminder of real history, as well as the broader ideas of how those with the authority of religion can wrap ill deeds and hide abuse under a cloak of the established perception of godliness and goodness.

Instead, the impact of this story is in watching an ordinary person confront that reality and find his perception, his sense of morality, and, yes, the future of this life he has built for himself challenged. As soon as he suspects the truth of what's happening in the convent in town, Bill has to choose between doing the right thing, potentially sacrificing his reputation and his business and his family's future, or just doing what everyone else in town has done for decades—ignore it, try to forget it, and hope for the best.

The turning point arrives early here, as Bill goes about his job and arrives at the convent with a regular delivery of coal. While unloading the haul into a storage shed, he witnesses a teenage girl being forced inside the convent by her mother. The girl begs, pleads, and wails to be returned home, but a nun hurries her inside (Mielants frames Bill as if he's in his own prison in that moment).

Those aware of the history of the Catholic Church in Ireland will know the insinuation of this scene. Those who don't, however, will understand the foundation and significance of it, simply by observing Bill's pained, ashamed, and sheepish reaction to witnessing it. The nunnery is, as we soon learn, one of the Magdalene Laundries, where women and girls, mostly unmarried and pregnant, were confined and coerced into manual labor. Any baby born in one of these places was forcibly taken from the mother for adoption or to be sent to another institution.

The rest of the story, then, becomes a private, internal debate for Bill, who knows something of the situation of the girls imprisoned in the convent. His own mother (played by Agnes O'Casey in flashbacks) was young and unmarried, but she had the benefit of a superficially kindhearted employer (played by Michelle Fairley) who gave the two a place to live. Bill's feelings about that situation are complicated, especially since people—including his own wife, almost reflexively—see his upbringing as one of fortunate privilege.

The implication is that he should be grateful for his situation, but how can Bill when he spent that childhood being casually disregarded (A simple but ignored Christmas wish gets at that), without any family except for his mother, and in the shadow of a tragedy that does leave him ultimately alone? Such character details are rich and complex on their own, especially as conveyed by Murphy. They also define the actual conflict of the story, once Bill comes face to face with Sarah (Zara Devlin), the pregnant teen abandoned at the convent by her parents, and Sr. Mary (Emily Watson), the calm and determined abbess who can threaten and bribe with disarming pleasantness.

The weight of Small Things Like These is palpable as a matter of character, morality, and history. It's a simple story, but as told by the filmmakers, it conveys layers of doubt, remorse, and mental strife.

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