Don't let the truth get in the way of a good story. Kneecap, the music-fueled biopic named for the Irish hip-hop trio on which it centers, spins a tale that is at times so outrageous you might suspect poetic liberties have been taken. But the film itself embraces the blurring of fact and feeling to deliver a propulsive and political romp that rejects the austere approach of so many indulgent Oscar-chasing biopics. And thank God and all the saints for that!
Too often, larger-than-life rock stars or pop divas or legendary musicians are reduced by a color-by-numbers approach that fails to capture exactly why they were so enthralling to begin with. (For recent examples, see Elvis, Back to Black, and One Love — or don't.) However, Kneecap embraces the raw and reckless energy of Naoise Ó Cairealláin, Liam Óg Ó Hannaidh, and JJ Ó Dochartaigh, who perform under the stage names Móglaí Bap, Mo Chara, and DJ Próvaí. So, early on, a sprawling club scene with flashing lights and hard drug-taking spills into a dark, forbidding forest — not nearby, but connected — as the police (or "peelers," as the boys call them) chase them down.
By collapsing the set of a nightclub into a forest that seems plucked out of nightmarish fantasy, director/writer Richard Peppiatt swiftly establishes that Kneecap won't play by the rules. Hand-drawn graphics burst onto the screen, emphasizing motions and odd analogies. Claymation will be employed to illustrate the mind-bending effects of an ill-timed ketamine trip. And alongside the band, who play themselves in the film, two-time Academy Award nominee Michael Fassbender strides onscreen to bring a bit of surreal grit.
Combined with a soundtrack flushed with Kneecap's high-octane hip-hop, the result is a rush to the head that's hard to shake. But why would you want to?
The premise of Kneecap might sound a bit dry if you're new to the group's music. A few years back, a debate brewed over the proposed Irish Language Act, which would formally recognize the native tongue alongside English. While advocates and academics rallied for the dying language, an unlikely resurgence came to it through fast-growing interest in a band from Belfast, who rap in Irish about drugs, sex, and rebelling against British authority — including the police.
Smartly, Kneecap interweaves this larger political story into the playful personal stories of its three members. Liam Óg serves as the cheeky narrator, providing voiceover to all parts, including his Romeo-and-Juliet romance with a British party girl (Jessica Reynolds), who likes a kinky night in. However, the story begins with Naoise's baptism, which was raided by a police force suspicious of his father, a Catholic radical Republican named Arló (Fassbender), who had a habit of planting bombs in the name of rebellion. Raised under the shadow of his dad's politics, Naoise is stuck between a rock and a hard place, pressured by Arló's admirers to follow in his dad's footsteps and the snarl of a police force that expects him to. As the Irish language was previously banned by the imperialist English authorities, Naoise's embrace of it does follow in his father's edict that "Every word of Irish spoken is a bullet fired for Irish freedom" — though perhaps not as Arló intended.
While these "Ceasefire babies" are painted as altar boys corrupted by the bad streets of West Belfast — and not troubled about that or The Troubles — JJ is introduced as a middle-aged music teacher on the brink of dying of boredom. A chance encounter over a police interrogation table changes everything, when JJ becomes inspired by Liam's in-your-face lyrics and proudly Fenian posturing. Just like that, a band is born. But their rise will be rife with violence, huge mistakes, and lots of drugged-up shenanigans. And most of that is an absolute blast.
Kneecap throws up a brazen middle finger to another "North of Ireland" set biopic, Kenneth Branagh's Belfast. Where the world-renowned actor/director made a prestige pic out of his childhood, Mo Chara, Móglaí Bap, and DJ Próvaí reject the opportunity to gloss up their images. Instead, they gamely present themselves as fun-loving fuckups, never shying away the havoc that lies in the wake of their road to stardom.
They welcome us to witness them stumbling on stage, too high to function after a dime bag mix-up. They invite us to laugh at sexual proclivities that thrust into political orgasms. They show their asses, literally and metaphorically, which proves crudely inspiring. These three didn't set out to change their nation. They set out to sing (or rap) a song for themselves, and in doing so, connected to an undercurrent of cultural pride and resilience that connected them to others.
But what first unites us to them is their rough-hewn charisma. Playing themselves on-screen could have spelled disaster, as plenty of musicians have fumbled at acting. But they excel, managing to play scenes of clownish absurdity and more tender moments with stirring screen presence. DJ Próvaí proves the strongest — to the point where I wondered if his signature onstage attire of an Irish flag balaclava allowed them to cast an established actor for the role. But the whole crew thrives on-screen as they do onstage, exploding in a frenzy of humor, music, and attitude that is wicked fun.
In the end, Peppiatt has done a superb job of not only shaking off the oh-so-serious shackles that are musician biopic conventions, but also enthusiastically embracing the hip-hop energy of his subjects, allowing them to be both the stars and fuel of their story, propelling them to a climax that deserves its rowdy encore across the credits.
Simply put, Kneecap is sensational, silly, sharp, and ultimately sublime.
