It has recently come to my attention that there are some people for whom “Irish”, the mention of, or indeed the claiming as heritage of, is unappealing. Something about being too rah-rah or that we’re the greatest or something.

Oops. Did I slip? Yep. I’m one of the few and the proud. (Okay. Not few.) But there is something about being (part) Irish that’s a total contradiction all the time. They’re SO BUTTONED UP but also such a passionate people. They’re loquacious and verbose and opinionated but completely focused on class and status. All this before 10 AM, when I watched the trailer for Miss Julie.  

Irish people – they’re a contradiction. At least, they were. Things are different and the land of repression and shamrocks isn’t quite this way anymore.

But it was. And these are the conflicting emotions behind this story that I really love.  Colin Farrell is bound to be as well behaved as suits a valet. He’s also compelled to be seethingly sexual because he’s Colin Farrell. Jessica Chastain is imperious because she’s in the upper class, but being in the upper class completely cuts her off from any life of vibrancy. This can only play out one way – sexy and tempting while being reminded constantly that this! Can! Never! Be!

So I’m in, and all, except for this: Irish stories also love tragedy. There are inevitably going to be terrible moments here – beyond just Samantha Morton being heartbroken. If there’s heartbreak and carnage and whatnot before we get to the crossing-classes-fumbling-under-garments-repressed-feelings-exploding-sex? If the sex is all muted and covered up and nobody gets to have any FUN before all the terribleness happens?

I mean, that would be a tragedy indeed.