Itinerary Irish (2010)

Directed by: Ken Loach | 109 minutes | drama | Actors: Mark Womack, Andrea Lowe, John Bishop, Trevor Williams, Stephen Lord, Gary Cargill, Talib Hamafraj, Najwa Nimri, Tony Schumacher

Liverpool, 2007. In a darkened church, Fergus (Mark Womack) pries open the coffin in which Frankie lies in state. Seeing is realizing. They were bosom friends, since their boyhood. Frankie (John Bishop) has come to his end in Iraq, on ‘Route Irish’, the road that connects Baghdad International Airport to the secured Green Zone in the center of the city. It is, Frankie’s bosses tell his family, ‘the most dangerous road in the world’. Frankie was, in short, at the wrong time, in the wrong place. But Fergus doesn’t just accept that as an explanation for Frankie’s death. Partly through guilt, he’d persuaded Frankie to accompany him to Iraq. Employed by a paramilitary company, they could earn ten thousand pounds a month as heavily armed ‘security guards’. For such companies, war was (and is) no more than a business model.

Soon after the start ‘Route Irish’ turns out to be a quasi-detective in which puzzle pieces brought in via laptops, films and mobile phones point a clearly structured way to the end. A predictable ending, driven by Fergus’s vengeance. And because of frustration at the cold nature of a reality dominated by the inhuman megalomania of CEOs, who think they can cover every mud puddle in their way with a carpet of banknotes. It is mainly the frustration of the makers of the film, especially director Ken Loach and screenwriter Paul Laverty. ‘Route Irish’ shows that their frustration – however justified – is not a very good counselor. Because here she places herself between the film and the viewer, shaking her head and stamping her feet. Several times we are treated to shocking images taken immediately after attacks: panicking crowds, crying mothers, fathers carrying a child out of the rubble. What else can we feel about that, after all the times we saw them on the news? That same frustration turns Fergus into a raging puppet, an avenging angel whose black conscience suppresses all zest for life. (With the blood money he earned in Iraq, he bought a sleek apartment overlooking the Mersey River, but his bed is an army green stretcher, his nightstand an army briefcase.)

Mark Womack portrays former commando Fergus as a nondescript man with unremarkable testosterone levels. A man looking for his part in this world, just like everyone else. With one gulp too many, he becomes an aggressive blower. But that won’t come as a surprise in Liverpool either. In search of the truth behind Frankie’s death, he becomes a determined bastard. In his contact with Frank’s girlfriend Rachel (Andrea Lowe), Fergus tosses between bloated masochism (“Hit me!”, “Punch me!”) and unapproachable grief (two hands separated by glass…). I’d rather have the pub scene where Fergus tells Rachel how torture isn’t torture as long as no blood is spilled. He asks if she wants another beer. ‘Route Irish’ thrives anyway better in pubs and back kitchens, where arguing mates search for the right words, than behind a computer, where Iraqi musician Harim (Talib Rasool) Fergus, and the viewer, give a hard lesson because the script asks for it. .

The thriller elements of ‘Route Irish’ are used too schematically to provide much suspense. Every float that Fergus throws has the expected effect. As an exploration of reality, in response to injustice and the ruthless behavior of the people in charge, the film is too much a pointing finger that penetrates the viewer’s personal space. There may still be so much truth behind this – the resistance remains. In the end, what sticks best is Fergus’ desire to undo what a man like him cannot undo.