For a while, they float around in this purgatorial state and Rayâs boredom (or perhaps just innate rebelliousness) makes for plenty of mischiefâhis punching of an âAmericanâ tourist (who turns out to be Canadian) in the name of avenging John Lennon, his goading of a (this time genuinely) American family into chasing him around the square after he tells them theyâre too overweight to climb the clock tower. And a lot of it is a lot more fun than the sort of mischief a hitman typically gets up to.
Then things get darker. When Harry tells Ken the real purpose of their tripâa final holiday followed by a swift execution for Ray, to be carried about by Kenâthe laughs fade to black, as Ken contends with whether or not heâs going to be able to kill a man whose extensive whining he has clearly hated tolerating, but who we suspect he might still consider, albeit reluctantly, a friend.
Brendan Gleesonâs gruff stoicism is perfect in this moment. When he opts for the personal and professional sacrifice that he knows letting Ray escape will constitute, thereâs no turmoil, no wrestle with any inner demon wrought on his face. Thereâs only a resolute acceptance of the consequences of what heâs decided was absolutely the right decision.
Ralph Fiennes is also brilliant, fanatically and fantastically losing the rag as Harry while Gleesonâs Ken calmly informs him of his decision to let Ray go. (Harryâs implicit acceptance of Kenâs assertion that heâs a cunt, by insisting that Ken âretract that bit about my cunt fucking kidsâ but saying nothing about Kenâs description of Harry himself, is a hall-of-fame unity of comic writing and performance).
The frantic finish this sets upâin which Harry wants to kill Ray, Ken wants to intercept Harry and warn Ray, and Ray, as always, just wants out of Brugesâis perfect. We get all of the shooting-shouting-chasing action, and wrapped inside it is a grossly violent sequence thatâll shock you with its emotion, while still managing to genuinely serve the action of the plot.
In its final moments, as the snow falls around him, Farrell’s Ray delivers the heaviest bit of dialogue of the whole film. And so is completed its masterful descentâfrom lightness and cheer at its outset to a rumination on the nature of death itself, by the end. Merry Christmas everyone! I’d take this over Hot Frosty any day.
This story originally appeared in British GQ.
