54933: Kneecap

If I had a nickel for every time I told my kids to "use your words," I'd have enough money to send them to college. Language is part of the secret sauce that makes us humans. It facilitates communication, understanding, commerce, the whole thing. But growing up with English as my first language, I've got a blindspot when it comes to the role language plays in creating a cultural identity and binding people together. For so much of the world, English is just the default, and it's not tied into a culture. I mean, I don't consider myself English. When I visited the UK, it felt like a foreign culture. Because it is. But words matter, and language matters. If it didn't, then colonizers throughout history wouldn't work so hard to stamp out native languages wherever they went. Kneecap reminds us that it's still happening.

Kneecap is that rare kind of biopic that actually stars its real-life subjects, a trio of Irish-language rappers from West Belfast who came together in 2017. The film tracks their unlikely path from obscurity to stardom and all the obstacles they overcame. At its heart, Kneecap is a story of liberation and resistance, with the Irish language as the tool of their struggle. It is also a reminder that liberation can be liberating, and joyful.

Kneecap, the band, is composed of Mo Chara, Móglaí Bap, and DJ Próvaí, and together they build catchy hip-hop tunes around lyrics written in Gaeilge, and (surprise) heavily critical of the British presence in Northern Ireland. They also take (and sell) copious amounts of illicit drugs. The combination of their strong Gaeilge identity, anti-British stance, and involvement with drugs means they attract the unwanted attention of the Royal Military Police and a radical faction of the Republican Army. And hilarity ensues. Well, hilarity and some tears, obviously.

The boys in the band turn in believable performances as themselves, and their chemistry is a charming, life-affirming example of less-toxic masculinity. Their performances are supported by more seasoned players, but they hold their own just fine. The film takes some big swings, in terms of visual style, which matches and complements the band's evolving sound. Lyrics appear onscreen, popping with the same verve as the songs, and the band's chemical misadventures get their own outlandish treatments. It all combines to create an Irish resistance film that doesn't feel dour and self-important. This rebellion never feels doomed. The band are not martyrs, and positive change doesn't just seem possible—it is inevitable.