A debauched and hilariously filthy "rags to Primark" tale. On the surface a simple music biography (Kneecap play themselves in this), it instead becomes a springboard for discussing colonialism, the Irish language, and how the simple act of speaking it can be rebellion unto itself, particularly in a a conservative and (shall we say...) "wrought" environment. It goes into gatekeeping of revolution and rebelliousness, and has a lot to say about it all. It's a snarling, uproarious, punky form of cinema and art; with neat flourishes like the use of subtitles and squiggly, cartoony graphics. It's cloaked in irreverence, and exceedingly, gut-bustingly funny debauchery of drug trips and parties. The soundtrack is excellent (as one would hope) and I have heard it best described as "the soundtrack to getting blackout drunk".
Its cloak of lunacy and debauchery is a veneer for passionate, ardent defence of language and rebellion. The jokes come thick and fast, but it never neglects character, and is both uproarious and righteous in equal measure. You'll be cackling like a maniac at the antics of getting ketamine confused with cocaine, and then pondering why speakers of an endangered language are told to be perfect "presentable" spokesman, as if they NEED to be, when for years an entire culture has been hammered down and told not to speak their language with pride. You'll have a funny, perverted, filthy romance as a girl begs her lover to talk dirty by saying proud Catholic slogans and retorting with Protestant filth (an excellent Jessica Reynolds); and then one of the gang will be hungover and high as a kite from the night before, trying to go to his job. It's like if "Deadpool" was witty and had anything to say.
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