Shamrocked
The entertainment industry embodies the idea of life imitating art imitating life; a perpetual motion machine turning out stuff of fanfics and biopics alike to mirror current public conciousness, which it in turn consumes and reuses ad infinite nauseaum. The only thing that can slow down this seemingly invincible juggernaut of media is when the lines blur between the real and the material - when people who purchase their personalities from these altars of media end up coming back defective. Do-it-yourself Jackasses trying to be the next Johnny Knoxville end up being some hospital's next organ donor, or in a sadly more memorable tragedy, copycat killer kids begin to bowl for Columbine, using their classmates as kingpins. Un-P.C. pop culture is Doom'd (pun entirely intended) to take the rap for pandering too well to the stupidity of the masses or offending various minority groups, and ends up backpedaling so furiously it sideswipes bigoted government officials in their attempt to do the same. To get in sync with the new view of their audience, fresh fare is marketed, while offensive material is branded with a scarlet label or even worse, their existance is utterly disavowed. In some cases, this is certainly a good thing - I, for one, will shed no tears over anthropomorphic spiritual-singing crows or mice in sombreros being sent the way of the dodo. Though every so often, a disservice is done to a product that is simply tossed away.

The Boondock Saints is one such case. Slated to debut several years back, Fox nixed a theatrical release of the film when the climate turned cold towards anyone percieved as gun-toting trenchcoat mafiosos. Luckily, this was done in favor of a VHS/DVD distribution, where it has found a cult following among the few so bold to take a chance on anything prefaced with the words 'straight to video'.

Brogue Squadron
Inside lie the elements of what could be a typical Hollywood action story. The McManus brothers, Connor (Sean Patrick Flanery) and Murphy (Norman Reedus) are typical Bostonians - hard-drinkin', bar-brawlin' Irish Catholics. Joined by their pal (the appropriately named David Della Rocco as 'Rocco'), a good-natured dope of package boy for a local Italian Don, the trio hit their favorite pub on St. Paddy's Day. Between ffits of Turret's Syndrome, the old bartender explains to the boys that the Russian Mafia is moving in and foreclosing on the bar. Forming an upright citizen's brigade, they greet the goombas with a particularly violent refusal of their eviction notice that leaves the group of wiseguys smarting. However, the Russkie enforcers are sore losers in both definitions of the phrase, so the following day Connor and Murphy awaken to a nasty surprise - the Russians have found their home, and even through the bruises and bandages it's easy to see they're not happy.

Irish Spring-Loaded
A few hours later, police are investigating the corpses of two black-and-blue Russians. Cue Agent Paul Smecker (Willem Dafoe). As the FBI's CSI prodigy, he puts two and two together with the help of some operatic mood music - the soviet stiffs were done in by a pair of brothers. Grunt policework - also known as dumb luck - brings Smecker face-to-face with the McManus boys to hear their heroic story of self-defense. What remains absent from their recount of the incident is the conspicuous amount of cash confiscated from the commie corpses as an anonymous donation to a new enterprise they have planned. Getting wind of a meeting of more Russian gangland heavies, the two use the money on a small arsenal to form their own Irish militia, and start taking down crime as the newsmedia-named Saints; a prayer before sending crooks to Charon and pennies on their eyes to pay the fare are all part of their schtick. As Smecker tracks their carnage from crime scene to crime scene, Rocco discovers their plans and wants in, turning informant on his mob for some sweet street vengeance. His old gang ain't goin' out like that, however, and enlists the help of 'IL Duce' (Irish stand-up comedian Billy Connolly in a shockingly stonefaced turn), the only known name of a notorious gunfighter the mob digs out of retirement, i.e. prison, for special occasions like birthdays, weddings, and getting murdered by badass Irishmen. The tension and body count rise as all these parties head on a collision course for one another...

I Kick Ass For The Lord
Now, I can already hear your mental doorways groaning open, thoughts of countless other Christian crime killers in sensible black so cliche they're hardly worth the bullet time to call them such. And while the combo of violence and comedy splashed over stoic slow-mo shootdodging battles may seem the exclusive domain of Woo and Q - Tarantino, that is - copycats, first-time writer/director Troy Duffy puts enough guns and grins to keep the audience gasping and laughing. Reedus and Flanery are more than up to shouldering the film as the brothers McManus. They spend their days plugging mugs while downing slugs of Rolling Rock and pontificating on the finer points of action movies, as the only thing heard more often than the clatter of shell casings in this movie is the profanity (the worst word that you can say is used over 200 times, several of which are in the movie's most hilarious bit of dialogue). Rocco is an admirably lunatic presence that pickpockets nearly every scene he's in. Also watch for porn legend Ron Jeremy, acting above the waist... for the most part - as a sleazy mob man. However, the real star here is Willem Dafoe. As he recreates the Saints' latest caper in his head for the rest of the investigators, he invades the flashbacks as they actually do the deed, his monologues soundtracking the chaos. His character of Smecker is also highlighted out by a hilariously closeted character trait, the less said, the better. The only true sour note is an even more offensive joke told between - though the surprisingly enjoyable thing is that Duffy makes all present in said scene accountable.

Et Nominae Patri, Et Fili, Et Spiritu Sancti
All these reasons plus a DVD loaded with bonus features (the deleted scenes are hit and miss, but the outtakes are gold) add up to this film being a worthy addition to the St. Patrick's tradition. Duffy is set to bless us with a reuniting of the cast in a sequel slated for this summer entitled Boondock 2: All Saint's Day. A heaven-sent bit of cinema, The Boondock Saints is teeming with soul and well worth the watch. Give thanks it escaped the purgatory of films trapped in limbo, and score yourself a copy. What else were you going to do anyways, get drunk and rent Darby O' Gill And The Little People?