Hangmen or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Martin McDonagh

One of the best ways to become the black sheep in a room full of theatremakers is being the one to say “I don’t like Martin McDonagh.”

Having spent the last few years as said black sheep, some elaboration is in order. I have never doubted McDonagh’s talent as a writer for a second; he has a masterful command of language and a firm understanding of the black comedy genre, one of the most elusive and difficult genres there is. It is what he does with his talent which has always eluded me. The violent nature of McDonagh’s work is not a problem. The opposite, in fact — violence is one of the most powerful and important tools in a writer’s arsenal. But if not used thoughtfully, it can destroy the integrity of a piece. Shock value isn’t enough to make a story worth telling, and it certainly isn’t enough to grant a story any credibility.

But this opinion scarcely seems to matter anymore now that I’ve seen Hangmen, a play so good it feels, appropriately, criminal.

I will refrain from summarizing Hangmen in great detail, because this play demands to be either read or seen, but in simplest terms, the play is about the abolition of public execution in Britain and the men who were behind it. The biggest name in the cast is Alfie Allen, aka Theon Greyjoy, aka absolutely electric in the role of Mooney. He ricochets between emotions with astounding speed and dexterity, and demonstrates the same level of control over his performance as McDonagh does over his writing. His turn as Mooney doesn’t just warrant a place for him on Broadway, it demands it. (Side note: someone needs to cast Allen as Ian in a production of Sarah Kane’s Blasted. If nobody does it, I will.)

The rest of the cast is just as brilliant. Harry, one of two titular hangmen, is a character who starts as seeming like just a walking trope, but David Threlfall injects him with an unexpected and potent level of humanity. Gaby French adorably accomplishes the nigh impossible task of believably portraying a teenager, John Hodgkinson is only on stage for a few minutes and still manages to make you laugh more than anyone. Anna Fleischle’s scenic design must also be acknowledged, because it is nothing short of a wonder. The set is not just a set, it’s a character, and it gives a performance just as stunning as the cast contained within it.

So. We’ve established that there is not a weak link to be found in this production. But what about the material? What is it about this play which makes it so excellent that it puts the entire McDonagh canon into a new perspective?

One word: intention.

As previously mentioned, McDonagh’s plays had previously felt like fantastically written button-pushers with little to say about their own content. All that provocative material never came to any kind of fruition — until now. The characters in Hangmen, much like many government officials, don’t fully digest the gravity of killing someone as punishment. To them, being an executioner is something to compete over, something to gloat about, something that a friend will clap you on the back for. It’s a badge of honor that gives its wearer a false sense of justice and a diluted understanding of the value of life.

Until it isn’t.

This is a play that has something to say; a play which says so much that I find myself looking back on McDonagh and thinking, “maybe I should give him another shot. Maybe he’s been this good the whole time.” One of the most important things a critic can experience is being wrong: having your worldview challenged in the way you want, being confronted with art that forces you out of your own head, having to become a critic of your own critique. What an honor it was to sit in the Golden Theatre on June 11 at 8 pm and be proven wrong.