From left: Sinead Keenan, Caoilfhionn Dunne, and Roisin Gallagher in How to Get to Heaven From Belfast Credit - Christopher Barr—Netflix
When a storyteller has made their magnum opus—a work that brilliantly synthesizes their experience and voice and most profound insights, a tale only they could tell—what are they supposed to do next? Many of the past decade's smartest TV creators have, in response to this impossible problem, turned to a life of crime.Donald Gloverfollowed up the category-explodingAtlantawith serial-killer standom satireSwarmand a tragicomic take onMr. & Mrs. Smith, about married assassins. After rendering a contemporary Native American community in specific, surreal, often hilarious detail inReservation Dogs, Sterlin Harjo turned to noir withThe Lowdown.Phoebe Waller-Bridgeplumbed the darkly comic depths of sex-positive feminism in the first season ofFleabag, only returning to the project after creating the deliriously fun cat-and-mouse spy thrillerKilling Eve.
Like those auteurs, Lisa McGee broke through with a sui generis comedy that mined aspects of her own experience to find authentic humor in a harrowing situation.Derry Girls, which followed teens in McGee's native Derry in the years preceding 1998's Good Friday Agreement, was a raucous, joke-dense show that juxtaposed mundane adolescent rites of passage with the daily horrors of life in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. Now McGee, too, is back with a crime drama—one bound to earn comparisons to Sharon Horgan's post-Catastrophemurder romp,Bad Sisters. Combining the latter show's core of complicated relationships between women (and its fondness for outfitting those women in enviable knitwear) with the sidesplittingly verbose, extremely Irish sensibility ofDerry Girls, her new Netflix seriesHow to Get to Heaven From Belfastlands as both an example of the pivot to crime drama and a commentary on it. The plot gets a bit woolly towards the end, the mix of tones doesn't always work, and I sometimes wished I could watch its central girlfriends do anythingbesidesplay amateur detective. Still, even if you're over whodunits, McGee's cleverly meta spin on an overdone genre and her genius for comedy, dialogue, and character development make for an altogether good craic.
The premise is enough of a murder-show Mad Lib to suggest, correctly, that a creator of this caliber won't be taking it at face value. Three childhood friends are summoned to the wake of the estranged fourth member of their high school clique, with whom they shared an awful secret. In a series of flashbacks, we're gradually given context for the haunting image of four girls watching fire consume a cabin. Now pushing 40 and navigating various midlife crises, the women are ensnared in a tangle of new and old mysteries. Relevant clichés include:You can't go home again.Hurt people hurt people.The past is never dead. It's not even past.
Christopher Barr—Netflix" style="max-width:100%; height:auto; border-radius:6px; margin:10px 0;" loading="lazy" /> This otherwise unpromising setup is made not just bearable, but a genuine pleasure by the central trio. Self-dramatizing Robyn (Sinéad Keenan fromBeing Human) has grown up to be a harried mum of three rambunctious boys, wasting her spark in a meh marriage. Dara (IndustryandA Thousand Blowsstandout Caoilfhionn Dunne) is a semi-closeted lesbian whose life has been circumscribed by her Catholic faith and familial caretaking duties; she's a bit awkward, and you get the sense that loneliness has made her this way. To the extent thatBelfasthas a single protagonist, it's Saoirse (Roisin Gallagher, recently seen inLazarusandThe Dry), the writer of—meta conceit incoming—a TV crime drama calledMurder Code. Feuding with its star and squabbling through an engagement to a coworker, she's having doubts about the path she's chosen. "What even is it?" she demands, referring itMurder Code. "It's just, 'Look, someone's got themselves murdered again.' Is that what I do?" "You entertain a lot of people," her flack protests. Saoirse: "So do f-ckin' clowns."
If you hadn't already suspected that McGee had more in mind thansomeone's got themselves murdered again, here's your giant, flashing neon sign. Whether or not her profession makes Saoirse the creator's surrogate, she's certainly the character whose perspective gives the show its thematic framing. Funny, foulmouthed, Irish-slang-laden banter is McGee's signature; who else would make space in a tense scene for someone to opine that Belle from Disney'sBeauty and the Beast"is a dick. The way she slags off her town like she's the only person who's ever read a book"? When they're being serious, though, Robyn, Dara, and even Saoirse tend to have critical things to say about the habit writers like Saoirse have of manipulating not just the worlds they dream up, but also real people they treat as posable characters.Belfastis especially alert to how far from reality the supposedly true stories we tell ourselves and each other can be.
Christopher Barr—Netflix" style="max-width:100%; height:auto; border-radius:6px; margin:10px 0;" loading="lazy" /> Accordingly, a series of mostly unpredictable twists reveals, bit by bit, that everything these women think they know about that fiery night 20 years ago—that is, everything they think they know about the ordeal that still defines each one in her own mind—is wrong. In that sense, every choice they've made as adults has been premised on a lie. It's a fascinating head trip to send the characters on, at the same time as they're motoring around the emerald countryside and beyond, scrambling to figure out what actually happened to their friend and, of course, stop their potentially ruinous secret from getting out.
I would've been content to watch this quieter inquiry into what it means to base your identity on bad information develop amid the investigation and the unparalleled repartee ("DNA doesn't wash off. It's like Catholicism"). But as the season goes on, and especially in its second half, the mystery gets too big. The cast of characters expands in directions that verge on fantasy—which does, at least, enable a virtuosically unhinged performance fromDerry Girlsstar Saoirse-Monica Jackson, albeit in a role that could have been guest-written by Emerald Fennell. And the monolithic theme that istraumathreatens to overshadow McGee's unique and specific exploration of how we cobble ourselves together out of simplistic, often spurious, narratives.
Belfastis doing too many things, metamorphosing too many times, to succeed at everything it tries. But it works more often than it doesn't, because it's constructed around the same two pillars that madeDerry Girlsso solid: lovable, complicated characters and gallows humor that is both skillfully written and flawlessly delivered by an ideal cast. That doesn't necessarily mean I'm convinced that McGee is just as well suited to crime drama (or meta crime drama) as she was to comedy. It would be a shame if, as popular as it is, crime became the only genre in this austere, murder-mad era of streaming that could support original stories from accomplished creators.Belfastis an enjoyable enough place to visit, butDerrystill feels like home.
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