A motley crew of construction workers, led by a constantly squabbling father and son, unearth an ancient vampire when they demolish a stone cairn to make way for a new road on the outskirts of their sleepy, rural village. Written and directed by Chris Baugh, and co-written by Brendan Mullin, Boys from County Hell is as riotously funny as it is taut, grisly and atmospheric. Its use of an obscure Irish legend about a vampire provides it with a strange, unique feel, and Baugh and co. subvert typical tropes associated with the vampire, creating some fascinating lore of their own.
While the figure of the vampire is not as prominent in Irish myths and folklore as it is in the folktales of eastern Europe, there are still a few fascinating instances – such as the Dearg-due (which can be translated as ‘red thirst’ or ‘bloodthirsty’) of Waterford, and the Marbh Bhéo (the 'night-walking dead'). It’s also interesting to note that two of the earliest and most influential vampire novels were written by Irishmen. The influence of Dracula, by Bram Stoker, and Carmilla, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, continues to be felt to this day. Baugh and Mullin use an obscure Irish legend concerning vampirism as the basis of their story: the tale of Abhartach. Said to have been a sadistic, blood-drinking, Dark Arts-dabbling chieftain from the north coast of Ireland, Abhartach was eventually slain by another chieftain called Cathain. Days later, however, Abhartach returned from his grave demanding blood to sustain him. Cathain slew him again and re-buried him, but once more he returned. Local druids advised Cathain to stab Abhartach with a sword made of yew wood, bury him upside down, and place a cairn of great stones atop his grave. Cathain did this and Abhartach was never seen again.
By using this ancient legend, Baugh and Mullin bring a fresh perspective to their story of a vampire terrorising a tiny rural community, and their screenplay grounds events in a strong sense of realism, before they eventually let rip with the bloodshed and supernatural horror. Filmed on location in Northern Ireland, the film is peopled with colourful, wise-cracking characters, all fully realised individuals brought to rich life by strong performances. Events play out in a small, tightknit community where everyone knows everyone (and as anyone from a small town can attest, this is both a blessing and a curse). The chemistry between the leads fizzes, and the rapport they share feels genuine, lived. Best friends Eugene (Jack Rowan), William (Fra Fee) and Claire (Louisa Harland from Derry Girls) while away the time in their local pub, The Stoker, regaling tourists with tales of Abhartach and bemoaning the lack of life and opportunity in the village. Eugene's gruff father Francie (Nigel O'Neill) wants his son to be more responsible and the two are constantly griping without ever really saying what they mean – the death of Eugene’s mother years prior has set the two apart. O’Neill gets many of the best one-liners (“What’s this dirty aul’ head doin’ on my kitchen table?”) which lace the screenplay, and the banter between him and Rowan is a delight, as they begrudgingly grow more accepting of each other’s differences, struggling to face their past and tackle their shared, unresolved grief. Much of the humour throughout is typically Northern Irish - dark, cutting and direct – and the screenplay also touches upon Northern Irish social issues such as emigration, the cultural relationship with death, and the economic hardships and decline of rural communities. There’s as much dark humour as there is pathos - and the notion of wasted dreams - in the fate of William, who so desperately wanted to leave the village and begin a new life in Australia…
A recurring element of filmic Irish horror is the idea of the past encroaching upon the present, old ways and traditions returning to disrupt normalcy, and the erosion of the veil that separates the world of the living from the Otherworld, which is associated with the dead and the supernatural. The actions of the construction workers who demolish the ancient stone cairn - and unwittingly unearth a centuries old vampire - bring violence and terror to their village. The intrusion of the supernatural menace upon the community is effectively realised, and Baugh and Mullin introduce a few interesting elements of lore to the mix, such as Abhartach’s ability to draw blood from people just by being in close proximity to them (the opening scene is particularly unsettling). Images of blood streaming from the eyes, ears, noses and mouths of bewildered and terrified locals, steadily trickling and then flowing away from them are deeply unnerving. Sunlight and religious iconography have no effect on this monster, nor do stakes or beheading. The sight of the ancient vampire is a striking one to behold, his gaunt, emaciated form belies his strength and power. Much of the film’s humour is derived from the characters’ very real responses to such a creature invading their tiny, mundane community, where nothing ever really happens.
There’s a slight echo of The Babadook in the film’s conclusion, which seems to say that the past can never really be vanquished, but with certain efforts and insight, we can still manage to live with it, to contain it, and to accept the choices we’ve made along the way. Boys from County Hell is a wild, enjoyable ride. By turns hilarious, poignant, creepy and unnerving, the shifts in tone never feel jarring, if anything they help form the film’s unique, delirious essence.
If you’re interested in reading more about creepy Irish folklore, and the possible influence it had on Bram Stoker when he was writing Dracula, you can check out my essay The Bloodlines of Dracula, which appears in issue 4 of Exquisite Terror (yours for just £2.95 + P&P).