The appeal of Kneecap arrives in two bombastic waves. First, that the eponymous hip-hop group successfully achieves revolutionary and musical notoriety by the film’s scrappy conclusion; and second, that the biopic’s fictionalized hilarity — much like the group at its center that thwarts authority and expectations — subverts the nonfiction-inspired form’s oppressive demands and rules.

That’s because Kneecap—the Irish-language rap group whose music aims to revive the country’s native language—is, literally, Kneecap. Members Mo Chara (Liam Óg Ó Hannaidh), Móglaí Bap (Naoise Ó Cairealláin), and D.J. Próvaí (JJ Ó Dochartaigh) play themselves in this brash declaration of Irish identity written and directed by Rich Peppiatt. The trio creates and performs provocative hip-hop—tonally somewhere among trap, drill, and house music— with anticolonial and republican themes, or that they show support for a united Ireland and protest British influence in their country. The Belfast group, often criticized by politicians for their bold work, is beloved in the film and in reality by folks beyond the national border that divides the island. In this visual recreation of their rise to fame,  the group’s actions intertwine the political and the personal, made immediate and entertaining by their physical embodiment of themselves, as themselves. 

Part of the appeal of biopics (at least to me, who disdains the celebrity memoir and abhors exalted interpretations of individuals of great renown) derives from finding the truth. Where, in a film, are inklings of the real person or people, even if the entire thing isn’t real? Kneecap provides a straightforward answer in a prologue video of the group members asking viewers to enjoy the movie and documentary-like footage in the end credits. These self-aware bookends buoy us to the trio’s 2017 origins and remind us of their present existence. 

But the group’s fictional renderings of their real selves create a fascinating meta-truth that precludes any additional searching—that this need for “reality,” which biopics often demand, concludes with the trio’s natural on-screen camaraderie and the acerbic, rebellious music they create. Whether their ostentatious behavior or the film’s dramatic narrative arc matches chronological truth matters less than this assertive, unruly, and necessary call for attention in their native language. (Conveniently, though not advertised within the film, the group released their album Fine Art on June 14, 2024, and several high-energy songs from the record appear in Kneecap.)

In attitude and execution, then, the film makes a worthy representation of Ireland in this year’s Best International Feature Film competition at the Academy Awards. In its announcement on August 2, 2024, that Kneecap would represent the country, the Irish Film & Television Academy (IFTA) said the group members “reimagine what rap can be as a creative and cultural force, rooted in community”—an accurate if watered-down summation of this R-rated middle-finger of a movie rife with drugs, sex, and explicit hip-hop. Even if Kneecap’s stance toward institutions suggests awards from those in powerful positions are best left spurned or rioted against, the IFTA’s bolstering of the film fulfills an imperative truth voiced, in Irish, in Kneecap: “A country without a language is only half a nation.”

The Troubles hover over the film, most compellingly through Móglaí Bap’s character. In the film, his father, Arlo (an excellent Michael Fassbender), was a member of the Irish Republican Army who might have faked his death to avoid arrest. So too does the struggle to make politicians take Irish seriously guide D.J. Próvaí’s relationship with his girlfriend, Caitlin (Fionnuala Flaherty), an advocate for legislation that would make Irish a national language in Northern Ireland. This tension—whether Kneecap’s music is a fitting or fraught addition to that cause, and the lingering pain associated with the 30-year conflict that Mo Chara and Móglaí Bap are too young to remember—makes for a compelling throughline to contrast the brazen and occasionally repetitive scenes when the group members get high and disorderly. 

Particularly in those scenes the film veers into odd and messy territory often through its perspective shots: up someone’s hairy nose, from the bottom of a garbage can, and through the unmoving mask of an Irish flag balaclava, which D.J. Próvaí wears to conceal his daytime identity as a schoolteacher. (That part is true.) 

But when handled more skillfully, the abstract additions are also where Kneecap shines. Animated lyrics and sketches appear on the screen during sequences where the group raps in D.J. Próvaí’s garage. In another, the trio, high once more on illegal drugs, become stunned claymation iterations of themselves when a radio producer asks for a sample of their work. It’s a reminder that the film doesn’t take the celebrity of its subjects, nor the disapproval of its opponents, too seriously. And when left to their most riotous devices, it’s a tactic that allows the rappers’ and the film’s impactful message to emerge victorious.

Review Courtesy of Arleigh Rodgers

Feature Image Credit to Mother Tongues Films via IMDb