If Ingmar Bergman were Irish and wrote a novel, I fancy it would be like this one: dark, moody, relentlessly depressing, but full of pathos and passion, exceptional descriptions of land and weather, and strangely life-affirming in spite (because?) of the backdrop of constant pain--emotional, spiritual, physical, and political. Lurking in the background of the story of the family and the claustrophobic daily grind of Irish village life is the fate of the IRA prisoners in Long Kesh who starved themselves to death, one by one, beginning with Bobby Sands, in grim and disciplined defiance of a government deserving, in their view, of nothing but their spite.