McDonagh's cinema is built on one uncomfortable axiom: the people who feel the least guilty are usually the most culpable. Every feature drops characters into a place that looks ordinary. Medieval Belgium. Small-town Missouri. An island off Ireland in 1923. What looks like a closed, manageable world turns out to have no exit.
Four features in nearly two decades. Each one written and directed by a playwright who arrived in film already knowing how endings work. The list runs chronologically. The violence, when it comes, is rarely the point.
