Celtic Utopia

World-premiered at Locarno’s Semaine de la Critique, Dennis Harvey and Lars Lovén’s Celtic Utopia opens as a classroom from decades past flickers across the screen: the grainy hues and faded timbres immediately evoke the Ireland of the 1970s. Over these images, a female voice intones that folk music «incarnates the contradictions of Ireland: rebellion, conservative Catholicism, and nostalgia for a future unrealised». This opening is more than atmospheric – it signals the dual lens through which the film views the country: as a nation negotiating its postcolonial identity, and as a living musical ecosystem where tradition and innovation intertwine.

Celtic Utopia is a musical-political documentary that avoids the dryness sometimes associated with historical surveys. It unfolds as a freewheeling, intergenerational fresco, blending archival footage, contemporary performances, and controlled interviews into a collage that is as vibrant as it is informative. The directors traverse both the North and South of Ireland, engaging with artists of all ages and backgrounds. Music – spanning folk, pop, country, rap, and punk – serves as both lens and narrative agent, tracing the contours of a society still wrestling with its past.

At its core, the film chronicles the Emerald Isle’s folk music renaissance. Young artists rediscover ancient traditions and reinterpret them for the present, often in surprising ways. Their musical interludes do more than entertain; they provide a vehicle for collective memory and catharsis. The film’s archival sequences tie these contemporary practices to Ireland’s turbulent past, creating a rich portrait of a nation coming to terms with its first century of partial independence.

Despite its ambitious scope, Celtic Utopia never becomes pretentious or overwrought. The pacing is smooth, the transitions between past and present seamless, and the film’s broad yet nuanced approach allows viewers to touch upon many issues shaping modern Irish society. These include the preservation of the Irish language and its heritage, The Troubles and their aftermath, the cultural and political debate surrounding abortion (successfully approved via referendum in 2018), and the tension between rural and urban life – a tension heightened by the enduring cultural influence of rural Ireland. Notably, the abortion debate is presented with both sensitivity and rigour, incorporating archival footage of street protests and the harrowing account of a woman forced to travel abroad – presumably to the UK – to obtain a legal abortion.

Celtic Utopia pays meticulous attention to its subjects, featuring a diverse array of musicians. Duo Negro Impacto offers insight into the identity of Black Irish people; Limerick’s quirky band Post Punk Podge injects a playful yet incisive edge; while urban poet Jinx Lennon channels the lived realities of working-class life in Dundalk. Singer and musician Branwen Kavanagh articulates the core dilemma of Irish identity with striking clarity: «Winners write history, losers write the songs. Do we claim our identity in this sorrow, in having this postcolonial attitude?» Through these encounters, the documentary shows how music becomes a medium for grappling with both personal and collective history.

Commendably, the film does not shy away from darker themes. Corruption, political machinations, and the lingering trauma of sectarianism are explored, sometimes through jarring archival imagery. A particularly arresting sequence shows a Northern Irish school bus filled with children shouting “UDA all the way” and “Fuck IRA”, followed by glimpses of armed soldiers watching a boy traverse a desolate street. These moments are stark yet un-sensationalised, emphasising the long-lasting impact of conflict on everyday life.

At times, the film delves into highly specific moments of Irish history – such as the Kerry Babies case or the Betelgeuse incident – highlighted in archival footage, including a 1980s Late Late Show segment where former Fianna Fáil politician Pádraig Flynn is questioned by a young working-class Dublin audience member. For viewers unfamiliar with these events, the references can be challenging to grasp, and brief contextualisation might have eased comprehension for international audiences. However, these sequences reinforce the directors’ commitment to authenticity and the role of media and public discourse in shaping collective memory.

The concept of “Celtic utopia” emerges subtly but persistently throughout the film. It is less a definitive political statement than a poetic aspiration: the possibility of peace, reconciliation, and creative flourishing in a society still marked by its historical contradictions. Lovén’s Swedish perspective lends the documentary an external clarity, allowing Ireland’s struggles and triumphs to resonate universally. Even as the film closes on the warm, nocturnal harmonies of a final song, there is an implicit acknowledgment that societal tensions and old ideals may resurface, compelling new generations to confront them once again.

In style, the documentary benefits from a keen editorial eye. Editor Dominika Daubenbüchel’s interplay between archival footage and contemporary music feels organic rather than formulaic, with interview segments punctuating performances in ways that are intimate and revealing. The directors avoid imposing a rigid thesis, allowing the country itself – its landscapes and voices – to speak through music and testimony. In doing so, Celtic Utopia strikes a rare balance: it is simultaneously a historical document, a musical journey, and a reflection on identity, belonging, and the ongoing negotiations between memory and modernity.