Say Nothing’s Ambitious Drama About an IRA Kidnapping Ends Too Soon

FX’s newest limited series, Say Nothing, is ambitious. A multigenerational murder mystery, a careening crime saga, a boldly political historical epic about the Troubles in Belfast, and a prime showcase for a deep roster of young Irish actors, Say Nothing can be eye-popping television. Economically adapted by Joshua Zetumer from Patrick Radden Keefe’s critically acclaimed nonfiction book of the same name, the show takes nine episodes to tell the true story of Jean McConville—who disappeared without a trace in 1972—and the Irish Republican Army members who (probably) killed her. Over the course of those episodes, the show accomplishes a tremendous amount, including both honoring the memory of the disappeared and producing one of the most thoughtfully ambivalent considerations of anti-colonial violence I’ve ever seen on American television. But it just doesn’t have enough time. Everything this show does well could be expanded, and everything it does poorly, it does in a rush. With nine episodes, Say Nothing is a gutting and grand limited series; with 30 episodes it could have been something really special.

Say Nothing tells three stories that occupy three separate timelines in the show. The first of these stories is simultaneously the central organizing event of the narrative and the thing that the show spends the least time on: the disappearance of Jean McConville (Judith Roddy). McConville, a single mother of 10 children, moves to a new apartment in Belfast, develops an antagonistic relationship with some of her neighbors, and is eventually kidnapped by the IRA with their help. But there is no ransom; nor is there a body to bury, so that her family can mourn. Her ultimate fate remains a mystery for decades, but, as a framing device for the show, it haunts everything else we see.

The primary story of Say Nothing, which is intercut throughout with snippets from McConville’s homelife, is that of the Irish Republican Army in Belfast under the—alleged—leadership of Gerry Adams (Josh Finan) in the late 1960s and early 1970s. This section, which takes up much of the show’s first five episodes, is absolutely gripping. Centered around the point of view of teenager Dolours Price (Lola Petticrew), these episodes have the flavor of a somewhat more melancholy Goodfellas. As we watch Dolours lose interest in nonviolent activism and become enchanted with the revolutionary energy of the IRA, we encounter this story of terrorism and resistance as essentially a coming-of-age story. As she becomes more involved, her risk increases, but so, too, does the glamour and approbation. A precocious, stylish, steely-eyed guerrilla, Dolours embodies the romance of Irish republicanism. Clandestine operations, Robin Hood–style bank robberies, passionate debates about justification and strategy, cat-and-mouse games with the British armed forces, the ever-present affirmation that these acts of youthful rebellion are also acts of deep familial responsibility—we share Dolours’s experience of all this righteousness and foolishness and ruthlessness.