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The triple funeral for the Gibraltar Three in Belfast in 1988.
The triple funeral for the Gibraltar Three in Belfast in 1988. Photograph: Unknown/BBC/Chris Steele-Perkins
The triple funeral for the Gibraltar Three in Belfast in 1988. Photograph: Unknown/BBC/Chris Steele-Perkins

The Funeral Murders review – masterful handling of a combustible narrative

This article is more than 6 years old
Vanessa Engle listens to the stories from all sides from an awful week in March 1988 that saw an IRA funeral attacked and British soldiers pulled out of their car and shot dead

‘How charged is the vocabulary here? How much mess can I get myself into making this programme if I use the wrong words?” From the beginning of The Funeral Murders (BBC2), the documentary-maker Vanessa Engle is upfront about the impossibility of the task she has set herself. It has been 30 years since the funeral of three IRA members, who had been shot by the SAS in Gibraltar, was attacked by a loyalist paramilitary, who, armed with grenades and a semi-automatic pistol, killed three men and injured many more. Seventy-two hours later, during a funeral procession for one of the dead, two British soldiers were pulled out of their car by a mob, stripped and shot dead by the IRA. The legacy of the pain caused by that brief period in March 1988 is etched on the faces of those who witnessed it or survived it, or whose family members did not.

Engle, who has made many excellent documentaries for the BBC on topics as varied as feminism, dog-walking and cosmetic surgery, is never seen on camera, but her voice is heard, often. Here, she talks to people on all sides of the conflict and the attacks. Each group of interviewees is teased with a blockbuster-style title card: the republicans, stamped over the Irish tricolour; the loyalists, over a union jack; the security forces, over a heavily tattooed ex-soldier’s arm. At first, this might seem a little crass, a little Hollywood, but having watched to the end, I think it was necessary. It gives a clear indication from the start as to Engle’s attempts to provide balance, and to ensure voices from all sides are given a chance to be heard.

And with 30 years of distance, these people now feel ready to talk, we are told. Some appear with faces blurred out, or filmed from behind, or with voices disguised. Others have not spoken about what happened since 1988. Engle dilutes the potential for offence, in so far as that is possible, in two ways. Whenever it can, the film emphasises that it will only ever be a series of interpretations of what happened; the republicans and the loyalists are in agreement on that fact, at least. As “Dermot”, an ex-IRA man, puts it, “one person’s terrorist is another person’s freedom fighter”, and to this day, the stories are still competing for dominance. “It’s an ongoing battle to justify past actions,” explains Sean Murray, another figure on the republican side. There is no attempt from the documentary to draw conclusions, only to present how each side saw it and continues to tell it.

There’s another safeguard in place, too. Engle makes sure she asks a question when something needs explaining, which sounds obvious, but keeping that kind of query in the film has a clear impact. One republican tells her, when she is wondering about the linguistic difficulties she may get herself into, that it is “the north of Ireland”, not “Northern Ireland”; another refers to a deceased member of the IRA as “a gentle giant”. “A paramilitary?” Engle asks. That’s not the right language, he replies: he would call him a volunteer. “That sounds like you’re working in the local charity shop,” she says, dryly. Leaving in exchanges like that serves as a gentle disclaimer as much as it is conversational. We are all learning.

Every interview is essential and astonishing in its own way, but some have such an impact that it will be hard to shake the memory of them. David Stitt is a loyalist who explains that the first attacker was considered a hero in his part of Belfast, and that he and his father jumped around with joy when they heard the news. Peter Murray and Mary Moreland talk about the death of their brother John, the grief still unimaginably raw. Anna McErlean, who was 19 and pregnant when her husband was killed, shows off the jacket he was wearing when he died, and says it still smells of him. “It’s been a comfort. Almost,” she says, that final word a harrowing end note.

Finding balance in a documentary about the Troubles must have been a desperate task; I am sure people on both sides who know far more about it than I do will find points to argue with. To me, though, this is a masterful and careful handling of an ever-combustible narrative. The Irish taoiseach reminded us only last week that Brexit is a threat to the Good Friday agreement, and it makes this reminder of the violence that spiralled out of control more timely than ever.

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