A friend asked me my opinion of the band The Divine Comedy the other day, and I expressed my belief that there’s more going on in the clever words department than recognisable feelings. Plus, there seems to be a lot of ornamentation in the arrangements, perhaps more than strictly necessary. And all of this came to mind having just seen In Bruges, for one reason and another.

Like The Divine Comedy, who seem to be defined by the presence of Neil Hannon, In Bruges was pretty much put together by one Irish smartypants, in this case writer-director Martin McDonagh. And much the same overview applies: while the film was certainly enjoyable, and well crafted, it felt maybe a bit too crafted to actually convince.

Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson are a pair of hitmen who’ve been sent to Bruges to cool their boots after a job in which a young boy was accidentally shot, as well as the intended target. The two are, of course, a mismatched pair, Gleeson enjoying the medieval town’s culture and history, while Farrell is more about beer and women.

Initially at least, things are quite stagy, though Bruges being Bruges it’s hard not to come across some visually interesting surroundings along the way. Things heat up when our heroes chance on a film being made in the city, and Farrell takes the opportunity to introduce himself to a woman working on it. They arrange a date, and both play the honesty card — a bit too neat and symmetrical for my liking, which applies to much of the film overall. Anyway, she is dealing drugs to the film crew, and there are sparks between them.

It’s all done with tongue partly in cheek, which is part of the problem: funny though the lines are, the balance between that comedy and the attempt to deal with deeper themes doesn’t work. Which is a shame, because McDonagh really does try hard, too hard in fact…exactly my problem with Neil Hannon. They also share a thing for classical allusion that doesn’t necessarily assist what they’re trying to say: In Bruges features some slightly clunky business concerning one of the characters wondering about his fate after killing the young boy, realised through an old painting that is in turn the source of some of the imagery in the film-within-a-film.

McDonagh does not wear his learning lightly, and though he tries to balance it with some amusing potty mouth dialogue, I’m not sure that an equilibrium is reached. And that’s a pity, because much of the film is thoroughly enjoyable, and I sense if McDonagh could put his literary and other role models to one side and instead learn more from the quality end of the American thriller market, he could make something really special. Instead, I sense that In Bruges exemplifies in its protagonists its creator’s own conflict: does he want to enjoy the culture on offer and show off his learning about it, or kick back with the lads and pull the women? Either way, like many a good Irish artist, he’s guilty and conflicted about the choice he makes.