Iraq had just been invaded and MySpace had just launched, ushering in a new era of hyperlinked horror. That was the world in 2003, when Martin McDonagh’s play The Pillowman premiered at the National Theatre in London. It is a creepy fable of two brothers under interrogation in a totalitarian state for the torture and murder of children. One of the brothers is a writer – and the murders are copycat killings inspired by his stories.
The critical reception was initially sceptical. McDonagh was in his early 30s and riding a rollercoaster, the author of five rapturously received Irish dramas. The Pillowman was a departure. “I had the feeling that, well, this was an even better play. It was a thing for me to get those crushing reviews,” he says. “It was the first time there was such a disparity between them and what I thought we’d achieved.”
