Chen Jiaqi
Abstract: This article draws on the author’s experience of attending Martin McDonagh’s The Lonesome West at the Shanghai Theatre Academy to examine the complexity of human relationships and the role of trust in both public life and everyday social interactions. Engaging concepts from Marx’s Theses on Feuerbach and Luhmann’s Trust, the analysis further differentiates between belief and trust as distinct modes of orientation: belief concerns the transcendent or the afterlife, whereas trust is directed toward the future. When the future is suspended or collapses, trust collapses with it. For both individuals and nations, the loss of trust signals a profound crisis in the fabric of social relations.
Keywords: The Lonesome West; belief and trust; human relationships
On the evening of New Year’s Day 2026, Martin McDonagh’s play The Lonesome West was performed in the experimental space of the Shanghai Theatre Academy. The space was densely packed with people; the seats were small, and since it was winter, everyone was dressed in heavy coats, so each person was squeezed together with others. An argument broke out in the front row. Although it quickly subsided, the shadow of that quarrel seemed to accompany the entire progress of the play. This is because the play itself is one about quarrels, fights, patricide, and suicide, all stemming from the ineffectiveness of admonition and exhortation beneath the cross—a drama that ultimately remains unresolved. Did the brief quarrel in the theatre calm down so quickly because the characters were about to take the stage, or because of the huge, stark cross in the center of the auditorium? I believe it was because of the former. The play was about to begin, and those watching the play must be quiet—this is a universal requirement of public order. Note: this kind of universal requirement (or the systematic constraints of society) is extremely important for regulating individual behavior. Perhaps things are that simple. But outside the theatre, in real life, everyone knows that things are not resolved so simply, even though Shanghai is a city where large-scale quarrels and physical confrontations have rarely occurred compared to other cities in the country. This is something I have personally experienced in over twenty years of living in Shanghai, and for which I have secretly felt pleased. But why can’t people get along well with each other, or why do they need to?
In Section Six of his “Theses on Feuerbach,” Marx wrote his famous passage: “Feuerbach resolves the essence of religion into the essence of man. But the essence of man is no abstraction inherent in each single individual. In its reality, it is the ensemble of social relations.” In fact, “social relations” are precisely human relationships. Marx states that Feuerbach comprehends this relationship as “species,” as an internal, dumb generality which naturally unites the many individuals. This generality is what we usually call “human nature.” Marx denies the existence of such “human nature”; he seeks to find the “ensemble of relations” in their “reality.” Actually, the concept of an “ensemble” is also a rather abstract existence; we can hardly “sum up” all of a person’s social relations empirically. Looking backward or forward, “contingency” and “uncertainty” are facts that no one can avoid. Of course, Marx was not so abstract as to point to an “ensemble of social relations” for us to see; in reality, what he sought to identify were class relations. That is to say, human relationships, in their reality, are class relations. Many empirical relations can prove this, such as between capitalist and worker, landlord and poor peasant. Later, we expanded this notion of class relations to the point where even expressing dissenting opinions was seen as a manifestation of class relations. Arguably, that was not Marx’s original intention. Is there any truth to the idea that human relationships are always situated within certain class or hierarchical relations? Certainly. I recall watching a film in my early years titled For the Sake of Sixty-One Class Brothers which moved audiences to tears. But thinking back, if they weren’t “class brothers,” would they not have been saved? Or should they not have been saved? Wouldn’t that revert to Feuerbach’s concept of “species” and a certain theory of human nature? The theory of human nature was one of the concepts most vehemently criticized by people from my era, even though we hadn’t read these original words of Marx at that time.
However, The Lonesome West reveals another reality to us: two brothers, the Connors (Coleman, the older brother, and Valene, the younger)—why such hatred between them? The older brother killed their father; the younger brother gloated, seeing an opportunity to inherit the property alone. But he had no intention of reporting his brother; instead, he sought opportunities to vent his anger and humiliate him. The two physically fought on the floor at least twice, and numerous times threatened each other with guns and knives. The younger brother actually pulled the trigger, but the older brother had previously hidden the bullets. Of course, the older brother also fired, destroying the fireplace in the younger brother’s home and all the religious objects displayed there, such as statues of the Virgin Mary. Such evil deeds had occurred multiple times in this sparsely populated town of Leenane, leading even the police officer, Thomas, to drown himself in the lake. Father Welsh found it unbearable to witness. He considered it his own failure. Coming here as a priest, with a cross on the wall, windowsills filled with objects related to the Virgin Mary, the Holy Grail, the Eucharist, and a crucifix hanging around his own neck. What could he do? What else could he do? After Officer Thomas drowned himself, Father Welsh did his best to condemn the suicide according to doctrine, hoping someone would help him drag Thomas’s body ashore so he could conduct prayers, masses, requiems, and a series of religious rituals. But whom could he ask? Looking at the indifferent, unconcerned, and dismissive attitude of the Connor brothers, how could he act according to his duty? With such disregard for life, how could one even discuss final destinations like heaven or hell? Naturally, all this had long become irrelevant. Belief aside, there should be at least basic respect and sympathy for a person’s death. What we call truth, goodness, and beauty—truth is seeking facts; goodness is sympathy, understanding, respect; beauty is novelty, curiosity, and capturing momentary emotional stirrings. These are very everyday life experiences. But for the Connor brothers, these basic life experiences have transformed into malice, cruelty, greed, and indifference. The lived experience of truth, goodness, and beauty does not automatically generate itself in daily life; it is not simply innate or natural. It still relies on reading, education, reflection, communication, and various forms of putting oneself in another’s place and empathetic thinking. When I visited the headquarters of the International Red Cross in Geneva, the first thing I saw upon entering were a few sentences written in various languages; the Chinese version was “Do not do to others what you do not want done to yourself.” It was an unforgettable experience. But could Father Welsh share similar feelings or experiences with the Connor brothers? Was there the context or atmosphere for it? The theatre lights went out. When they came back on, Father Welsh was standing among the audience. He read aloud the final letter he left for the Connor brothers, telling them each to take a step back, forgive each other, and shake hands and make peace. In the end, he too left, even though as a priest he knew that suicide was one of the most unforgivable sins in Christianity (Catholicism). Yet he still left, using his act to declare the bankruptcy of faith, while also hoping that his death and final message would tell all living people to each step back and make peace. What else could he do?
But what did all this lead to for the Connor brothers? They snatched and fought over the two pages of the suicide note, each reading it, then each pretending to step back. First, they confessed to wrongs they had done to the other in childhood, like urinating in the beer, watering it down, killing the other’s beloved dog, and in a particularly cruel manner. After recounting each incident, they would say, “I apologize to you, I hope for forgiveness,” and shake hands. Finally, when they realized the other was deliberately exaggerating facts to hurt and provoke them, an inevitable scene erupted: one grabbed a gun, the other raised a knife, and they were grappling again. Curtain falls. End of play.
Here, we must also mention the young girl, Girleen. The entire play has only one set, and a total of four characters: the two Connor brothers, Father Welsh, and the young woman Girleen. Girleen is a girl who hangs around the town, specifically around Leenane and the Connor brothers. She seems to have discarded or no longer cares about any personal dignity or shame, indifferent to everything, including cheerfully lying about being pregnant. Yet in her heart, she is quite pure and deeply loves Father Welsh. A person can say anything carelessly to someone who doesn't care, but it’s hard to say anything serious face-to-face with someone you truly love. When she learned Father Welsh had left, but in the letter he left for the Connor brothers hadn’t mentioned her at all, she was truly heartbroken, utterly devastated. She finally realized that in Father Welsh’s heart, there was no place for her, only good (God) and evil (the Connor brothers). The priest was more concerned with the sinners’ repentance, prayers, reform, and self-reflection, focused on his own duties and the customs of Leenane, never imagining that someone deeply loved him. This love was the only glimmer of light amidst the darkness and oppression of the whole play, but alas, no one knew, including the deeply beloved Father Welsh himself. Faith (the cross, the Virgin Mary, Jesus), the rule of law (the policeman drowning himself), morality (sympathy, compassion, understanding, respect), family affection (father-son, brother)—what truly is reliable? What truly is the bond maintaining normal human relationships (let alone friendly ones)? The play is set in the small town of Leenane in western Ireland. The town is small, the population sparse; moreover, Coleman and Valene are brothers. In any case, they are bound to see each other constantly. Is this good or bad? Their lives don’t seem to lack for basic necessities like food and drink (if the basic need for food or the essential requirements of political control become paramount—the issue of how to survive first—circumstances would change, but that’s a different topic). So, why should people get along well with each other? And how can they?
I thought of the issue of “trust.” This is perhaps the most realistic and acute problem we can perceive in this play. It also reminded me of a small book on Trust by Niklas Luhmann I read twenty years ago. Modern Western society has largely become “atomized”; that is, the “self” is entirely concrete, each person possesses a specific subjectivity: I do my own thing, I take responsibility for my own actions. Consequently, faith first becomes a personal matter, and tolerance for “evil” in a general sense—such as dishonesty, disloyalty, inconsiderateness, untrustworthiness,and especially sloth and greed—has increased significantly. Philosophically speaking, humans construct a world through their own conscious activity (the world is the totality of an individual's horizon; horizons don’t coincide, so worlds differ), and then posit this world as objectively existing. But the Connor brothers completely disbelieve in this kind of religious or philosophical discourse (which is also related to their almost complete lack of education). Hence their brutal and savage treatment of the cross and those sacred objects. When such traditional requirements become a “must,” they need some external, coercive maintaining force, a force based on the fundamental principle of distrust towards individuals. Because motives are diverse and changeable, impossible to unify, restrictions are confined to modes of behavior. The church, religious symbols, and the various ornaments in the Connors’ home all embody this external requirement. But it truly has no necessary connection with “faith” (belief, trust). “A person cannot establish themselves without trust”—here “trust” and “establish” are related, both referring to an inner strength of character. Secondly, if faith is only a personal matter, it requires separation from law and ethics. Law is essentially an order maintained by physical violence; it is different from both belief and trust. One cannot demand to be trusted by others, nor can one demand that others believe or not believe. Each person can only accept (note: accept, not bestow) belief or disbelief. Thirdly, trust is also a kind of “trust” that functions beyond the norms of public ethics; therefore, it is not a moral requirement either. Moreover, trust always concerns tomorrow, concerns the future fulfillment of promises by a collective or an individual. Hence it is always linked to some expectation. So where does this genuine “faith” actually grow from? Husserlian phenomenology introduced “intersubjectivity,” emphasizing that society and public life are co-constituted by people. However, it did not specifically elaborate on what kind of relationship trust is, lying outside ethics and law within this co-constituted world, nor what status it holds in human social relations. We all know that losing trust is much easier than gaining it (the Connor brothers can eat together, drink, toast each other, but have no trust whatsoever). And thinking further, trust seems to be an interpersonal matter, but in reality, it is also a kind of shared wish or even just an illusion among social systems. Because only on the basis of mutual trust can social costs be greatly reduced, making social life convenient and efficient. Imagine if everyone we met outside was untrustworthy, everything bought could be counterfeit, and the money in our hands could become worthless paper the next day. Would talking about God, Jesus, love, or stepping back and using polite language still have meaning? Of course, perhaps because such situations might arise, people need God, Jesus, love, and compassion even more. Yes, language still exists, people still use it, but what is spoken and written is an entirely different mode of discourse; along with the gestures, expressions, and postures required by that mode of discourse, they become scenes unimaginable in hindsight, just as the actions and words of the Connor brothers on stage today are unimaginable. Trust really cannot be built on the “past”; it is a kind of expectation for the “future.” This expectation is not merely interpersonal; it depends on the perfection and “trustworthiness” of public life and social systems. In this sense, “The Lonesome West” is first and foremost lonesome in terms of public social life and systemic constraints, and only then lonesome due to collapsed faith, dissolved rule of law, and moral decay. The cross is merely a facade, the parricide remains unchanged, love has no place—Leenane exists merely as a small town on Ireland’s west coast, using its facade, its unchanging nature, and its lack of resolution to proclaim a not-so-foreign “future” to all who watch.
Works Cited
Luhmann, Niklas. Trust. Translated by Qu Tiepeng, Shanghai Century Publishing Group, 2005.
Marx, Karl. “Theses on Feuerbach.” Marx & Engels Collected Works, vol. 1, People’s Publishing House, 2009.
McDonagh, Martin. The Lonesome West. Premiere Performance at Shanghai Theatre Academy, 1 Jan. 2026.
The Author
Chen Jiaqi, a professor and philosopher who formerly served as Chair of the Philosophy Department and Director of the Academic Committee at Tongji University. His long-term research interests include political philosophy and philosophy of law, German philosophy, and comparative Chinese-Western philosophy.
Email: chenlogos@163.com