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In the emerald shadows of Ireland’s postcolonial landscape, a revolution is brewing—not in the streets, but in the songs. CELTIC UTOPIA (ÚTÓIPE CHEILTEACH), the striking new documentary from Stockholm-based filmmakers Dennis Harvey and Lars Lovén, captures something extraordinary happening in Irish folk music today: a generation of artists wielding traditional melodies like weapons against complacency, creating music designed, in their own words, “to scare priests and politicians.”

World premiering in Locarno’s Critics’ Week, this isn’t your grandmother’s Celtic music. The film follows an audacious collection of musicians—The Mary Wallopers, Young Spencer, Negro Impacto, Chi-chi Enyoazu, The Deadlians, Jinx Lennon, Poor Creature, Naoise Mac Cathmhaoil, Rising Damp, Susan Hughes, and Post Punk Podge—who are reimagining what it means to be Irish in the 21st century. These artists carry both the weight of historical oppression and the electric possibility of transformation, their songs serving as both archaeological dig and battle cry.

What makes CELTIC UTOPIA particularly compelling is its refusal to romanticize Irish identity. Instead, Harvey and Lovén present a society still wrestling with its colonial wounds, where folk traditions become vessels for radical healing. The musicians featured don’t just perform; they excavate, using ancient forms to process contemporary realities and challenge existing policies with calls for more liberal attitudes.

The film’s most powerful moment might come through Young Spencer, a loyalist rapper whose complex identity embodies Ireland’s evolving sense of self. Harvey describes watching Spencer—wearing a Union Jack and Protestant regalia—touch his heart while looking at a mural of Bobby Sands, the famous hunger striker who died protesting Margaret Thatcher’s policies. “He’s a fucking legend,” Spencer says, and in that moment, the documentary captures something profound about how identity boundaries are dissolving and reforming across the island.

This isn’t nostalgia masquerading as progress. Harvey’s generation, he notes, has endured “humiliation” under the weight of postcolonial heritage, and these musicians are responding with unflinching honesty. They’re telling stories and singing songs not to preserve the past unchanged, but to understand it fully enough to transcend it. Their ballads carry the DNA of centuries-old traditions while pulsing with urgent contemporary energy.

CELTIC UTOPIA reveals how folk music has become a space for processing trauma and imagining futures. In a society where the old certainties—religious authority, political deference, cultural homogeneity—are crumbling, these artists are creating new mythologies. Their rebellion isn’t just aesthetic; it’s existential, challenging audiences to reconsider what Irish identity can become when freed from both external oppression and internal limitations.

The documentary serves as both cultural document and manifesto, proving that the most vital folk music has always been revolutionary. These artists aren’t preserving tradition; they’re liberating it, creating a soundtrack for a new Ireland that refuses to be defined by either its colonial past or its postcolonial present. In their hands, ancient melodies become vehicles for radical imagination, and the very concept of “Celtic” expands to encompass all who call this island home.