In this essay, activist and writer Sarah Shojaei takes a closer look at documentary Nothing Compares, casting focus on the creative and brilliant Sinéad O’Connor as well as on the constrictive conservative ideology that suffocated her message.
“Kick me under the table all you want, I won’t shut up,
I won’t shut up.”
Fetch the Bolt Cutters, Fiona Apple
Strolling out of Merrion Park, after an open-air screening of documentary Nothing Compares, I find myself inadvertently stopping in my tracks, to a “shock of recognition”, as Sylvia Plath writes, observing a palpable truth, acknowledged embarrassingly late, and unavoidable once unearthed. It is not unlike reading, almost distractedly, a passage in a book that articulates a feeling you had been trying to pin down and translate into words, one previously too elusive to capture.
There is nothing quite like being tended to with knowing care. No need to point to where it hurts, when your carer has seen the very same wounds, time and time again. The energy saved is recirculated through your body, relieved not to have to be wasted away to voice pain that no one ever seems to want to pay attention to, free to try and mend what can be mended.
…
Why her?
It has been one full year since the death of beloved and arguably controversial Sinéad O’Connor. In the documentary, director Kathryn Ferguson tends to Sinéad and her voice, in a way very few people did back when she was at the centre of the world’s attention. What gives?
When Denzel Washington was asked why a black director was needed for Fences (2016), he answered: “It’s not colour, it’s culture. Steven Spielberg did Schindler’s List, Martin Scorsese did Goodfellas, right? Steven Spielberg could direct Goodfellas, Martin Scorsese probably could have done a good job with Schindler’s List. But there’s cultural differences, you know. I know, you know [referring to the interviewer], we all know what it is when a hot comb hits your head on a Sunday morning, what it smells like. That’s a cultural difference. Not just a colour difference. So, it’s the culture.”
The memory is fresh, of being 7, 8, 9 and still 10, 11, 12, listening out for the screeching brakes of my father’s car coming into the driveway. The sound will be forever familiar, the anxious feeling of anticipation even more so—unshakeable and haunting, spurred on by the worrying and pacing around the house, desperately trying to find a way to control, just this once, how the evening would unfold.
Experiences follow you, chase you even, and always catch up. They take roots deep within you, and often undoubtedly inform your approach to life, art, love. It then becomes difficult, as Denzel said, to retell someone’s story, especially if it is infused with their whole being, if you do not share similar chapters, or contexts, at the very least.
This knowing and understanding of Sinéad’s own experiences spearheads Ferguson’s editing. Along with the dreamlike sequences, Ferguson is able to interweave a thread of authenticity without which the entire film would feel disingenuous, if not exploitative. Indeed, when discussing Nothing Compares, Ferguson mentions: “The film has my feelings in it as much as hers. And I am sure you can feel, the anger is palpable. Myself, my experiences growing up as an Irish woman, that’s what I was driven by, as much as her example.” Early in her career Ferguson also directed a short, Máthair, which is “is all about women’s experience, and my own mother and Ireland under Catholicism”. Sinéad is taken care of because Ferguson knows all too well how it all feels. As most women do. As I do, too. It’s a cultural difference.
In many ways, Ferguson has composed a film that could hastily be brushed away as an ode to the singer. Yet, reading it as such denotes a conscious avoidance of objectivity presented by the director. Her approach methodically juxtaposes her “palpable anger” with detailed context for each of the most significant happenings in Sinéad’s life, leaving no space for wilful misunderstandings. She presents sobering evidence in the form of Sinéad’s unflinching voice-over throughout the film, punctuated with interviews further emboldened by her razor-sharp stare that does not allow you to look away. She paints a portrait that does not seek to curate nor polish the singer’s words or her persona.
The makings of Nothing Compares
The documentary narrates Sinéad’s rise to fame with interspersing contextual clips of society, performances from Sinéad, archival footage of her, her band and family, along with dream-like sequences recreating her childhood days. Ferguson made the executive decision to forego the talking heads format of most mainstream documentaries, opting for voice overs of Sinéad herself, her friends and family throughout.
To contextualise the most controversial and important events of her life, Ferguson delves into the strictly connected social scene and music scene Sinéad found herself in.
When she goes to London right before her debut, the director shows us Portobello Road on a sunny Saturday, the way Sinéad experienced it. Bodies sticking to each other, swaying together, reggae music blaring, roller skates out, anti-Pope and anti-Church feelings, as Sinéad recalls —very much in. And we fall in love with its magnetic charm a bit, too, just like she did.
What this technique achieves is illustrating how Sinéad’s so-called exploits were influenced and galvanised by both her surroundings and her past. She had a history that could be accessed at all times, if only anyone cared to pay attention. As a result, she sought out places she felt she belonged to, where speaking one’s mind was encouraged, and when they became scarce, she carved out her own space. As Sinéad herself said, “There’s no way I’m going to shut my mouth. I am a battered child and the whole bloody world is going to know about it.”
A Childhood Lost
The documentary also includes real footage of the Magdalene laundries, where women were constrained and abused, after they had been raped already by priests, doctors, fathers. Locked away forever. Sinéad was there.
This is where Sinéad speaks on the abuse perpetrated by her mother and of the tears she cried when she passed. Surprisingly, Sinéad’s complicated and contradictory feelings are presented by Ferguson as a nuanced matter of fact and not as an unhealed part of Sinéad’s history she still has to come to terms with.
I was a victim of domestic abuse. I know it is not easy to reconcile one’s own conflicting loving feelings towards an abusive parent with the anger pulsing through your veins every time it all happens again.
No matter which way the pendulum swung, I could not win. I would chastise myself, either for being too weak, a feminist’s shame, always one good hug away from a lost battle; or for feeling an all-consuming rage, generally met with laughter by the perpetrator, and by the same laughter fed.
Although, I had not reached the dizzying heights of 5’1 at the time, in fairness. Ferguson zeroes in on the core of Sinéad’s pain without questioning it, thus legitimising its multifaceted nature. She gives Sinéad a platform that allows the world to finally listen to her. No one is there to silence her, gaslight her or belittle her.
Although Sinéad was a victim, she knows she was never at fault and recognises her mother as a victim herself. She is aware that her own abuse was but a byproduct of the lessons preached by the Church her mother grew up to worship. Ferguson highlights how Sinéad reappropriates a human being’s right of self-determination, one that her parents unknowingly surrendered into the hands of the Church. However, she does not let the title of victim define her but instead, has her scars inform her every action. Her activism is neither performative, nor elective. She does not feel the urge to question herself for a split second. Entertaining the thought of not intervening, is, to her, inconceivable, foreign. There is no other choice for her but to tear up a photo of the Pope. No other choice but to protest the war in the Middle East. The glaring racist censorship in America. The persecution of black people at the hands of English policemen. When asked whether she worried about the consequences of her rebellious nature, as if it were a whim, a toddler’s tantrum, Sinéad promptly responds: “What consequences? Look at the alternatives.”
Villainization and Othering
Nothing Compares illustrates how the industry conveniently disregarded her documented struggles, in favour of the easier and well-trodden route of the villainization of the woman the very moment her presence becomes cumbersome.
As her story plays out on screen in Merrion Park, my insides churn. Shortly after Sinéad tears up the picture of the Pope on SNL, a montage of the Irish public’s responses fill the screen, culminating in one woman, stating to the camera: “In the case of Sinéad O’Connor child abuse was justified”.
Needless to say, nothing justifies child abuse.
Even if she did tear up a photo of the Pope.
Even if I did forget to place napkins on the dinner table.
Even if I did refuse to bring him a glass of water.
The anger generated by the antagonisation, glaring misogyny and dismissiveness proudly paraded, slowly makes its way under my skin, reaching my lungs. The need to scream at the endless chain of cruel and entitled people still feels as desperate as it feels hopeless.
The spell Ferguson had me under did break momentarily, when the documentary tackled the making of the Nothing Compares 2 U music video, and gave a platform to a poor choice of wording by the creative director, Jerry Stafford.
He narrates how the iconic intimate framing was a result of his work with a “lighting camerawoman”. This was in fact director of photography, Dominique Le Rigoleur, who had previously worked with Rohmer, Truffaut and Bresson amongst others. They chose her “particularly because [they] wanted a female to create a relationship between Sinéad and the camera”.
Although he seems to adopt Denzel’s original thesis, the use of the term “female” here instigates the opposite effect. A word that, when used as a noun instead of the adjective it should be, is commonly understood now to be a micro aggression. Women are thus othered, made to feel as if we were aliens, whose inner worlds can only be accessed by some complicated combination we gatekeep from the male population. As if the answer is not in Sinéad’s eyes when she cries in front of the camera. All we need, sometimes, is empathy; for our pain to be seen and not ridiculed, but left out in the open, no matter how uncomfortable it feels to witness.
Legacy: the world Sinéad leaves behind
Whilst the film does end on a hopeful note, our current musical audiences and society at large, do not seem to have learned their lesson.
Through a montage of momentous events in recent history (the repeal of the abortion ban, the legalisation of same sex marriage, and so on), Ferguson identifies Sinéad as a model for her generation. She shows her as one of few catalysts for the movement that propelled artists and ordinary people to take a stand for themselves and those whose voices everyone pretends not to hear.
Yet, Chappell Roan, an artist who has only recently become famous, has been heavily criticised by press, public and fans alike for not siding with either political candidate in the American presidential election of 2024 and for cancelling shows to take care of her mental health as a result of the consequent cyberbullying.
In the meantime, her peer male artists are lauded for a) not speaking out, b) for speaking out, c) for taking care of themselves and then again d) for prioritising their fans.
It seems then, that the misogyny Sinéad experienced, is still intrinsic to the industry and our society. Female artists are only allowed emotions and opinions we want and expect them to have. If we veer away from them, we are to be dealt with, swiftly and forcefully.
As musician John Grant exemplifies in the documentary: “The world does not take kindly to having its programme interrupted. The smooth flow of entertainment must not be interrupted”, and God forbid it is undone at the hands of a “female”!
Credits roll. Sinéad’s voice chanting Nothing Compares 2 U breaks through the scene as the sky gives in to the rain.
I turn around, my anger dissolving as I skim the crowd.
I realise now that what we have in common is more than our preference on how to spend a summer evening.
Permeating the air is a feeling of quiet understanding; heads looking up at the sky, or down, to ground us in the moment.
We need to continue the work.
In Sinéad’s own words: “They tried to bury her, they didn’t realise (she) was a seed”.
This essay is dedicated to the memory of Sinéad O’Connor, of course, and of Kris Kristofferson. Amongst many other good deeds, he upheld the ethical duty of care we all owe each other—if there is to be any hope for us—by standing by Sinéad. He comforted her after her performance at the Bob Dylan 30th Anniversary concert.
And to my mom, for gathering the courage to leave when, I am sure, it still felt impossible.
If you or someone you know is affected by domestic abuse, child abuse, or coercive control, help is available. Contact Women’s Aid at 1800 341 900 for free and confidential support. For child protection concerns, reach out to Tusla, the Child and Family Agency, at www.tusla.ie. In emergencies, always call 999 or 112.

1 Comment
Such a powerful article and beautifully written. I’m excited to see more of Sarah’s work on this website in future.