Incoming: MIFF

MELBOURNE INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL :: Triple Dare + Hansel And Gretel + Little Red Flowers
By Michael Scott
VIC | 18.07.2007

This year’s MIFF is about to kick off and the new festival director has brought a few fresh ideas to the proceedings. This year MIFF is offering younger festival patrons (and the young at heart) something to get their teeth into through their Next Gen programme, a collection of films from a diverse range of cultures that don’t pander to the Hollywood “family films” mould.

You can check out my reviews of the three films at The Program

Ocean's Thirteen (or, The Best Laid Plans...)

Okay, so the first one was a lot of fun. Glitzy and fluffy.

The second one was a moderate amount of fun. Less glitzy, more fluffy.

The third one is a good deal of fun. It pulls back in the glitz and doesn't pad it with too much more fluff.

Let's face it. It is fun watching big, big stars in popcorners. Especially when they look as lusciously 70s as Soderberg's.

I can hardly remember the second film, but I remember enjoying it. That is pretty typical of these films though. Tomorrow, I'll forget I've seen this one.

This outing has no Roberts and no Zeta-Jones. What it does have is Barkin-galore, which is a perfect antidote. She brings some real class, and a few laughs, to the proceedings. So much so that at the end of the film, you'll be wondering where she has been these past few years.

The rest of the cast potter along as usual. They seem to be having fun and that has always been my biggest attraction to this franchise (I'll call it a franchise, but I don't see them making Ocean's lunchboxes for the kiddies).

Plot-wise, don't bother. I found myself sitting back saying to myself, "You don't know what is going on but it'll all come together in the end." And it did. Still, it wasn't as tightly composed as the first film.

Go, have fun, laugh and look at the pretty lights.

Flights of Fantasy

It looks like the aftershocks of Lord of the Rings are starting to quiver underfoot.

Here are some pretty looking epic fantasy films bulging with stars, ready to burst onto your cinema screens. They all come from reputable source material apparently and they look reasonably well crafted.

Stardust


The Golden Compass


Also, shots are leaking out of The Dark Is Rising set. Looking forward to this but terribly weary of Walden and their cookie cutter adaptations. They'd better not fuck with my childhood



And in other adaptation news. Filmstalker reports that Christopher Lee is off of Sweeney Todd because Tim Burton's extra characters had been removed. Burton tinkering with Sondheim, hmmm, as long as he isn't getting Elfman to rescore it, I'm happy.

The Science of Sleep (or, Take me at your word)

So, it was a couple of weeks back now but Andrew and I did catch Michel Gondry's latest, Gael Garcia Bernal vehicle The Science of Sleep. I quite enjoyed it for the most part but Andrew decided to use the luxrious surroundings of the Westgarth to catch some extra Zzzs. To quote: "I purposefully made myself comfortable."

And rightly so. The film did meander, and if that's not your thing it isn't the most enjoyable cinematic experience. Gondry has an eye for innovation but he obviously works better with a focused screenwriter at his side. The visual flair of The Science of Sleep wears thin after about half an hour and no substance steps in to bolster it. It would have made a pleasant short film.

Go, but don't expect a masterpiece.

Spiderman 3 (or, Spiderman just fuck off)

Last night I was unlucky enough to catch a media screening of the year's first big budget disappointment. Who organises a media screening the night before the movie opens nationally? A distribution company who wants to minimise bad press, that's who.

I loved the other instalments of Spiderman but this one drops the ball so completely that it is laughable. Raimi's latest offering is so threadbare, it makes other comic book films look like Citizen Kane. You know the story, Peter is in love but self-obsessed, MJ is in love but-self pitying and Harry is in love but Peter-obsessed. Add two new villans and a new love interest but don't bother stirring.

There is so much crammed into Spiderman 3 that no time has been left to develop the characters motivations beyond the perfunctory stereotypical response to stimuli. The film pretty much runs itself. It is the tried and true superhero defeats villain, but not really, back he comes - three times over set against a turgid love story. Yawn.

Sorry if this sounds venomous (bad choice of words) but Spiderman 3 just does not deliver. Unfortunately the have greenlit another sequel. Please, please, please don't see this one, it only encourages them.

Zodiac: A (soon to be) Film Exposed Review

This one will pop up on Film Exposed when it is released in the UK... have a sneak peek. I'll update the link as soon as it is posted.

Zodiac (15)

Dir: David Fincher, 2007, USA, 158 mins
Cast: Jake Gyllenhaal, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr, Cloë Sevigny

David Fincher has had something of a charmed career delving into the darker side of the human psyche. His first take on the serial killer movie, Se7en (1995) stands as a modern day benchmark and heralded in a battery of pale imitators. Now, over ten years on, Fincher returns to the genre, tackling the true-life figures of San Francisco’s Zodiac murders, real people who, in no small part, informed a generation of filmmakers and ushered in the cinematic stalwart, Dirty Harry (1971).

Zodiac hit the headlines in 1969 when he wrote letters to San Francisco’s major newspapers confessing to the recent murder a couple of teenagers, gifting his identity to the authorities in a coded message, and promising a killing spree should the letters not be published. The case took a macabre stranglehold on the city for over a decade and took the lives of Homicide Inspector David Toschi (Ruffalo), the Chronicle’s crime writer, Paul Avery (Downey Jr.), and resident cartoonist Robert Graysmith (Gyllenhaal) into the grip of a murky obsession.

Luckily, obsession is Fincher’s bread and butter and he is able to spread it thickly, and with a studded hunting knife. There is a careful, composed, almost fetishist power to the murder scenes in Zodiac. Fincher eschews purely dramatic re-enactments and instead brings his innovative cinematic eye to the violent killings. It is interesting that these de bravura moments are nestled in between rather conventional, though exquisitely realised, procedural drama. Downey Jr brings a tragi-comic majesty to Avery, in a performance that seems to underpin the very style of the film, and Gyllenhaal’s doe-eyed stares have managed (yet again) to find him perfectly cast, this time as the chronically-misfit Graysmith, on whose one-man-crusading work the film is based.

Zodiac is a dense, measured and meticulously detailed film. When Graysmith walks into the Vallejo County Police Station and is greeted with a wall of files and evidence, it is easy to believe the immensity of the case, given the film’s constant barrage of names, places, faces, scenes, reports and ciphers. The resulting tone is dry but intoxicating. Intoxicating to the point that it is no great leap to buy into the feverish obsession of Graysmith. Everyone in the audience gets a tantalising taste of that dangerous game.

And so does the director.

It is clear that Fincher and the film’s writer, James Vanderbilt, have been caught up in the Zodiac’s allure. While the film takes its lead from Graysmith’s works, the filmmakers have sought to underpin his investigations with their own footwork and they have pointed their own fingers. Obsessives unconnected with the film have debunct the final conclusions of Zodiac, claiming they have been clouded by Graysmith’s distorted take. At the same time though, these same critics praise the film’s acknowledgement that the case is now blanketed in second guesses and misremembered happenings.

It is a kind of knowing nod that confirms Zodiac’s place outside the genre. The film is less concerned with the actual crimes than the effects that crimes have on the lives of those on the periphery. An entangling film that will have audiences leaving cinemas ever so slightly scarred.

Michael Scott

The Good Shepherd (or, How NOT To Succeed At Filmaking By Trying Really Hard)

The Good Shepherd + comfy recliner + wine = zzzzzz

The only thing that kept me awake was Mr Sharma's witty banter.

De Niro's ham-fisted attempt at sitting behind the camera quickly descends into monotonous and unashamed patriotism. Yes, you'd expect a little of that given that the film deals with the birth of the C.I.A. but I didn't think I was going to have to sit through countless scenes of men spewing their love for Ol' Man Sam.

The Good Shepherd sports an all star cast doing their all star thing. Jolie vamps, Cruddup charms, Gambon austeres. Of special mention is Matt Damon who pulls out such a lifeless performance that at times I thought he was channeling Charlton Heston.

Stay away!

Bizarre Casting Rumours

Abbie Cornish as the next Bond girl... Hmmm, love her but not sure.

Jennifer Garner as Spock's love interest in the Star Trek prequel... She does look rather alien (oh, and love her!)

Cate Blanchett in the next Indiana Jones film... OMGWTF?!?! That film just went up on the credibility scale.

Thanks to Filmstalker for the heads up!

3... 2... 1... Poof! It's the Melbourne Queer Film Festival

I'm about to head off to the Astor, Melbourne's beautiful art deco cinema, to hit the opening night film of the 17th Melbourne Queer Film Festival.

I can't say that I ever really enjoy the opening night. The films are usually MOR, there are a few too many homosexuals crammed into the foyer and a few too few drinks to go around.


Tonight holds a little more promise though. The film is Infamous (the other white meat Capote film), so it is a little stronger than most of the crowd-pullers they usually serve up to open the festival (even if Donald augers otherwise). The numbers have been limited (I think), and hell, I'm not paying for is so I am not going to complain.

I thought I'd collect in one place all of the reviewlettes that I've written that have been published on The Program or in MCV.

Looking at the list, it appears I have seen half the festival.

20 Centimetros
Backstage
Fabulous: The History Of Queer Cinema
The King And The Clown
The Line Of Beauty
Rainbow's End
Eternal Summer
The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros
No Regret (slightly expanded)
Tanlines
Far From Sunset Boulevard
Boy Culture

Never fear, I am still going to see y'all at the fest. I've got tix to see Meth, Jack Smith and the Destruction of Atlantis and Dead Boyz Don't Scream and I have two more tix to squander somewhere.

Gwoemul (or, The Host... but I think Gwoemul sounds better!)

"On par with Jaws!" was the only review that I needed to get me interested in The Host. It came from über-geek Harry Knowles, whose Ain't It Cool New was a much frequented site in my early days, when I was just learning to stand on my net-board.

It isn't on par with Jaws, not by a long shot. But then, I am not 5 years old anymore.

It is a fucking good film though. There is not much too it. Dropout family of misfits happen to be around when a great big monster thing goes about attacking innocent Koreans with reckless abandon. That is the best thing about the film too. It is reckless by Hollywood standards. No character is sacred. You really don't know who is going to buy it and when. In the beginning you are quite comfortable in you genre movie, sitting smuggly in your seat knowing who is safe because they are getting an extended introduction... but no, don't kid yourself. The Host doesn't give a flying fuck about genre.

In fact, it flagrantly flaunts its lack of adherence to the rules. One minute it is a moving family drama, the next a mindless comedy, then suddenly it will cough up a vomit inducing moment. The rules aren't broken, to break them would mean some acknowledgement of them, here they are completely disregarded. It works for the most part. You have to be ready to roll with the sudden turns but if you buy into the lack of logic you'll have a ball.

The CG is decent and doesn't detract from the scares. And there are a good many scares. Not all of them are loud, noisy, shocky scares either, there is a lot of eerie mood work too. (Who knew it rained so much in Seoul - maybe JP). I have discovered a new meter for the scare ratio of a film: Andrew. He starts vertical and the more scares there are the more horizontal he slides into his seat. Buy one today!

I recommend you take off your thinking hat. Lose your preconceptions and get thee to a cinema. You shouldn't have a problem finding it. They are giving it a pretty wide release. I think it is the first subtitled film I have ever seen at Hoyts.

MQFF

The Melbourne Queer Film Festival always seeks to balance the crowd, pleasing “bums on seats” popcorners with some more challenging fare. But if you’re not feeling too adventurous, there are a few films to test the waters of the not-quite-so-shallow end.

I've started with Tan Lines / Far From Sunset Boulevard / Boy Culture over at The Program but there are more to come...

Tix are on sale now!

The Last King Of Scotland (or, Idi up, Forest)

Anyone who has the audacity to grant himself the title "His Excellency President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Sea, and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular" has got to be a brilliant subject for a film. Anyone who manages to wipe out 300,000 people while in power has got to be a brilliant subject for quite a moving film.

The Last King Of Scotland takes on one of the most brutal dictatorships of post-colonial Africa. We are spared most of the gory details (and they were gory) because the story is told through the eyes of a fictional young Scottish doctor, Nicholas Gagarrin. Gagarrin comes to Uganda in an effort to escape his overbearing father (and of course to do some good, as any young medical graduate would). He is only in the country long enough to almost seduce another doctor's wife (played by Gillian Anderson, who is in danger of resurrecting her career if she keeps up these brilliant performances) before he is, in turn, seduced Amin and is asked to take on the role of his personal physician.

Gagarrin is drawn into the high life as Amin's most trusted advisor and it is not until he is in far too deep that he realises Uganda is not the shining light of new Africa that it seemed. Silly boy. To his credit, McAvoy manages to give Gagarrin enough wide eyed optimism to stop him seeming like a completely blinkered rich boy shit. He is still a shit, but he is a likeable shit. And standing there next to him is Forest's Amin. He is a mass murdering demagogue but he is a likeable mass murdering demagogue. Scarily likeable. It is easy to see why Gagarrin falls under his spell, all sweat and smiles.

After the initial set up the film seems to loose a bit of its surehandedness but the final some horrific scenes are gut-wrenchingly tense enough to make up for the lull.

Well worth a visit.

The Ubiquitous Samuel L. Jackson James McAvoy

It is rare that I go ga-ga over an actor. And I am not going ga-ga now. Well maybe a little. It is just kind of nice that Shameless' James McAvoy is hitting it big.

He's everywhere at the moment. First Mr Tumnus, then the last king of Scotland. He has three movies coming out in the next few months, one in post production and another kicking off.

I am starting to think you can't get a film greenlit unless James is in it.

Wouldn't that be nice.

Anyway, here is a snippet of why he is so great. Some bravura acting from Channel 4's Shameless. This has to be one of the most heart-wrenching scenes on television in the last few years. (And how far downhill did Shameless go when he left?)



Okay, so you want to see more. Check out these new flicks with Jimmy. There's one about a pig girl, one about an Essex lad and one about some English broad who wrote shit.

Click on the pretty pics to be whisked away so you can stare at James.

Dark Days (or, Better Homes and Railways)

Last night we returned to the rooftop cinema (this time dressed in thermals) to see Marc Singer's absorbing documentary about homeless New Yorkers living in the city's subway system, Dark Days.

Dark Days is one of those Sundance success stories: untrained filmaker, good idea, many favours and an solid end product. Like the Blair Witch Project before it, Dark Days succeeds because of the tenacity and care of its maker.

Shot in black and white on 16mm, the film traces the lives of a handful of homeless people who have decided to set up lives under New York City to escape from the dangers above ground. And when I say set up lives, I mean set up lives. These guys have televisions, stovetops, beds, couches and pets. They even have surprisingly durable abodes. And they take care of their homes, painting them, cleaning them. It is quite a bizarre spectacle. Early in the film one of the young guys says, "I don't consider myself homeless, this is my home." And it is entirely conceivable that he could feel that way.

Like any doco of this sort, the subjects need to be engaging, and this underground crew does engaging by the binload. There are as many laugh out load moments as there are cringe-worthy ones. These guys are born performers and street philosophers, add crack into the mix and things just get crazy.

It could be said that Singer has chosen to skim over some of the more unsanitary problems inherent in homelessness, or that he has not filmed the less palatable inhabitants of the subway system but in doing so he has been able to bring an important issue to the public in a purposeful and engaging manner.

Well worth a look.

Perfume (or, Too Tired to Write...)

I am going to make this brief because I am very tired (for reasons that will become apparent). Perfume isn't bad. Tom "Run, Lola, Run" Tykwer's film has divided critics pretty effectively but I though it was reasonably inoffensive. A surprisingly comfortable film given the subject matter. It's the time honoured story of young boy born with a miraculously acute sense of smell works, who his way into the perfume business only to get a little too obsessed with capturing the scents of young girly girls. How many times have we heard that before. Actually, it was pretty much the same story as Peter Süskind' s novel, which was also called Perfume.

I actually liked the film a good deal more than the book. I never really went much on Süskind's flowery prose ("oh, it's oh, so evocative!) and Twykner captures the smells, especially early on in the film, with a deftness that made the phenomenon just that little bit more visceral. What I liked about the book was well captured, the high concept and the fable like retelling, the interesting characters and the meticulous insight into the world of perfumery. Ultimately though, I thought the film, like the book, took it all a little too far, go just a little to far into the mythology and overstepped even my ability to suspend belief.

On that topic, the orgy scene (oh, wait a moment - spoilers!!!) was a little to hetero-normative for my liking. Sure there was some hot lesbian action but guys like to watch a bit of that, so I am not surprised it was included. I was surprised that in this day and age there wasn't any man-on-man action. Not that it really mattered in the end. The whole scene was about as sexy as a Spenser Tunnick photo shoot and, in my opinion, undermined the films credibility. I thought - piffle!

Don't worry though, you don't have to sit all the way to the end for the less than perfect moments. Dustin Hoffman is pretty atrocious. He makes a good fist of the role but doesn't seem to know quite what he is doing with his accent. Alan Rickman comes off like a bit of a caricature but that is probably due to the fact that most of his role is subsumed in an all-encompassing (and quite unnecessary) montage.

On the upside, the visuals are spectacular, the main actor is fantastic, as are many of the ill-fated girls. There are some sumptuous visuals and some truly creepy moments.

Even if it doesn't all gel, there is a lot to recommend Perfume so check it out.

Orlando (or, Prêt-à-Porter - The Early Years)

Even though I have a bucketload of dvds of my own that I haven't, as of yet, watched, I decided to dive into one of my favourite films, which I found on Richard's shelf, Sally Potter's breakthrough, Orlando.

The British, they just don't seem to make films like this anymore. These manicured, composed, intricate films used to be the backbone of the British film industry (Peter Greenaway, anyone?) and now they are sorely missed, by me anyway. Oh well, Guy Ritchie happens.

I love the esoteric quality of Potter's adaptation; I love its symmetry; I love its archness.

Observe:

Shelmerdine: You are hurt, ma'am?
Orlando: I am dead, sir.
Shelmerdine: Dead? That is serious, can I help?
Orlando: Will you marry me?
Shelmerdine: Ma'am, I would gladly but I fear my ankle is twisted.

The cast is almost as beautiful as the mise-en-scéne: Tilda Swinton's black eyes are haunting and used to brilliant effect with the numerous, third wall breaking glances at the audience; Billy Zane has a smile that could melt celluloid; and that is to mention nothing of the casting coups of Quentin Crisp and Jimmy Somerville.

And costumes, costumes, costumes. A visual feast. You could just as easily watch Orlando with the sound turned off if the dialogue weren't so intriguing. Four hundred years of wigs and frocks, male and female.

Here I am waxing lyrical about all the pretty stuff in the film and I haven't said a word about its delightfully heavy-handed themes. Every word, every glance, every pose seems draped in meaning. It is my favourite affectation of cinema of this ilk - it is all SO meaningful that it almost hurts. Then, with a film that follows the story of a man who inexplicably becomes a woman and covers a period of 400 years, has to hold some thematic clout.

Actually, scratch that. Imagine the same pitch with the words "starring Rob Schneider" tacked to the end.

Wonderland (or, Where The Depressing Things Are)

Blah, blah, blah... Y'all should know by now that I love Michael Winterbottom. Well, Wonderland is the film that started that love affair. I was killing time over at Andrew's place the other morning while I waited for Zöe to tear herself away from her gaydar profile, so I decided to put it on. (It was there because I'd lent it to one of Andrew's friends.)

When I first saw Wonderland, I was a lovesick, lonely, introverted people watcher. It is no wonder that I fell in love with the film. Wonderland is about a family of lovesick, lonely, Londoners, who spend their time wandering around on Guy Faulks weekend going about their typical Londonesque existence. That is pretty much it. It is pretty boring really. It is just that it is so perfectly observed.

Back then I identified with the characters, now I identify with the city. Wonderland is London. It exudes London through every frame. It is depressing as all fuck. It is monotonous. It is hard.

But then there are the little snippets of life. The affirming moments (helped in no small part by Michael Nyman's musical eloquence) that create the soul of the city.

By the end of the film, Andrew, who was planning on going back to London (not that Andrew, the other Andrew, the Andrew Andrew lives with) had all but decided to stick here in Melbourne. (Of course he didn't in the end.) That is how London it is.

While it didn't strike as deep a chord this time around, let's face it, the orchestra has had a reshuffle. I'd still thoroughly recommend it. A beautifully crafted piece of cinema but not one for those who are easily distracted.

Dreamgirls (or, I see some drag acts coming...)

Bill Condon (I bet he got ribbed at school - okay, that was uncalled for) has done it again; he has taken a successful stage musical and turned it into a successful movie musical. Hoorah. Sorta.

If Dreamgirls isn't as successful as Chicago before it much of the fault lies with the musical itself. Yes, some of the performances could have been toned down just a touch - Jennifer Hudson belting out her torchsong at the end of what I suppose would have been the first act borders on laughable as she hoofs around the stage hysterically screaming to herself - but on the whole the film has the right look and feel. It is just lacking a decent score.

The whole scenario is pretty much lifted (inspired by?) the rise of Motown Records and Diana Ross and the Supremes (with bonus adulating Michael Jackson). It is a tale of business, fame and betrayal, in that order. The performances are uniformly excellent (excepting a few OTT blips) especially Hudson and Eddie Murphy, who should win the Best Supporting Actor nod just for that look - see the film, you'll know which look I am talking about, it is a harrowing moment. It is just a pity that the source material couldn't keep up.

With Chicago or even Hal Prince's Cabaret before it, there was a clever choice to remove or adapt many of the "non-performance" numbers. Chicago found us drifting into Zelleweger's fantasy world and allowed us to cleveryly sidestep the "excuse me, I'm excited/distressed/reflective, I think I may spontaneously break into song" moments. Don't get me wrong, I love those moments when they are done well but to do them well the switch from speech to song needs to be clean (think Dancer In The Dark) and the song needs to be worthy (think, dare I say it, Evita). Unfortunately, Dreamgirls was often lacking on both counts and much of this was down to the original show.

Here we have a musical, which has actual performances within it. The songs that are "performed" need to be structured differently to the the more recitative-based numbers and less obviously related to the narrative of the book. Instead we get Beyoncé singing to Foxx that she is going to assert herself and we are to believe he is listening to her recording it in front of him. That has to stress the suspension of even the most hardened musicals fan's disbelief.

Growing up with musical theatre means taking a lot of shitty music and even shittier lyrics and learning to forgive the mis-steps for the sake of the whole. On stage or in a recording, that is all well and good but celluloid straps boots on these mis-steps and they echo thunderously. Dreamgirls has some truly cringe-worthy numbers that should have been cut, instead they have been cheesily orchestrated and left to batter our eardrums and offend our intelligence.

Thankfully, the lighting, cinematography, editing and art direction more than make up for these inadequacies. Dreamgirls is a, well, dream to look at. It glitters and sparkles in all the right places. Some of the scenes are jaw-dropingly gorgeous. It is glossy but still textured and nuanced.

I think I'll leave it there. On a high note. It would be easy to bitch and moan forever but in the end Dreamgirls is enjoyable, even memorable. It won't be a classic of the genre but I'd certainly recommend it for a night out.

Daredevil (or, I wish I were blind)

I borrowed the dvd of Daredevil from Glen about, well, long enough back for him to forget I even have it, I'm sure. Actually, I didn't even know that I had it until I returned to Australia to find it snuggled in my tubs of dvds. I borrowed it because when I saw it in the cinema I fell asleep. When I tried to watch it on dvd, I fell asleep. I tried to watch it again and fell asleep.

I've always wanted to see it. I always fall asleep. That has to be somewhat telling.

I watched it again yesterday and found out something even more telling: I have seen Daredevil all the way through. I have seen it all the way through and it still didn't make enough of an impression on me for me to recall that I had seen it.

Why did I persevere? Jennifer Garner. (That reads, Jennifer Garner FULL STOP, by the way!)

I like comic book films and Daredevil came with such good press, pre-release. A dark comic book film. A solid comic book film. No... it was just another lightweight, watered down, connect the dots, crap comic book film.

I'll drop the dvd back to you, Glen. Post haste!

Breakfast On Pluto (or, Next...)

It doesn't happen often but I couldn't sit through this Neil Jordan's latest film. Actually, I probably could have but Andrew was feeling as underwhelmed as I was so we decided to ditch it.

It all started promisingly with a couple of quirky robins commentating the action. Nice camera work and an off-kilter sensibility all said all systems go. But it didn't ever take off.

Cillian Murphy whisps his way through a series of adventures as the cross-dressing protagonist. He is an interesting, if somewhat one-dimensional, creation and his Cillian's acting is impressive but he is given nothing but inconsequential diversions to deal with: a glam rocker, a magician, a womble (yes a womble). It all becomes a bit too much.

Yes, I admit it, I hate road movies and Breakfast On Pluto has everything but the road. It is episodic, characters pop up and disappear for no reason, you know the drill. Tedious. Not even the cream of Ireland's acting talent could save it.

I'll no doubt finish it one day. For the moment though consider it, or at least the first hour and a half of it, not recommended.