films from hell

There are quite a few things that I really, truly hate in films. Ranking high on a long list are fake Irish accents and all the crap that goes with American exhibitions of Oirishness. American movie moguls seem to have no idea what spoken Irish-English sounds like. Moreover, they think the Irish all live in quaint cottages and dress like latter-day peasants. They assume the Irish stand around drinking Guinness and Jamesons and are all jolly friendly, except when they're bullying and drunk. And to make the whole thing so ghastly that Dante's circles of hell seem inviting in comparison, films exhibiting this crass cultural stereotyping are accompanied by the tedious drone of Celtic wailing music in all its self-pitying mediocrity. All these faults have been assembled in the truly atrocious film PS I Love You, which now rivals my only night exercise with the Combined Cadet Force (on which I got lost) back in the days of my schooling in Brighton as one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life. And no, I didn't subject myself to the whole film, but I daresay I suffered 40 minutes or so of it. Now I'm going pull a few nails out with pliers, listen to Barry Manilow, wash my eyes with bleach, and clean the bath, all incomparably more pleasurable than Gerard Butler's Irishness.