Silly cliché, flawed on every level save for Robin Williams

Rating: 2/10 (17 October 2010)

First to the good points of this film. I will never really understand why Robin Williams continues to make films like this because he's superb. Particularly as a troubled villain, which I guess is what he's supposed to be here. Williams was the only high point for me and he earns my two stars on his own.
The bad points however go on and on. Where can I start? Characters. None of the characters are convincing, or have a plausible background to make them what they are. None of them develop in any credible way. Most if not all are clichés, parodies of something better. None has any depth or subtlety.
Premise. The premise is just too silly. I understand that we need to suspend disbelief to get the most out of fiction. This is too contrived, though. No serious effort is made to win us over to believe even enough to engage with the film.
Plot. The plot is irritatingly predictable and has more holes than anything I've seen or read in years. It's feels gratuitous, too - why make us wonder about these petty things when we already have to swallow the implausible premise?
Visuals. Nothing of note, nothing to see here. As dull as ditch water. Perhaps more importantly, the soundtrack is terrible. To engage with the premise I think the viewer needs to be inspired by the music, but we were all cringing. It was so very cheesy, and had no edge or charisma. The painful attack on Van Morrison - why was this necessary? So many have succeeded here but for some reason the studio indulged Rhys Meyers' own hash at it. Worst of all though is what I can only describe as a naff fusion of orchestra and American-Irish rock. Surely this silly notion has been done to death, but we are asked to buy it as an expression of how together and how brilliant the characters are.
But it goes on. Hollywood often relishes Irish stereotypes but we all but see Rhys Meyers in a Leprechaun outfit Riverdancing around an enormous pint of Guinness chirping "to be sure to be sure". If any other aspect of the film had worked this kind of stuff would have broken the spell. The nonsense of slapping the guitar, always conveniently in open tuning. Why? That cheesy "pick of destiny" moment. The saccharine rainbow of musical urchins. And tarnishing the glorious memory of Don't Look Now. Like most films this was too long, but the last 40 minutes felt literally like hours.
Under the skin of all of this seem to be frothing hormones boiling over, a coo-cooing around a romantic notion of the child and above all a total absence of editorial control over whoever's idea this was.
Film fans will find nothing to see here. Don't waste your time, there's paint drying somewhere which you could be watching instead,