Tonight I saw 'PS I Love You.' I just thought I'd say it. Get it out there. No pink elephant in the room. Judge me, hate me, disparage me, I deserve it. While there's clearly no hope for me, by writing about my experiences now I can protect you, my dear, dear readership, from a cinematic fate worse than having your balls needled by syringes of nitric acid. Or Rumour Has It.
Denise coaxed me to the premiere, and seeing as I've been laying around Radge Central picking my nose and watching Keeping Up Appearances all week I thought it'd be a good idea to get out for a few hours.
As we finished our dinner and taxi'd up to Parnell Street I'd little idea of the horror in store. I figured I could handle a chick flick, I'd just daydream throughout about nice boy things like football and model airplane maintenance.
The film had started when we arrived. We settled down to Hilary Swank and Gerard Butler having an anaemic little squabble that only married couples in Hollywood films can have. It was an interminable scene in which all I gauged was the worst Irish accent in celluloid history (his) and a cutesy little pointy pixie face spouting inanities about how all he wanted was wild sex (hers). It only got worse.
I won't go through it scene by scene, as memory tends to black out such irreversible trauma, but one sequence really had me reaching for the suicide pill tucked safely between the old receipts in my wallet.
Yer man has died and is leaving posthumous notes to herself telling her how to move on in her life. One of these malignant little epistles leads Swank and her two mates to the fictional land of Oireland, where a trip from Connemara to Dublin takes no more than a donkey trek across a couple of hills. Herself goes to Whelans with her mates and spies a ruggedly handsome singer. At this point, she's ganting on a bit of the old in-out, so she chats him up and he dedicates a song to her.
For reasons too preposterous to waste time on here, she leaves the venue sexless and crying for Butler, still popping in and out of the film from the grave with an accent part Terry Griffiths, part Terry Wogan, part Bob Marley and fully fucking annoying.
Next scene and she's fishing with her friends and mourning the fact that she never got her end away with Shane McGowan or whatever his name was. Circumstances lead to the three dull bints getting stuck on a lake for a few hours, and just when I hope against hope that they'll succumb to the scurvy and this terror will end, along comes the coastguard. Yep. It's the singer from Whelans who has a nixer as a boatman on the very lake that....
Not ONLY that, but he also turns out to be the former best friend of yer one's dead husband.
Christ almighty. I won't even get into the script, which would make an episode of 'The Young And The Restless' look like 'The Sopranos'.
Swank is a very competent actress, but times must be hard for her to take on this shite. Even Kathy Bates, in a fart of a role as Swank's mother, can't redeem this muck one single iota.