Written and directed by the man who gave you Angel, Company of Wolves and Mona Lisa, this dreadful movie carries on the love affair between Ireland and Hollywood with a vengeance, beginning as a tribute to '50s flea-bag theatre, continuing as a banal commercial for the joys of Celtic rural life, and ending as a cross between Beetlejuice, Cymbeline and The Quiet Man. O'Toole is the decrepit owner of decrepit Plunkett Castle, which he hopes to preserve from the hands of a rich American developer by renting it out to gullible, ghost-hunting rich Americans. Lo and behold, real ghosts emerge, time zones are crossed, silly buggers played, Hannah rattles her bones, and Guttenberg plays Guttenberg. The script seems a collection of loose ends and rewrites; the direction is deeply dispirited; and with the exception of O'Toole and a couple of engaging vignettes, it's a complete turkey.
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