IN THE midst of all the brouhaha about Ireland taking its place in the world of international cinema, the pundits have tended to overlook one rather important development. The movies have gone to shit.

Will I read that again? Sam Snort says it loud and says it proud: THE MOVIES ARE FUCKED UP. This is not a matter of opinion. It is a fact.

Sam in the cineplex these days is a very sad, angry, and disillusioned man. But a man’s a man for all that. Naturally, Sam goes along hoping to see a film with a good plot, good acting, a good soundtrack, and plenty of poontang. And what does he get?

Take away any one of these elements, and the movie is going to be a bit of a prize turn-off. Take away the poontang, and you’ve got a whole lotta nothing going on. This is what Sam Snort gets.

These days, you are more likely to see some ’tang in fucking Glenroe than you are on the silver screen. It is outrageous.

In 1994, the nincompoops of Hollywood are practically promoting movies on the basis that there is a nil shagging-quotient from beginning to end. What kind of behaviour is this, I beseech you? How are young people supposed to learn about rumpy-pumpy if they don’t see people knobbing in the movies? How indeed.

There was a time when couples would go to the cinema to get their rocks off in the back row, emulating the characters on the screen. Now, they would barely be stimulated to get it up at all, let alone get it on. This is not what movie-going should be about.

PORK SAUSAGES

Sam Snort recently did the rounds of his local cineplex to sample the fare on offer. I have to tell you that it was a total fucking nightmare. A disaster. A shambles.

Remains Of The Day looked kinda promising. Anthony Hopkins was simply charming as Hannibal Lecter, a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it, a man who literally ate pussy, washed down with a nice Chianti. And Emma Thompson has been known to get her kit off when the need arose. Promising?

Well, in Remains Of The Day, Hopkins and Thompson spend 2 1/2 solid hours not shagging. Anthony will button up his butler’s collar if he’s feeling the call of Hissing Sid, while Thompson is done up like such an old biddy, you can almost understand why Hopkins would prefer to re-arrange the poxy furniture rather than plunge his desiccated tool into her cobwebbed love-canyon, like a normal red-blooded man.

I ask you. Two fucked-up people in a big house with a cellar full of booze, and no horizontal jogging? It is unthinkable. I asked for my money back, and with the minimum of violence, I got it.

In The Name Of The Father? It was code-named ‘In The Name Of Jaysus’, and now I know why.

Numerous scenes of men locked up together, and no-one gets it up the ass? Mr. Sheridan, I suggest that you question the thoroughness of your research. This is not how it is in real life.

And then there’s Emma Thompson, again, not getting her kit off for the lads. Not even for Daniel Day-Lewis, for whom most babes of Sam Snort’s acquaintance would do time themselves, in order to sit on his mighty sword.

Not even for Daniel Day-Lewis after fourteen years in the can, by which time Emma wouldn’t have to ask twice, or even once. It is obscene. It is lamentable. It is unbelievable. And what’s more, it is unjust. Did no-one consider the feelings of the ordinary paying customer when this ‘film’ was being made?

You see Conlan and Hill in a hippy commune, and all they talk about is fuckin’ sausages. Pork sausages, that is, as distinct from love-sausages, celebrating the ethos of free leurve.

Mr. Sheridan, I suggest that you go Back to Basics for your next effort, something on the lines of ‘My Left Testicle’, or ‘In The Name Of Poontang’. Healthy adult entertainment. This is what the cinema needs in 1994.

SEX ANGLE

You stumble out of your seat with indecipherable Northern accents clanging in your ears, and into the cinema next door, where hopefully Dan The Man will get his love truncheon out in The Age Of Innocence.

Michelle Pfeiffer? Winona Ryder? There’s no way that Dan will go through three hours of this shit without giving his todger a thorough work-out!

Except that they misnamed the film completely. They should have called it ‘The Age Of Not Shagging’, as various 19th century poker-up-the-ass Americans contrive to pass through life in big dresses and tuxedos without so much as a roll in the hay.

Get me to a nunnery, where I can taste some more ’tang! Martin Scorsese, you should be fucking shot.

Mrs. Doubtfire is playing down the road, so you reckon that a movie whose main character is a man who wears dresses all the time, will steam up the auditorium to some degree.

Guess what? It’s just Robin Williams acting the bollocks, as usual. Sweet Jesus, if Hollywood is incapable of swinging a sex angle around a movie based on transvestism, there is little that Sam Snort can do to salvage anything from the wreckage.

Frankly, I wasn’t really expecting much leurve in Schindler’s List, but in a film swarming with Nazis, you are entitled to expect a modicum of kinkiness at the very least. Of course, you will not get it in this year of the fuck-free flick. We are talking about a serious crisis.

PORNO CLUBS

A deeply dispirited Sam Snort sought refuge finally in Free Willy, assuming that here at least was a movie which paid due tribute to the wonders of the human pecker.

In flagrant breach of the Trade Descriptions Act, the horny people of the movie-going world turned out to see a piece of garbage about a fucking fish. Or a non-fucking fish, as it inevitably turned out.

A celibate whale!

In this arid cinematic climate, I can understand why people go to private porno clubs for a well-rounded cinematic experience, and do so even at the risk of being burned to a crisp.

I can also understand why my old buddy Jack Nicholson has been charged with beating the shit out of somebody’s windscreen with a golf-club.

Big Jack has to take his frustrations out on something, seeing as he is doomed to spend the rest of his thespian life with his pecker withering away for want of a movie in which he is required to do anything other than piss through it.

See you on the 19th hole, Jack. We’ve got a lot of talking to do.