ANGELA'S ASHES

ILLITERATE PHILISTINE that I am, I never bothered carving out the time to read Angela's Ashes - I know I'm missing out on something absolutely amazing here, but I just didn't like the sound of it one bit. I read the first paragraph and stopped at the point where McCourt started whingeing about 'the miserable Irish Catholic childhood' - there's nothing wrong with writing about poverty, but the wallowing, self-pitying tone sent me scurrying a mile in the opposite direction, and I haven't picked it up since.

Just as well, because as it turned out, not reading the book actually enabled me to enjoy the film. The novel's devotees have, almost to a person, been extremely underwhelmed with Alan Parker's account of a Limerick childhood spent in grinding poverty, but for those unencumbered by expectation, Angela's Ashes is a surprisingly warm, humorous and touching piece of cinema - over-earnest on occasion, but never less than heartfelt, and acted with huge respect by its impressive cast.

Top honours go to Robert Carlyle, whose broadly sympathetic portrayal of McCourt's well-meaning, unemployed alcoholic father positively rips at the heart-strings - but Parker draws fine performance out of all concerned, with Joe Breen massively impressive as the young Frank, and Emily Watson a heartbreakingly fragile presence as the perpetually pregnant/bereaved Angela.

The film's humour quotient is far higher than its premise would seem to permit, its denunciation of the Catholic Church's hypocritical pieties rings through loud and clear, and it ends in positively poignant fashion - if not exactly one of the great home-grown films, Angela's Ashes will stand the test of time.

RATING: HHHH