The Last of the High Kings

Not all whimsical coming-of-age tales set in a quaint, period Ireland are deserving of screen time. Unlike Neil Jordan's rollicking and assaultive The Butcher Boy (which arrives next week), David Keating's Last of the High Kings is bland, bloodless, and easy to watch. In a 1970s Dublin, teenage Frankie (Jared Leto) endures the vague trials typical of his age and of listless storytelling. Chief among them are his boozy, absentee actor father (Gabriel Byrne, who co-wrote the screenplay) and his spitfire, borderline-delusional mother (Catherine O'Hara contributing the film's only splash of liveliness), who suffers from a severe case of Irish Nationalism, which includes a rabid hatred of Protestants and a belief that her brood are descendants of the mythical High Kings.

What follows is episodic -- Frankie and his friends want to get laid, he falls for a Protestant girl, has to escort an adolescent American visitor (Christina Ricci, forgettably), he and his brother get the guests at their mom's victory party for a Fénian candidate (Colm Meaney) drunk on poteen. Oh, and Elvis, the real King, dies. Pointless and pleasant, with halfhearted platitudes and a faint evocation of '70s atmosphere, High Kings could have used a shot of poteen itself. At the Harvard Square and the Chestnut Hill and in the suburbs.

-- Peter Keough