Come In Michael Dwyer Your Time Is Up

I choked when he lauded 'The Trouble With Sex', I looked the other way when he applauded Irish films simply because they were Irish, but I can't stand idly by and ignore his review of Broken Flowers on DVD, published here in full as a vindication of my long-held view that Mr. Dwyer has the critical sensibilities of a blind Sherpa mountain guide isolated from peers and social evolution by the forces of nature. Except for Dywer, subsitute 'the fact that he is a silly twat' in the place of 'forces of nature'.

'Jarmusch applies his trademark sensitivity, humanity and idiosyncratic humour to a touching road movie in which a confirmed bachelor (Murray at his most impassive - or useless, depending on the soundness of your judgement) revisits former lovers when he learns he has a 19-year-old son. It becomes a melancholy journey through his past (or for the viewer, a painful journey through a woeful pile of cellushite) as he seeks out the son and discovers a great deal about himself'.

Is this the same film I saw? All Murray seemed to learn was that the lazier the role, the easier the money, and all I learned on this voyage of self-discovery was something I should have already known. Jarmusch is a moron. And so is Michael Dwyer. Guilt through association