Netflix has no bigger fan than me, but sometimes I think they’re just fucking with me. I know I stick things in our queue and then forget all about them until they show up in the mail (Surprise!) but sometimes we wind up with things I’m sure I never ordered, dogs they’re trying to move and just ship off to me. Today, The Magical Legend of the Leprechauns dropped by. The description:
A magical adventure unfolds when American Jack Woods (Randy Quaid) rents a quaint cottage in Ireland and finds, to his dismay, that the house is inhabited by a family of leprechauns. When one of the little guys (Colm Meaney) and his son crash the fairies’ ball, a feud between the leprechauns and the fairies is rekindled. The Grand Banshee (Whoopi Goldberg) warns of terrible consequences, and Jack is chosen to make peace. What the fuck? The phrase “quaint cottage” would be alarm enough to warn me off. Even if the storyline didn’t sound terminally twee, I regard Randy Quaid with the same fondness as a medium sized headache, so unless I was a good deal more insane than usual, I cannot imagine what could have moved me to add this little gem to our queue.
I actually tried to watch it, thinking “Oh, what the hell? How bad can it be?” I didn’t make it 7 minutes past the credits, the first hearty brogue did me in. Faith.
The whole thing reminded me of the time I talked Diane von Austinberg into going to Robert Stigwood’s Times Square despite a friend of ours who was a film critic pleading in print with people not to see it. I swore I knew it was fabulous, which I stuck with right up to the point the film opened and I realized I had been thinking of another movie entirely. Oops. It was the 80s, I was loaded.
Still, leprechauns and Randy Quaid? I have never taken enough drugs in my life to pull that off.