W.C.

The Irish film scene would be a poorer place without the colourful presence of Liam O Mochain, the old-school chancer, who, in 1999, incorporated footage from the Venice film festival into his amateur, no-fi film, The Book that Wrote Itself. The result? A cast list that included George Clooney, Kenneth Branagh and Melanie Griffith.
It was enough to get Mr. O Mochain noticed even if the film was too ramshackle by half. W.C., his belated follow-up, is similarly divisive. On the one hand, it’s impossible not to applaud the fellow’s moxy. Like The Book that Wrote Itself, it is a one man show, with Liam assuming responsibilities as writer, director, producer and leading man.
One cannot fault him for trying or for plugging away; significantly, two years have elapsed between the film’s premiere at JDIFF 2006 and its theatrical release.
Unhappily, W.C. has little else to recommend it. Perhaps if the writer-director-multi-hyphenate was more collaborative, there would have been someone around to say ‘when’ and knock it into shape.
As things stand, we find a movie that is pulling in all directions. Partly, it’s a tardy drama about the disenfranchised underbelly of the Celtic Tiger. As the film opens, Jack (O’ Mochain) is just out of prison and is working as a toilet attendant in his family-owned jazz bar, a punishment for pilfering from the till. His opposite number in the ladies, a Polish immigrant named Katya (Wakeham) is even more unfortunate, having fallen victim to unlikely middle-class white slave traders. The two strike up a friendship, that much we can say for certain.
But just what is W.C. supposed to be? Too cheap and DIY to pass as proper cinema, too unconvincing to be social commentary, it can play like comedy, though should a film with the alternate taglines “Don’t get caught with your pants down” and “Nature Calling!” feature an unnecessarily graphic rape scene?
We think not. Next time out, we’re hoping the director can pick one thing, stick with it and – for pizza’s sake – delegate.