At no time does Kitty (Julia Roberts) pull down her shorts andshow Irish renegade Michael Collins (Liam Neeson) her penis. Apparently, director Neil ("The Crying Game") Jordan is moving up in the world. He's gone from making movies about weenies to making movies about a guy whose brother had a drink named after him. However, since Collins' nickname was "The Big Fella," the thought of a surprise penis or two couldn't have been far from Jordan's mind.

While Tom and the rest of the Irish are off getting hammered on some drink whose name they've long since forgotten, Michael, along with buddy Harry Boland (Aidan Quinn), is trying to get the British to leave the country. Seems that since the 12th century, the English have claimed ownership of Ireland, demanding to drive their wagons on the wrong side of the road and requiring all food to be legally stripped of "flavour." Now it's 1916, automobiles are coming into vogue, oregano smugglers are waging gang wars and it's complete chaos.

As a dedicated solipsist, I've never quite understood nationalism. One could liken Collins' problem to a man who stands on the sidewalk day after day and lets the birds crap on him. The stupid man stands there and complains about the birds, and maybe pulls out a gun and shoots one or two. The smart man moves to Key West, opens up a bar, and tells tales about all the goons back in his home town who are being shat upon.

Instead of bothering to blow up the Brits and all their Irish accomplices, Collins could just have waited until a Friday afternoon, pushed his stammering brethren onto a big boat and sailed them off to Greenland to wait quietly while the English, devoid of anyone to oppress, quickly bored themselves to death.