This film's greatest crimes are arguably not those perpetrated by the low-life who are endlessly romanticised in what is a barely fit for TV offering, but rather the baffling miscasting (the previously excellent Compston - try Sweet Sixteen for a legitimate performance - is like a child in man's clothing), the endless line-up of wildly un-Glaswegian accents (Patrick Bergin's Arthur Thompson is more Irish than Guinness), the melodramatic sentimentality, faux-gangster banter, spit-through characterisation and directionless, erm, direction. I should have hoped that these characters would die off one by one to pay for their amoral existences, but ultimately, I simple hoped they would die to bring this film to an end.
Review of The Wee Man
