The following is a review of Irish Wish by Tate Carmichael, author of her own 00s-related Burn Book, Lindsay Lohan Stole My Life. Reader discretion is advised.
Okay, so I know Lindsay, like, dispensed with her dignity somewhere between banging Wilmer Valderrama and not paying her Chateau Marmo bill ‘cause she was (/is) poor, but I guess I continue to be blindsided by the depths she’s willing to sink to. It’s not that I didn’t go into Irish Wish with an “open mind,” but it was kind of hard (like Orlando Bloom’s dick every time he sees me) to keep it that way when, within the first two minutes of the movie, I’m watching her being spun around like a coked-up ragdoll because her scarf “happened to” get caught in the door of a yellow cab. And honestly, how embarrassing that Lindsay has to be seen riding in a taxi that’s not even an Uber. It’s like she’s still trapped in the Just My Luck era. Which, by the way, this movie kind of seems like for a few seconds with this whole “scarf snafu” that would totally happen to the Ashley Albright character after she locks lips with the gross poor guy Chris Pine is playing and he transfers his bad luck to her with a kiss at a masquerade ball.
And, like, if you think that sounds totally insane, you haven’t seen anything until you’re subjected to the “plot” of Irish Wish. Which isn’t really filled with plot so much as a “series of random happenings.” That all occur in disparate parts of Ireland because there’s absolutely no attention to detail vis-à-vis geography, which I guess makes sense because the “filmmakers” of this project rightly assumed that anyone watching this trainwreck would probably be a plebe with no real knowledge of Ireland at all.
In truth, I felt the ick factor creep all over me as I watched this and was forced to experience life through the lens of someone who reads shitty romance novels while eating bon-bons all day. Except that Irish Wish still isn’t even good enough to be comparable to a shitty romance novel. At best, it’s comparable to an American image of Ireland as a photo op playground. This includes the false notion that the Cliffs of Moher would ever be empty enough for something like a “romantic stroll” where Maddie (that’s Lindsay’s name this time around) could swoon over this James dude. And it’s all so swoon-worthy that she “feels like she stepped into a James Joyce novel.” Her trite-ass words, not mine. Oof, first of all, fucking vom and, second, the Cliffs of Moher is the most touristy shit ever. You’ll never find yourself alone there unless you have the money and clout to clear it of all riffraff (Lindsay included) like I do.
What I also found super unhinged about this movie is the idea that Lindsay is playing a writer/editor. Honestly, what the fuck? Can she be more overt about trying to steal my life once again? Everyone knows I’m the writer of the 00s batch of skinny bitches. Shit, my memoir came out even before Paris’ overly sanitized version of events. And now, here Lindsay is trying to fling shit in my face anew. I’d almost be offended if I wasn’t too busy laughing my ass off at what a prude she acts like in this movie—beating and kicking the Paul guy away that she was previously so eager to be dicked down by, but now suddenly doesn’t even want to see naked in the shower. It’s super weird. And not just because everyone who knows Lindsay knows how much she loves to fuck (regardless of being “in love” or not), but because it just comes across like an over-the-top PSA about not having sex until you’re married or something. As if Gen Z types need any more encouragement to be sexless. But wait, what am I saying? There’s no way in hell Gen Z would ever watch this shit.
In fact, it’s apparent that Lindsay is going balls to the wall in putting her millennial-ness on blast (anything to appeal to “nostalgia,” right?) by even doing a promo interview for the movie with Ayesha Curry (who materialized out of the ether to become Lindsay’s new Dubai bestie) about how millennial they both are. Which just goes to show that no one can quite tell you what Irish Wish is about if they have to resort to this as some bizarre “promo tactic” (nor does it help mitigate Gen Z accusations of millennials being “old” with all that plastic surgery being paraded). According to Curry, “Millennial behavior has become a hot topic on the internet.” Um, okay, like, when hasn’t it been (see: that Time article called “Millennials: The Me Me Me Generation”)? Considering millennials been on that shit from the beginning (which I count as the invention of MSN Messenger) and tastemaking everything about it.
The only difference now is that Gen Z is trying to make the “hot topic” (try not to think of the store of the same name) of millennial behavior become centered solely on ageist jibes (usually related to skinny jeans and side parts). Which is why I’m sort of surprised Lindsay wants to lean so much into embracing the fact that she’s a millennial—but I guess when you’ve got nothing else to embrace (apart from your dubious Irish heritage), what can one expect?
And also, what can one expect from Lindsay if not a continued bid to insist her entire family is “talented” (read: vaguely employed) by ensuring her brother, Dakota, had a “bit part” (though that feels like an overstatement) as a slightly gay love interest and that her sister, Aliana, provided another shitty song for the soundtrack. Actually, two shitty songs: “Armor” and “Comin’ Home.” How’s that for blatant nepotism? Because, frankly, Lohan has long been a champion of the “nepo sibling” concept (so was Britney for a while, before her eyes were opened to what a cunt Jamie Lynn is). Plus, I imagine it’s easy to convince the director to involve your siblings when your husband is fronting a large bulk of the cash to finance the movie. It seems a significant chunk of that money must have gone toward buying the rights to include the only recognizable song of the “narrative,” David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” (played at the most obvious moment possible). I do imagine he’s rolling in his grave over that (and I ought to know, because I just rolled him a little myself, if you take my meaning).
Anyway, I guess, sure, I’m so happy Fire Crotch (because they can remove that line from Mean Girls 2024, but they can’t remove it from my mouth—along with Orlando’s needle wang) has gotten more in touch with her heritage…apart from just drinking like a sailor on leave the way she used to.