Even if you're in the mood for a low-budget horror movie about a maniacal leprechaun in bloody quest of a crock of gold, you'd do well to pass on "Leprechaun" (at selected theaters). This dingy, drab, pointless little movie--a would-be shamrock shocker about four teen-agers menaced by the Irish super-scamp while renovating a North Dakota farmhouse--is made without flair or imagination, seemingly enervated by its own bad taste and low intentions.
"I want me pot of gold!" the movie's fiendishly jolly little leprechaun screams endlessly, impersonated by "Willow's" Warwick Davis under lots of latex. And all the while, he cackles, grins, swings his bloody shillelagh, maims or disembowels victims, or endlessly chases them around a disheveled farmyard while they try, futilely, to paint the front porch.
"Me pot of gold! Me pot of gold! " It might be the filmmakers' cry as well. Where's the pot o' box-office someone snagged out of "Child's Play," "Gremlins," "Critters" or every other cutie-pie horror show of recent years? As empty, one hopes, as the crock at the end of every other '80s rainbow.
Writer-director Mark Jones strains mightily to achieve cliche level, but the movie isn't dumb enough to be fun. The settings are drab, the plot creaks, the dialogue is full of empty chirps. And the cast of victims is the usual all-formula grab-bag: a saucy L.A. feminist wench in short-shorts (Jennifer Aniston), a bemused hunk (Ken Olandt), a slow-thinking slobbo (Mark Holton) and a Spielbergian quick kid, aided by a dull-witted cop or two and the hapless O'Gradys, who bring the leprechaun back from Erin.