It’s 1924. The Irish Civil War is over, and it’s time to draw the boundary between the North and the Free State. A gaggle of bloviating blowhards from both sides gather over a map of the island and set to work cordoning off counties. But when they realize that last call at the pub is imminent, the rest of the partition is scribbled in a frenzied red line before the inevitable mad dash for the bar. Bad news for the hapless hamlet of Puckoon, which is split willy-nilly in two. Suddenly churches are cut off from their cemeteries (the deceased must now secure passports for burial), houses are halved by measures of barbed wire, and punters cram into a tiny corner of the local to take advantage of the North’s cheaper pints.

It was said that the inspired surrealism of the late Spike Milligan’s daft, trenchantly absurd 1963 novel couldn’t be filmed, but Terence Ryan proves otherwise with this slice of provocative satire rendered as silly, stylized paddywhackery. A ramshackle village populated by slurring sots, shifty IRA men, imperious priests, and hubristic, hatchet-faced Brits is the quintessence of blarney, of course. But cartoony camerawork and knowing winks from an inspired cast that includes Richard Attenborough, David Kelly, Milo O’Shea, and Elliott Gould only make the mordant bite of this wolf in stage-Irishman’s clothing that much more subversive. (82 minutes)