Plot
Michael Lynch is one of Dublin's most notorious criminals. He has two wives, Christine and Lisa (they are also sisters), as well as many children. When he is not spending time with his family, he is plotting heists with his gang. His actions make him an iconic figure, and he has a rapport with the general public despite being a criminal.
During his elaborate heists, he concentrates on the showmanship as much as the crime itself. He pulls off a daring art theft, stealing several priceless paintings from Dublin's best art gallery, giving the authorities the slip. The Gardaí become more determined to catch him as time goes on, in particular Noel Quigley, an officer whose ambition to catch Lynch becomes an obsession. His actions also gain the ire of the IRA.
Lynch finds himself in trouble when he is unable to sell a stolen Caravaggio painting, giving Quigley the opportunity he was waiting for to try and catch him. Lynch is forced to go on the run, with his popularity with the public at stake.
Read more about this topic: Ordinary Decent Criminal
Famous quotes containing the word plot:
“We have defined a story as a narrative of events arranged in their time-sequence. A plot is also a narrative of events, the emphasis falling on causality. “The king died and then the queen died” is a story. “The king died, and then the queen died of grief” is a plot. The time sequence is preserved, but the sense of causality overshadows it.”
—E.M. (Edward Morgan)
“There comes a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given him to till.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)
“The plot was most interesting. It belonged to no particular age, people, or country, and was perhaps the more delightful on that account, as nobody’s previous information could afford the remotest glimmering of what would ever come of it.”
—Charles Dickens (1812–1870)