A man! A man has tried to kill himself! His life has become so unbearably bleak that he stared into the pit of misery and felt compelled to end it, seeing his precious, fragile life as so worthless that it was no longer required to continue, aiming to snuff it out like a flickering flame.

Of course, because the man in question is actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers, we must see this as a titillating and ultimately amusing thing. No sympathy here. No-one wants us to be sympathetic.

And so, hilariously, Rhys Meyers was rushed to hospital by ambulance after his suicide attempt, which we’ll now pass off as a dreadful example of attention seeking. After seeing him act, we can’t possibly believe that he meant it. Have you seen Velvet Goldmine? Exactly.

Meyers, who you may recognise from his stint as boorish Henry VIII in the arousal-killing series The Tudors, is understood to have gobbled handfuls of pills at his very nice £3million home in west London. We have to mention the price of his house so you can either surmise that he was either rattling around the manifestation of his success like a lonely nutjob or, indeed, sneer because someone with that much money can’t possibly have problems big enough to warrant a suicide attempt.

But Johnno does have problems y’know? He’s long battled a drink problem, presumably brought about by the fact that he knows full well what a terrible, terrible actor he is. We can sympathise. We also fell into a job which we’re not very good at and, as such, are constantly staring self-inflicted death in the face as we wait for readers to call bullshit on our careers, which of course, will tip us over the edge or, at best, see us feigning suicide in an attempt to stave off criticisms with a sympathy vote.

Alas, what we don’t have is lots of money like Rhys Meyers, who just so happened to check into a five-star rehabilitation centre in South Africa not too long ago. It was his fifth stint in a rehab, which is clearly not working for him.

Just like his acting ability.

Scotland Yard today confirmed:

‘Officers were called by London Ambulance Service to a residential address following reports of man refusing treatment. ‘

One of the officers probably considered leaving him to die after remembering the woeful Bend It Like Beckham which JRM starred in before reluctantly remembering his duties.

So there you have it. Suicide. It’s funny isn’t it?

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You’re off to a bad start when the title for your latest John Travolta starring blockbuster is a play on one of James Bond’s more reserved offerings.

From Paris With Love is another movie from the Luc Besson production line (story credit obligatory), this time involving some secret agents, terrorist plots and John Travolta looking like something Marlon Brando ate.

At its core, it’s a continuation of his character from The Taking of Pelham 123 (except playing for the other side now) still unhinged, erratic and clearly having a ball. It’s the most fun he’s been on screen for quite a while.

The story focuses on bleary-eyed Oirishman, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, an undercover CIA agent hoping to make it big in the agency. While not the most likeable of actors, it’s an unsure start for Meyers’ Reece, living an idyllic life with a perfect girlfriend.

When Travolta’s Charlie Wax comes along as his partner, it shakes things up a bit, reducing Meyers to nothing more than a straightman to Wax’s antics. He’s an audience’s way in that’s serviceable to the plot, which in itself is a maze that there’s no point getting lost in.

Moles, drug lords, terrorists, it all seems too baffling incoherent to take seriously, so the action takes precedence. The variety of boom is engaging, a decent freeway scene, gun fights and Travolta throwing his weight around. Taken director Pierre Morel clearly has one of the best eyes for action, just not for characters.

It’s a worrying trait, considering that he’ll next be helming the Dune adaptation – a story that remains closely tight to many a geek’s heart. Not that this is solid evidence to go on, it’s a buddy-cop movie after all. One moment the duo are bickering about some semantics, then next they’re blowing up a group of drug dealers in a car. It’s not quite Lethal Weapon but it follows the formula: unhinged, borderline psychotic cop is paired with by-the-book do-right.

It doesn’t grow tired, though, pacing along so that anything inconsequential like characterisation, subtlety and plot are unneeded. This is pure popcorn action entertainment, delivered with a sprinkling of star power and an eye-catching backdrop – what better place to fire a rocket launcher than in the heart of Paris?

The film isn’t trying to be the super-sleuth of the new generation. It isn’t concerned with cunning gadgets, sharp suits and gorgeous women, this is about firepower, stunts and a central conceit built around fun. This shouldn’t be From Paris with Love; it’s more like Casino Royale with Cheese.

‘Spray Rating: 3/5

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If you like The Ring and you love Identity, then you’re probably not the type of person that we’d ever like to meet you agoraphobic cheese-eating loon.

Still, Shelter should be right up your alley. Julianne Moore – that ginger one from everything – plays a forensic psychiatrist, who discovers that all of one of her patient’s (Jonathan Rhys Meyers – drunk/Tudor) multiple personalities are murder victims. It’s got everything you could possibly want from the people behind the aforementioned The Ring and Identity, all wrapped up in a nice thriller package.

We’ve got five copies of the film to give away to you lucky readers on Blu-ray. All you have to do is answer a question. An easy question, mind – we wouldn’t want to hurt your heads.

Julianne Moore recent starred alongside Colin Firth in A Single Man but what is Colin Firth’s most famous performance? Was it:

A) Colin Firth

B) Colin Firth

C) Colin Firth

Answers on the back of an imaginary postcard and sent to hello[at]hecklerspray.com, under the title Gimme Shelter. Closing date is August 10th and winners will be picked out at random on the 11th.

Sheltand is out on Blu-ray and DVD right now!

When Jonathan Rhys Meyers isn’t running around New York unknowingly looking for his stupid musical prodigy son, he’s punching Frenchies in the face. It’s his passion, don’t you know.

Chances are you read that opening sentence and thought to yourself – “Yet another thing I have in common with that weird-eyed actor.” Well who doesn’t share that lust? Right? We absolutely love punching things that are French – be they sliced potatoes or Sarkozy ex-wives – we just want to give ‘em the ol’ salty knuckle.

Of course – we’d never do it publicly. That’s where Meyers loses us.

Chances are if you were a French man standing between Jonathan Rhys Meyers and anything that looks faintly alcoholic, you’re gonna get punched. It’s not really fair, if you think about it. After all, the French are a peace loving people who would give you absolutely anything you want. A good example of this is how they were so willing to make all their children speak German back in 1940. It’s probably a great country to border is what we’re saying.

Imagine then, if you will, the shock of a French waiter who only wants to make foreigners happy with bad food and a slight stink, but gets assaulted by an actor with a resume covered in Roger Ebert‘s stomach chunks instead. It’s almost unfathomable! It’s unfair!

For the record – we don’t know exactly how a feeble Frenchman ended up on the business end of a Meyers-knuckle sandwich. What we do know, though, we learned on E!:

“For the second time in two years, the Tudors king is facing charges after an airport dustup, this time for allegedly punching a waiter at a bar in Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport on Saturday. According to Agence France-Presse, Rhys Meyers was ordered to appear in court in September on charges of “willful violence, outrage, hitting and threatening death.”"

Would you like specifics as to the threatening death part? The actor told the waiter he was gonna gut him, fill him with helium, and then attach him with a string to that North Korean rocket that’s supposed to buzz Hawaii any day now. Very intimidating, really.

That may or may not have happened. What did happen after the French-fight is this -  according to the Sun:

“Boozy TV hunk Jonathan Rhys Meyers challenged cops to a drunken fight at an airport. He bragged how rich he was, threw euros on the floor and then told the officers: “You wanna hit me? Hit me!”"

Of course the police did hit him – but it was only with scared fingertips from a distance on a fully extended and double-gloved hand. We’re told Meyers didn’t even know they were there until his skin began to itch somewhere between 100 – 120 swats.

We think that’s what we were told. When you read as much as we do things begin to blur.

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Jonathan Rhys Meyers, the actor that everyone knows as 'him out of Mission: Impossible III; not that one, or that one, or that one, or that one – the other one', is one drunk bastard.

So drunk is Jonathan Rhys Meyers, in fact, that he's got arrested for it after staff at Dublin airport told him that he was too drunk to fly on Sunday and he kicked up a giant drunken stink about it. What's even more embarrassing is that Jonathan Rhys Meyers had previously claimed that he'd given up drinking long ago, although scientists are now claiming that Jonathan Rhys Meyers may have been working off the Irish teetotal model, which still allows you to get shitfaced on booze for up to four days a week.

That last wisecrack was brought to you in association with the Society For Painfully Outmoded National Stereotypes, by the way.

No matter what Hugh Grant tells you at the beginning of Love, Actually, airports are thoroughly depressing places. All anyone ever does there is queue, wait, queue, wait, pretend to be interested by aftershave to kid themselves that they're not waiting – that is, unless you've been on TV, in which case you're allowed to get wasted on as much booze as you can possibly chug in your allotted waiting period.

That's why Scott Stapp was arrested in LAX last year, and it's also why we'll be damned if we ever let anyone forget the time that David Hasselhoff lurched around Heathrow Airport drunk, trying to chat up shop assistants while urinating in his trousers. And the newest entry to the pantheon of drunk airport celebrities seems to be Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who you may know as Tom Cruise's third sidekick in Mission: Impossible III or as Henry VIII in The Tudors or as the bloke from that Woody Allen film that everyone was lying about when they said it wasn't crap.

On Sunday, Jonathan Rhys Meyers was returning from Dublin, where he'd been on the Tubridy Tonight show to promote his new film August Rush – which by all accounts doesn't look very good – where he stopped by the BMI counter in Dublin airport. It was at that point that staff reportedly told Jonathan he was unfit to fly because he seemed to be drunk, then Jonathan reportedly got abusive back, yelling:

"I will get on this flight, no matter what."

And then Jonathan was arrested and made to spend a few hours in the cells. He's due back in court of face the charges on December 5. None of this makes Jonathan Rhys Meyers look particularly good, especially since his life seems to consist of swings between proclamations of sobriety and stints in rehab.

However – let's face it – if it wasn't for Jonathan Rhys Meyer's arrest then hardly any of us would have known that August Rush was actually being released, so perhaps in the long-term it'll make more people go and see… no, good lord no, what were we thinking? That would never happen.