I have a confession to make: I am an occasional actor. This is a surprisingly little known fact, but is none the less true. Next year's movie releases will include Neil Jordan's 'The Butcher Boy' and John Boorman's 'The General' and in both of these I make a tiny, but dramatic appearance. I mention this only to establish my credentials; after all, surely this must equip me well for a visit to Planet Hollywood?

You'd have to have been living on still another planet to have escaped the publicity and hype that accompanied the opening of Dublin's newest franchise on Stephen's Green: it even merited a slot on RTE news, which is something no other restaurant has ever managed. This is not altogether surprising given the number of major Hollywood celebrities who turned up for the event and who, if I understand it properly, will make even more money from their holdings in this franchise.

I chose to go the night following the official celebrity opening. In the theatre it is a well understood phenomenon that the second night will always be something of a let down. All the adrenaline of the first night, all of its excitement, its anticipation, the buzz, are suddenly gone in a haze of euphoria, and the mundane, ordinary world of the repetitive daily grind takes its place. An air of psychic and physical tiredness pervades second nights, but if the production is good and the actors professional, the show goes on as seamlessly and as flawlessly as the glitzy first night.

My guest for the night was Sonia Thornton, a young and energetic lady who is one of Dublin's up and coming PR people. When we met, I discovered that she'd been to the opening the night before and hadn't got to bed until five in the morning. She herself was a mild sufferer of second night blues - but undeterred by lack of sleep and a tiny hangover she had heroically agreed to keep me company. As she talked of the star-studded occasion of the previous night I began to wonder if I was twenty-four hours late. A seemingly endless supply of free champagne and cigarettes is close to my idea of a perfect party and it had certainly left my guest with a kindly disposition to the place.

When you walk into Planet Hollywood there's a lobby with polished stone floors, there's a bar on the left, and if you walk past it you'll find your way barred by a small lectern where there is someone to find you seating. Beyond this there is an impressively large stair well leading to the downstairs and beyond that the upstairs seating area. Being a smoker I never got to see the downstairs since it's the non-smoking area, but Sonia assured me that the two rooms downstairs were as beautifully decorated as where we were.

You won't be surprised when I tell you that the decor is heavy on the movie motif. The ceiling has a small plane from a Bond film hanging upside down, a suspended railway coach on a piece of track and a small helicopter, which I'm sure has a movie significance that unfortunately eludes me. A crouched and naked man hangs face downward in a large, clear plastic cover over the stairwell, which Sonia assured me was Arnie in 'Demolition Man'. The walls are covered in cases displaying movie memorabilia: right in front of me was Daniel Day Lewis' Afghan coat from 'In the Name of the Father', a rugby kit from 'Circle of Friends' and behind me, hanging from the ceiling, Michael Collins' bike. There's an animal motif as well: one wall is faux zebra skin, the upholstered benches around the sides have a design that I couldn't quite pin down to a specific animal and the carpet has a leopard skin pattern.

But the most obvious and notable part of the decor are the screens of various sizes which are on nearly every wall. They show trailers and movie clips; for example two personal favourites of mine, the scene from 'Wayne's World 2' when they do YMCA in the gay club and Gene Kelly light-footing it along the pavement in 'Singing in the Rain'. When the clips aren't showing the speakers are playing music loud enough to make conversation difficult. I use a small tape-recorder to make notes, and playing it back now there are whole chunks where all I can hear is the music. You've probably noticed that it's taken me a while to get to the food. I'd thought about giving you a blow-by-blow account of what we ate but truthfully, I don't think there's any point. What seems clear to me is that no one is going to go to Planet Hollywood for the food. For a start it's not cheap; two appetisers, two main courses and one dessert was almost forty pounds, and it's not that good either. This is the sort of place that your kids will force you to take them to and you'll probably have to fork out for some merchandising as well, like T-shirts, sweatshirts or James Dean leather jackets at £265. This is an unashamed marketing exercise aimed at sad people whose only possible sniff of celebrity is to go to a place that's owned by one.

I looked briefly for a wine list and found a brief wine list. I settled on a beer. When I asked Sonia if she wanted wine or beer her face took on the expression of someone who's just been asked to club a baby seal to death. 'God, no. I'll have a non-alcoholic Pina Colada.' As it happened, she didn't. It arrived with alcohol so she changed it for a Coke. And what is it with Caesar Salad? It's not exactly a hard salad to make; most first-year chefs could do it with their eyes closed. Three nights previously I'd been to the Film Ball in Ardmore Studios where the same dish appeared as the starter. Fitzers, who did the catering, seem to think a Caesar Salad is some lettuce leaves with some rather nasty Parmesan grated on and slices of baguette the size of my fist calling themselves croutons. Here, my guest had asked for no croutons but they arrived anyway, and these were also huge croutons. Why? If size equates to good, then it would explain our dessert: quite the biggest slice of chocolate cake I've ever seen - really - enough to feed two or three people no bother.

I had a calzone for my main course, which is pizza folded in half. It made me think of Piat D'Or, which is a wine that was created by marketing men. They blended a wine, got people to taste it and fill out little forms, changed it accordingly, did the same again, and eventually came up with Piat D'Or - which no sensible person would drink. My calzone had all the hallmarks of this approach. A bland dough, oversugared and under-salted, and an indeterminate filling whose only taste was that of chilli.

But enough: I'm just grateful that my children have reached the age of discretion and won't force me to take them there.