As you might have noticed, occasionally I like to dip into the occasional movie reviewing foray. It's kind of fun to do, but I'm a little shy about doing it. While my writing kung-fu might be adequate for this here bloggy blog, my writing kung-fu is not nearly as strong as the film critic at the San Francisco Bay Guardian. How can I keep on writing my piddling little movie reviews after reading such eloquent, intellectual clap trap as this (from a review of Twentynine Palms, some French sex flick that just got released this week)?


"Evidence that Dumont has a knack for hypnotizing haters can be found in any review that rages against Twentynine Palms's double-whammy climax, and there are plenty to choose from, most penned in (perhaps penned within?) red, white, and blue. This is a film that begs for – or demands – a reception-theory survey. A patriotic dedication to Hollywood values dictates most reviews, though one interesting exception – a regret-tinged dismissal by Dumont's chief U.S.-based champion, New York Press critic Armond White – instead reflects a consistent dislike for an antihumanist genre (horror). "

I am so not worthy of being a film-critic