Dear Zac Pennington,

We know who Woody Allen is. We know what he does. Next time you have 300 words for a review, please spend more than half of them discussing the film and jam the rest of your shoddy opinions about the director into a tight appositive phrase in the lede.

Thank you,
Your Readers

P.S. Learn to write.

@ Zac,

On the one hand I don't think Ovidius understood the first three-quarters of your review.

On the other, I think Dee Dee read them far too closely and decided you were a shitweasel based on the single least crucial point in the whole thing.

(Journalism is a great job, except for the readers, hm?)

I, in what is apparently the third hand of this freakish metaphor mutant I've created, am going to go in a completely different direction and ask you the single most crucial query that you failed to address: Does this movie include Woody gettin' wit' a stunningly gorgeous starlet who would literally vomit on his naked body if presented with such sans the baffling clout he's accumulated over the years as ... whatever the fuck those cocksquirrels in New York City desperately hope he still is, if only to prop up the flagging ivory tower status that their comfortably habitable "Disney Land Of The Northeast" started shrugging off the moment Rudy Giuliani dropkicked the whores and junkies from what used to be moderately interesting slabs of concrete?