. . . albeit one with a few irons in the fire of maturation. The Galloping Gourmet has nothing on my ass. What books can you best jerk off to? I can’t speak for others, but since the NYTBR is often misconstrued as the flagship weekly newspaper book review supplement, it’s disconcerting to see the Review regularly come across as a particularly crass frat boy spilling a keg of beer over the upholstery of a Rolls Royce on his way home from a stag party. Unless, of course, you confuse platform heels with a list of positions.
It is Smith’s inability to pursue the import he clearly wants to depict that cripples his film. She’s left to offer doe-eyed entropy when not making out with O’Halloran. It doesn’t help that she wears a T-shirt reading, “Mrs. Hicks,” which further highlights her thespic incompetence. Also, Colson Whitehead hates ice cream, which is a very sad and possibly more troubling thing than damning a writer exclusively on a phrase.
[The preceding has been a work composed entirely from the contents of Edward Champion’s Return of the Reluctant. The first installment in the series can be found here, the second installment here, and the third here.]