From: Ted Hamilton

To: Mr. Coen

cc: Mr. Coen

Subject: Your new “film”

Dear Sirs,

My name is Ted Hamilton, and I recently saw your new movie, Burn After Reading. Before we discuss reimbursement for my ticket, I would like to raise a few points.

First: An A-list cast does not a fine film make. Sure, you’ve got Clooney and Pitt, but this isn’t Ocean’s Fourteen. John Malkovich, Frances McDormand and a host of other recognizables don’t help. You can’t save a sinking ship.

“Sometimes something can be so bad, it becomes good again.”

Ideally, this quotation could be applied to Hamlet 2 but, unfortunately, the film failed to land many of the lofty punches it threw. Its frequent parody of cinematic and theatrical tropes often kept it closely bound to the films it was trying to lampoon rather than elevating it above them. I frequently found myself questioning what the film was trying to accomplish and — considering the frequency with which the dialogue turned on its head a culture steeped in political correctness — this is dangerous territory for a film to attempt to navigate. Without its fleeting satiric triumphs, Hamlet 2 would have been indistinguishable from many of Hollywood’s recent comedies.

One rather sarcastic movie goer commented to a friend: “Vicky Cristina Barcelona — why are there no commas? I do not know.” Although the film as a whole was slightly better than mediocre — but not quite up to par — the title is certainly justifiable and representative of the movie’s most distinctive characteristics.

I might not be the most popular guy in the room after this statement, but given the insane amount of hype surrounding The Dark Knight I feel compelled to speak my mind. No matter how many people seem to share the conviction that the new Batman sequel is “THE BEST MOVIE EVERRRR,” I would have to argue that the film — honestly, plain and simple — just ain’t that good.

“Carrie fever” is not an affliction experienced solely by Beyonce in Jay-Z’s “’03 Bonnie and Clyde.” Racing to get to an 8:01 p.m. showing of Sex and the City, I ransacked my room searching for something worthy to wear in the presence of The Sex. There was no dress code printed on prepaid tickets, or any memo passed on by the media, but any loyal Bradshaw fan knows that Sex and the City is synonymous with “Sex and Manolos.” Alas, my pragmatic self proved too strong and I chose jeans and a sweatshirt instead, but upon entering the theater I quickly found out that I was severely underdressed for the occasion.