PLOOT

I have as much patience as the next man, but I'm finished with you, M. Night Shamalam. I'm not saying it's entirely your fault; there are too many unknowns. For now, you're simply in the lead.

To get to the point, Shamalamalama Ding-Dong, you fail at subtlety. This tragic flaw of yours is epitomized by having your terrible excuse for a sympathetic main character embodied by one of Hollywood's most distasteful, veiny big shots. Sure, you may not have known what he was to become in this century, but come on, you must have had at least an idea. Mel is a self-identified Knight Templar Reserve, owns ten veal farms across California, and probably considered making you an offer on your name. And you expect to be able to give directions to a guy like that? Unforgivable mistake.

Sorry, this is meant to be about you, not Mel. I'm partly at fault for wasting two hours of my adult life on a plot-line that amounted to a three year old's scribbling. I should have read the six hundred reviews out there denouncing this artistic equivalent of a lawn mower. But dammit, I couldn't help it. Why do you always make movies with such sort-of intriguing concepts? And the way you always preface your name in your trailers with "From The Mind of...". Ach, why can't it all just come together? It always seems like it might happen. But it never does Shammy. It never does.