By The Sentient Portrait of an Early 19th Century Gentleman
Upon the morning's first light, I vacated my diggings and pointed my velocipede towards the local theater, my intentions being to view the latest moving picture: Clash of the Titans. Upon my arrival I was put into a fine pucker upon discovering that a gape-mouthed boodle of border ruffians had seen fit to congregate at the entrance. My first inciliation was to absquatulate then and there, but as it had been a coon's-age since I had attended a performance of this sort, I soon acquiesced.
I planked down the funds required (far from a pittance, I assure you!) and made my way into the theater at full chisel, more than a bit wrathy at the shine-cuttings of the soaplocks who filled the lobby.
It would be an understatement to say that I did not cotton to the film. Immidiately upon the launch of the feature, I bore witness to a display of vulgarity unlike any I have been heretofore been privy. To wit: During one particularly troubling set-piece featuring a shirtless, unkempt youth, I felt apt to swoon, as the creator piled agony after agony upon my troubled countenance, offending equally the eyes, the ears, and the Christian soul. It seemed apparent to me that the film was naught but a husking frolic patronized solely by street rowdies and whoremongers, which had been filmed and released to theaters with little concern for the public welfare or good taste.
Pish. I haven't the time for such gullyfluff.
Indeed, so vile were the trappings of the film, that for the briefest of periods my limbs began to shake in such a fashion that I fear I had been afflicted with a particularly insidious dose of the hectic fever. In retrospect, this may have been to my benefit, for were I not indisposed in this manner I would have been wont to dash about the theater beseeching any comely young woman I might happen across to make haste to the exit at once, out of the fear (however irrational) that viewing the crude and profanetory content upon the screen might cause her to begin swilling Old Orchard and bandying her quim about amongst the sailors and dragsmen in attendance.
"By the horn spoons!" I exclaimed at one point, shielding my eyes from the screen, "Is there no escape from this depravity?!"
"Oy! Shut pan, and sing small," one of the other patrons admonished, "or I've half a mind to put you down right off the reel with a sogdolloger!"
At this, I stopped up, for though this could have been naught but bluster, the speaker was brawny fellow, with a plug-ugly countenance, and I thought it foolish to invoke his ire over an event so picayune. Nevertheless, I had been soured thoroughly on the film, and so made for the egress like the all-possessed, staunchly unwilling to be subjected to any further prurience from the dastardly forces which had thrown this monstrosity before the masses.
Shout if you will, you wretch.
In closing, I cannot help but feel that even the philistinical lowbreds (to whom this filth was undoubtedly intended to cater) have been hornswaggled by this film's producers beyond all imagining, and as such should seek recompense from the governmental bureau of communications in their area. This picture should be viewed as an affront to all humankind, and I hold no doubt that many patrons would find that a dose of the French Pox more desirable than even a momentary viewing.
I hereby confer upon this film a rating of cipher (which is to say, zero).
I bid you good day.