A film so anticipated, I saw it with my mom. A film so good, I enjoyed it with her. Mr. Shane Black remains the undisputed master of genre, and I kept thinking about his death (sorry, Mr. Black). If this was the 2050s set in the 1930s, we will be saying, ‘Worse still, no more Shane Black films.’

There is a level of craftsmanship going on here that very few filmmakers, or even lucky films, ever achieve. It would be enough for the genuinely clever and earned surprises he generates by constantly subverting genre convention and expectation. But the attention to writing dialog and awareness of character consistency and trajectory, he is a one-man 1990s Pixar with tits, blood and swears. Like a donut to Homer Simpson, so Mr. Shane Black is to me.

Instead of discussing snacks, the ticket recalls the days of yore, where, like calling The Color of Night ‘Color of Nig’, we can now forever refer to Nice Guys as ‘The Nice G’. That’s truncated ticket machine!

Look, it’s the first movie I’m going to see in the theater twice since Ted. I’m not sure if it’s at the level of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, but the fact that I don’t know should say something. I haven’t told you a thing about it. I never do that. It comes out there tomorrow. You should see it. If you do, I promise to write a second piece that includes all the things one would expect driving an 81 year old woman 40 miles to the Gaumont Rennes to see an American film in a French multiplex.

It’s pretty boring story actually. But I will have time to embellish details in the interim. She did laugh at the tits though. It’s that giving something away.

Editor’s note: yeah, this is brief, but was written in the spare 20 minutes a day I get when I don’t have to find that special paper bag at the wine store for Suzi King. Damn, she has the internet now. She’s going to read this.

Fortunately, no one is reading this. Not even my mom.