The most often-asked question I have gotten in my career as a film critic isn't how I see the movies. It isn't what I review for. It isn't how much do I make, or have I ever been blurbed. It's do I review porn. I smile at this, display a little bit of patience (a little bit more if the person who asks happens to be an attractive woman, and such a situation has happened more than once), and say that I don't. If they pester me with the question, I respond with a simple joke: "My main problem with porn is its lack of plot."

Although, quite honestly, I don't have a particular problem with porn (it just isn't in the regular canon of films to be reviewed, that's all), that simple joke often proves true. One-too-many guilty pleasure flicks have been bashed by me on the account that they do nothing other than serve as a generalized platform for commercializing sex without any other cinematic value. And, although I am willing to give points in such a B-or-C-grade film for casting a woman with certain... assets... that suit the part, I find myself unable to otherwise turn off the "critic's switch" within me to the point that I can be guiltlessly turned on by the images in front of me on the screen.

Continue reading: Wild Things Review