Let it be no more.

Possibly to the detriment of increased readership, I always start my posts with a personal story. Usually it's very loosely related to the film or its themes, or sometimes, just an incident from my unspectacular life that I was reminded of while watching. But as I'm just north of my four-hundredth post, these introductory paragraphs are getting harder and harder to come up with. Soon, I'm afraid, I'm going to have to dust off some already published stories and reimagine them. Maybe tell you the dreaded untold story...

I'll tell you right now, outside of spending an hour and a half with the impossibly sexy Angelina Jolie, Maleficent simply isn't my kind of film. Yeah, I've said it before, I'll watch anything, but I never said I'd enjoy doing so. And while Disney's latest live-action version of a beloved classic doesn't unseat Tim Burton's Alice In Wonderland as biggest turd ever, it further cements the fact that these flicks simply ain't for me. With or without Lara Croft.

Let me be clear: this isn't a bad movie. Not offensively so, anyway. It's just that outside of an enchanting Angelina Jolie, for me, there wasn't much else to care about. The effects are nice, sure, and the script somewhat clever. Hell, I even liked the supporting cast, too. But for a guy clearly outside the target demographic, I simply didn't give a damn about any of it. In fact, I rented it for my wife (and my aforementioned unrequited love of Mrs. Brad Pitt), and that crazy bitch fell asleep before Jolie made an appearance. Just  kidding. She's not crazy...