After hours of quiet contemplation, Blog has come to the conclusion that New York Observer film critic Rex Reed is the human embodiment of a fart. In recent years, Reed has exhibited his complete lack of taste for lambasting such films as Minority Report, Monster's Ball and Mulholland Drive while spewing praise all over the likes of The Majestic, The Sum of All Fears and Phone Booth. He doesn't just dislike good movies, he loathes them with every fiber of his being. Take his recent critique of Big Fish:

Every once in a witch's sabbath, a pile of utter bilge pops up like a boil that needs lancing, and they throw around words like "magical." That pretty much describes how I feel about Tim Burton's Big Fish, a load of tripe that no attempt on my part could make sound half as pretentious and conceited as it really is.

It's easy to dismiss Rex Reed as an archaic hold-over, the film critic equivalent of Marmaduke until you read the rest of the review. Tim Burton's latest film opens out here on Christmas Day and has thus far been marinated in praise by other critics. Not only did Reed admittedly sleep through Big Fish, he gives away its twist ending. To make matters worse, in the same column he practically cries tears of joy over the cinematic drivel that is Mona Lisa's Smile. Not only is Reed tasteless, his reviews are downright Machiavellian.

Please, someone, send Rex Reed to the glue factory before he kills another plotline. Chop! Chop! This is my decree. Blog has spoken.