There are fewer jobs I covet less than David Denby's. Sure, Denby gets to pen movie reviews for the New Yorker, but however much fun that may be, it's not worth having to hit behind Anthony Lane every week. Because no matter how good you are, sharing a space with Lane can only turn out badly for you. He's just too sublime.

So my sympathies for Denby were relieved reading his review of Spanglish this week. His lede is fantastic:

There are terrible seasonal movies thrown together in a state of laziness and disgust--for instance, that poisoned plum pudding Ocean’s Twelve, in which the director, Steven Soderbergh, and a dirty-dozen pack of stars amuse one another with how little they care about what they’re doing. Hanging out in such difficult-to-like locations as Rome and Lake Como (in George Clooney’s villa), the stars put each other on and then smile knowingly, as if in possession of some delicious secret. My, what fun. The movie treats us like servants thrilled by the wonderful time our masters are having on vacation. Even servants have pride however . . .

For this week, at least, I ask: Anthony who?