“I’ve just gotten back from a Sunday evening screening of King Kong, and the second and third acts of this monkey movie are pretty damned exciting in an emotional, giddily absurd, logic-free adrenalized way, and so I have a limited apology to offer to Peter Jackson.

“You aren’t that bad, bro. You got a few things right this time. The movie is going to lift audiences out of their seats. And I need to say ‘I’m sorry’ for bashing you so much because you’ve almost whacked the ball out of the park this time.

King Kong is too lumpy and oddball during the first hour to be called exquisite or masterful, but there’s no denying it pretty much wails from the 70-minute mark until the grand bittersweet finale at the three-hour mark.”

I apologize for not trashing this bloated, over-cranked mess of a film. I should have manned up and called it what it was, but I caved to some extent. I could apologize for the rest of my life for this, and who would care? I fucked up and I’ll never be forgiven, and I shouldn’t be.