Unless it’s a six-hour, silent black-and-white trilogy about three generations of eastern European one-armed haberdashers and their sad plight, the Reader’s dourest critic is quickly displeased. However, throughout his long years of service it has become a rather reliable device to judge a good movie simply by waiting for whatever one at which our fine Mr. Rosenbaum has quivered his delicate nose in disgust!

To wit, his inevitable review of The Ring [Movies, Section Two]. Bravo old boy, and do keep separating the chaff from the wheat.