But I digest. The point I'm trying to make is that most of the critics who reviewed Wellville didn't review the movie but reviewed themselves and their obviously disastrous potty training. Parker's commendably straightforward approach - here's a man who calls a turd a turd - was bound to come a crapper with a middle-class, middle-brow sensibility that can only handle faeces if they come wrapped in a pretty box labelled "Literature" (The Canterbury Tales or Genet) or "Art". I draw your attention to the serious notices given to a recent exhibition involving children's soiled nappies (yes, yes: your three-year-old could do better than that).
Parker, another working-class lad, is having none of it. His setting may be America, but his assault is on coy Britishness, the sort that reads The House at Pooh Corner to its progeny but thinks Carry On movies set a bad example. Actually, Parker can rest happy in the knowledge that Wellville's notices are a vindication: that howl he's hearing invariably accompanies a certain substance hitting a fan.