Actual Title Banned for Bloatedness..

Actual Title: What Does All of This Titus (Former Sylabble)age Mean to Titus(Latter Sylabble)? Title Subject to Change Pending Reaction of Militant Moralists.

Not a dowsabel-delighter, but a truly sanguineous piece (there is not a mensch-moral man in Taymor's retro-and-real-day-Rome), somber as gold-ganefing clouds, dark as morion midnight. For the bard-boobosies, who think of him as nothing but a scribbler of tosh-talk (who think him more nonsensical than that codwallop coupleteer, Dr. Suess), they are, in part, in the right here. This is that Renaissance raconteurer's pirouette-into-a-pratfall, his haut monde-ostracized, kerry-coal-hearted, dramaturgical debut. It has some strikes, some sclaffs, the glitter-in-the-gangue. This is Shake-a-spear when he is Melpomine-moved. This is little more than some risque roundelay, though the words pour from the pen of this brilliant-with-a-biroer like rum-runnels.

Monday-muzzy-eyed Titus Andronicus (Anthony Hopkins) repairs to Rome with his surviving, hot-haffeted progeny from campaigns, to find himself at enmity with Tamora (Jessica Lange, Goth Queen), the saturnine emperor, Saturnine (Alan Cumming), and their kin (Loki-leering Demetrius and [trails off...], who are as promiscuous as our famulus-friendly former C.I.C.), after they violate the fodgel-faced, freesia-fragrant [mutters under breath and expels obscuring cough], as she is grove-gandering.

All other Shakespeare is snore, bore, and deplore compared to this.

Nor is this a Rousseau-reciprocation (thank Jove) to Olivier ostentatiousness.

Nor is this Romeo twirly ampersand Juliet (one peruse of that and out the window and gardyloo!) This is a gamay-giddy work that leaves me syllable-shikaring. While aspects of it leave me with question-kittled brow, such as the exposition with the skiffle-sprightly lobbygow-to-the-grandsire, Lucius, a Frankenstein-farraginous (chariots and Streetfighter and magnums and halberds), blin-thin-dialogued, skirl-shrill-scored, moyenage-minded work that left critcs sycophant-slapping palms for director, producer, screenplay-preparer, Julie Taymor (The Lion King, broadway).

And the images! joy to Gaia and Hades and haven-happy, clap-clamor jubilation, by Bacchus and blitheness, and Dionysus-delight of my eyes and make a Midas-moron of me and giggle like a goober, roll and revel and rapture and rapacious-wanting and on my knees-need and beg, beg, beg for more! the images! they left me exopthalmis-excited.

They were satisfactory.

The sight of Titus holpen-hollering, one feels the rataplan-rib-rapping of heart after the opening.

This is no dungarees-to-the-desk-dishabelled approach to film-forging!

This movie did not holus bolus-happen. Taymor handles the molasses-mucilaginous situation of making this bloody bloop watchable and wonder-worthy, especially for the shi tzu-short attention spanned masses. This movie makes me happy as liqour-laved bar-birkies, because of the Ingmar-images, Hopkins, the Boschness.