The Monuments Men

Nancy and I go to a movie at our local Malco Theatre about once a year.  (I don’t need to tell you why once a year.)

Our selection for 2014 is The Monuments Men.  It has been panned as an unfocused series of tenuously related vignettes, a mediocre rendition of an ill-defined plot, a film released in mid-February because it does not merit prime season screen space.

Admittedly, it lacks the deafening stereo-cacophonic sound track, gutter-slimy f—blathering dialogue, gratuitously violent sickle-wielding gut-letting, pornographic marriage-mocking hetero/homo/auto-sexual concupiscence, shameless race and gender baiting, and mind-numbing banality of first rate Hollywood fare.

However, I left the theatre grateful for the artistic legacy of Western Civilization, preserved at great cost, of which I am a fortunate heir — grateful for the men and women of exemplary courage and integrity, in uniform and out, who made possible the safe and secure Happy Days of my youth — and very proud of Old Glory.

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