Deliciously thumbs-down movie reviews

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Seems like "Yes", with its script in verse, is a "gimme" for clever critics.
Here's Anthony Lane from the New Yorker:

The latest Sally Potter film, called “Yes,”

Describes a love affair. I must confess

Her other work—“Orlando,” starring Tilda

Swinton, so uptight I could have killed her,

And “The Tango Lesson”—left me numb.

This new film is a little warmer; some

Of the encounters rage and seethe. The scene

Is London, where Joan Allen (hail the queen

Of hauteur) plays an embryologist,

Married, lonely, miserable, and pissed.

She meets a chef (Simon Abkarian), who’s cute,

Mustachioed, intense, and from Beirut.

They stroll beneath the blossom, get the hots,

Nuzzle close, and talk of apricots.

“You can taste her secret with your tongue”:

So says our guy, to show he’s really hung.

And that’s the story. Not much else

occurs.

He does a writhing dance. She moans and purrs.

Sam Neill, as her husband, stands and drinks

And fails to grasp a single thing she thinks.

By the end, we know what Potter hates:

Bigots, God, and the United States,

And Anglo-Saxon men in suits and ties

Who seem unable to control their flies.

And here’s the hook: I guess it could be worse,

But—brace yourself—the whole damn thing’s in verse.

Rhyming couplets, five-stress lines, the lot:

A Michael Bay production this is not.

“Do make yourself at home. Come; sit by me,

Something to drink? Perhaps you’d like some tea.”

You may get off on this enthralling stuff,

But after half an hour I’d had enough.

I have a secret hunch that Potter knows

Her tale is skimpy; that is why she goes

For multiple dissolves, CCTV,

And endless slo-mo: all the devilry

That smart directors use to fill the time—

Think George Lucas, minus droids, plus rhyme.

I’d love to say I watched this film and cried

At witnessing the cultural divide

That Potter sees as wounding West and East;

I could have squeezed my Raisinets, at least.

As things stand, I came out more

impressed—

Check out Joan Allen in a running vest,

Sweating those pentameters away—

Than moved by anything it had to say.

“Yes” is brave; I only wish its beauty

Didn’t come with such a sense of duty.

It leaves you looking coldly down your nose

At movies where the people speak in prose.

(Should you want a Potter who will carry

The flag for British movies, bring on Harry.)

So just imagine all the table talk

These coming summer evenings in New York:

“Darling, ‘Yes’ is playing. We could go

And skip the ‘O.C.’ rerun. Shall we?” “No.”