G-E-N-I-U-S-!

I am considering getting out of the business and just deferring to Cindy Adams, whose column in the Post has rewritten the standard of what New York film coverage should be. Take today's trenchant review of the newest Hallstrom-meets-Harvey melodrama An Unfinished Life:

Miramax's Robert Redford-Jennifer Lopez-Morgan Freeman job, An Unfinished Life, should have stayed unfinished. Writing clichéd, directing leaden, so spectacularly bad that Redford's every burp is telegraphed, and Morgan the Magnificent comes across acting saintly by-the-numbers. The best in it is Jennifer. When the reviews came out, one guy said: "J.Lo got raves that are big and round and glowing . . . but, wait . . . that sounds like I'm talking about her ass."

And…. scene.

Naturally, the Post's continuing editorial disconnect (right) steals the show—because, you know, I would be smiling too if this piece of shit claimed two hours of my life I could never get back. Especially if it starred J-Lo? We are talking about the purest possible definition of happiness.