AFTER YOU’VE READ enough of those little film reviews in tiny type at the back of Washington City Paper, they begin to seem like the insane rantings of a person who has sat too long in dark, musty theaters. Especially when they pan one of your favorite films. You could probably just randomly string words together for those reviews. The type is so small no one would know the difference, or they would think that the reviewers are getting even cleverer. The following is my “take” on “DK” ‘s review of:

Yellow Submarine: Souvenir psychedelia for heads and wops, with intrusions of innocence. The animation project does more coffee, where this film does no more justice to the surface. A twisty maze of stiffly executed commercial project: Is this a shrewdly innocent Fantasia for Mr. Beatnik? The film is a continuation of art nouveau, Peter Max, and the flute. It seems to do some keys on a groove. Your mind extends across the film and sees more than your eye, but Disney’s artists had the Indians! The film does more to the music than any critic here recently. He’s ready for a dry stream-bed. But (DK) has the excuse of being an idiot, and the Beatles do not.

Joshua Berlow, Silver Spring, Md.