Every now and again you read a review where the writer has been given the space to explain in quite some detail and with unrelenting passion why a book or film gets it utterly wrong or right.

Take this review of The Reader.

I get the definite impression that Frederic Raphael did not think too much of this novel:

The success of Bernhard Schlink’s novel, The Reader, has proved literally inexorable: it could not be prayed away, fervently though a coterie composed of those with a certain sense of smell wished it consigned to oblivion, if never to the bonfire. To burn such books is to put them in better company than they deserve; but to go along with their many admirers is to subscribe to the virtues of vulgarity and its daimon, smirking fame.

And that is merely the opening two sentences.