Have you ever wondered what would happen if Andrew Lloyd Webber stopped writing horrible pop operas and started slicing people up in bullet time? Now you don't have to.

I never read the comic book, but I know Alan Moore has a penchant for angst, and apparently doesn't own a razor. But the movie is a little like a narcotic if you're watching it while on your period. I feel as though my hormones have been carbonated.

It's not every day you 'ship a vigilante burn unit victim and the 12 year old boy he keeps as a girlfriend. It's also not every day you weep for the fictional death of Stephen Fry, I don't imagine.