Galvin crop

It commenced, if I recall correctly, with a chuckle.

A chortle followed. Definitely a chortle; then, in short order, a cackle.

A chuckle, a chortle, a cackle … and before you knew it, the cachinnation had created a crescendo that crested over the crowd.

From where we were sitting, it was difficult to hear from where the belly-laugh originated — that is, until we knocked craniums and realized that it had indeed emanated from where we were sitting.

We (no, not the cat) had taken advantage of some rare time off together — with neither a tee time or a dance class on the docket — and sat our tired selves down in the comfy thrones at Tinseltown movie theater to watch a dozen commercials, eight trailers for coming attractions and a matinee.

It’s hard to say what caused us to chuckle, chortle and cackle so vociferously at the moment in question, which came near the end of a wicked little film called “Wicked Little Letters.”

The difficulty lies not in describing the scene near the end of the movie. That’s simple (although it would spoil the plot to say more). Instead, the reason it’s hard to say is that it’s “hard to say” … in a manner of speaking.

The line of dialogue in question comes from one of the protagonists in the film — which purports to tell the story of a shocking incident in the English seaside town of Littlehampton in the early 1920s, wherein residents began receiving letters with messages that, in another age, would have kept the makers of LAVA soap short-stocked for months.

Here are the words in the line that I can repeat, in order of appearance: “Oh —- off, you pasty, old shriveled old —- ——- ——- old—-!”

By that point in the proceedings, two things were clear — the receiver of that diatribe had —— well deserved it; and those watching “Wicked Little Letters” had long since dropped any resistance to being offended by the language.

At least we had and, since we were smack-dab in the middle of the demographic plopped down in Tinseltown’s thrones at that moment, it can be reported that nary a peep of disgust rose above the communal guffaws.

The beauty of cursing, of course, lies in the ears of the listener. There are times in a movie, or a stand-up comedy routine, where the use of “foul” language comes across as tone-deaf: “Look at me,” the self-style provocateur seems to be saying, “I can swear and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

But used instinctually, artfully, with intent, a string of invectives can be symphonic.

George Carlin taught us this 52 years ago — with his classic, controversial and court-sanctioned routine detailing how —-, —-, —-, —-, ———-, ————, and —- could not be said on television.

Thirty years ago, the first words in the beloved rom-com “Four Weddings and a Funeral” come from a pair of characters combining to say the F-word seven times with slapstick precision as they scurried to get to the first nuptials on time.

Rare in the years since, though, has been the true comedy that gets as much narrative mileage out of bawdy talk as “Wicked Little Letters.”

The movie would be meaningless without the colorful content of the letters being read aloud by a variety of equally colorful characters — although, strangely enough, not one a sailor. And it’s impossible to imagine trying to watch on broadcast television channels … it would be a continuous bleep-fest.

Whether this is a film for you to see depends on your ears. I do know that when it ended, and we rubbed our respective craniums after clanking them together in a fit of merriment, I offered an apology for the language to my date, who is unaccustomed to hearing anyone (but her husband) use such words.

No need, she said. In the context of the story, it made sense.

Besides, we agreed, these days it was a nice change to have the chance to laugh our —– off.