Category Archives: Jay

How To Be Single

The best thing about this movie was New York City. I love that city. I love it so much I can’t quite justify why I don’t live there, except then I couldn’t visit. 12339563_1534849863502185_4845266985900591715_o And boy do I visit. I hit that city like a hurricane of cash and I only leave when I’ve spent myself out. It sparkled in every nearly scene of this movie, which is more than I can say about the leads – Alison Brie, a total snore; Dakota Johnson, devoid of personality; Rebel Wilson against whom I am loathe to say a bad word except she’s working a shtick that’s tired and offensive (dear Hollywood producers, including Drew Barrymore, the name behind this particular mess: I have it on very good authority that it IS possible for a female to be fat and NOT obnoxious. I promise you it’s true!). I didn’t have a problem with Leslie Mann, resident old lady (seriously, it’s great that she’s game to play the crone opposite young actresses all the time, but let’s not put her in a box!), so of course she’s the Leslie-Mann-How-To-Be-Single-Movie-Poster least used of the four.

I think this is supposed to be a feminist rom-com, only without the rom, or the com. There’s nothing new here, and the notion that the feminist choice is between one boyfriend or many, is pretty insulting. The lesson taken from How To Be Single (besides consumerism and alcoholism) is either a) be rich enough to not need a man (and\or fat enough not to land one) or b) sleep with people you know you shouldn’t while pining over the guy YOU rejected and wallowing in self-pity and a bad haircut. Because how else will we women ever hang a picture or program our PVRs? I cannot recall laughing a single time during this movie, but I do 12370750_1534849806835524_1592610361207727068_o remember wincing in several spots – like when it quietly referenced a better movie about female empowerment. If this was an attempt to be ‘different’ it was a very, very conservative effort while still relying on heaps of familiar tropes and situations (ie, how did all the guys I’m sleeping with end up at the same party???).

And it’s too bad. Because in the time I was briefly single, I felt happy and alive. And maybe some of that was leaving a bad marriage, but the free Alison-Brie-How-To-Be-Single-Movie-Poster dom tasted sweet and the possibilities felt truly exhilarating. I was tingly feeling genuinely awake and I embraced being happy on my own. And I was. Very. And then I met Sean and became very happy with him. In fact, he made me unsingle five years ago this Saturday and I am plump with satisfaction. It is extremely gratifying to go through life with someone who gets you and wants the best for you. But I was happy being on my own, truly happy, and I wasn’t missing anything. And I certainly wasn’t missing this movie in my life, and neither are you. Not even a little.

Hail, Coen Brothers!

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Joel and Ethan Coen are at it again – the two wacky guys who brought us Fargo, The Big Lebowski, and No Country for Old Men have a new insta-classic to add to the list and it’s called Hail, Caesar!

The Coens are brilliant. I have no qualms about using that word, and I think their resume speaks for itself. Their names are already on this year’s Oscar ballot for having written the stirring screenplay for Bridge of Spies, an underrated but totally worthy movie that feels nothing like a Coen Brothers film, and isn’t one. They wrote it, and can write anything, but when they’re sitting in the director’s seat, they seem to prefer larger than life stories they can have a little fun with.

The Coens don’t chase box office success, but they do make the kind of movie that film buffs love to obsess over. I’m already obsessing over this one, which has been deemed by lesser souls to be of “limited appeal,” but dollars to donuts (yes I’m using that wrong and no I don’t know what it means) it’s the most fun I’ve had in a movie theatre in a good long while. This was at the expense of my fellow movie goers since I’m perennially sick and every fit of giggles dissolved into a fit of coughing. Coughing is the new clapping. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. There was lots of coughing. I mean lots of laughing!

The plot: Edward Mannix (Josh Brolin) is a honcho at the Capitol Pictures movie studio. He’s a fixer. He doesn’t own the place, but he does make it run. We follow him for about 27 hours, a day in the life as it were, and there are no less than 4 movies being shot on the studio back lot: the first, their blockbuster Hail, Caesar!, starring Baird Whitlock (George Clooney) as a Roman soldier who encounters Jesus Christ; the second, a movie musical currently shooting its aquatic spectacle with its newly and scandalously pregnant star (Scarlett Johansson); the third, a drama period piece set to star a spaghetti western crossover, Hobie Doyle (Alden Hail-Caesar-(2016)-poster Ehrenreich) much to the consternation of finicky director Laurence Laurentz (Ralph Fiennes); and the fourth, a comedy starring sprightly song and dance man Burt Gurney (Channing Tatum). Poor Eddie has a lot to contend with – fixing stars up on dates, rescuing starlets from French postcard situations, making good on his promise to his wife to quit smoking, and fending off twin sisters and rival gossip columnists, both played by Tilda Swinton – and that’s before he realizes that his biggest star, Baird Whitlock, has been kidnapped!

There is much (too much) to say about this film. First off, the cast was excellent. Of course it was excellent. The Coens have been in the biz an awfully long time and they’ve got a george-clooney-gets-kidnapped laundry list of Hollywood A-listers who beg to be in their films. George Clooney, for example, has worked with them three times before – Brother, Where Art Thou, Intolerable Cruelty, and Burn After Reading – all movies that I like, though I confess a particular burning love for Intolerable Cruelty especially. The Coens have great faith in Clooney’s comedic timing and treat us to a whole reel of his best reaction shots. It’s down right gluttonous – almost as sinful as that Roman costume they’ve got him strutting around in, showing off leg like you’ve never seen from him before. And my they’re nice legs. In fact, is there a human being on this planet who’s not a little in love with George Clooney?

Josh Brolin continues to ride this incredible surge in his career and proves a worthy choice. This is Brolin’s third Coen movie (after No Country for Old Men and True Grit) and he pulls this one together so tightly, so adroitly, you know he’ll be around for more. New comer Alden Ehrenreich impressed me immensely. IMDB assures me I’ve seen him before (in hail-caesar-featurette-the-cowbo-810x456 Blue Jasmin) but this is the first that I’ve noticed him – and he almost stole the show! Tilda Swinton, who is great in everything, is great again here, only doubly so since she’s handling twin duties and it’s uproarious. Heather Goldenhersh, as Mannix’s hard-working secretary, is pivotal and delightful, and I must say, this woman deserves to be fucking famous already. But even small roles are peppered with famous faces – the study group alone, from Fisher Stevens to my beloved David Krumholtz, is worthy of its own spin-off. And no Coen Brothers movie would be complete without at least a brief appearance by my spirit animal, the fabulous Frances McDormand. The reigning Coen Queen, this is her 8th film of theirs, although it’s not exactly a fair fight as she’s married to Joel (not that her oodles of talent require any nepotism). Her role is brief but watch for it, it’s a scene stealer.

So: the Coens know how to write. And they sure as hell know how to cast. And bringing back cinematographer Roger Deakins and convincing him to shoot in film again (as opposed to his preferred medium, digital) was exactly the right thing for this ode to old Hollywood. Even though your eyes see Channing Tatum in a sailor suit, your mind is steeped in 1950s glamour (which is actually much grimier than the usual coating of nostalgic veneer would have us remember). As usual with the Coens, what you see is only half of what you get. There’s a lot of layers to this seemingly lighter fare, from God and Commies, to pop culture and hydrogen bombs. I was charmed and tickled from start to finish and I’m going to find it awfully hard to buy tickets to Deadpool when what I’d really like to do is see this one again. And again. And probably again.

The D Train

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Back in the 90s when I loved me some bad TV, I watched a show that only managed 21 episodes over its 2 seasons, but man was I hooked. It was called Second Noah and I’ve often wondered if I made it all up as I seem to be the only earthling to remember it (ever so fondly).

IMDB is backing my story up and reminding me that it was about a writer who married a zookeeper, and then adopted 8 kids and untold number of cute animals. That was all background as far as I was concerned because the hunky oldest son, naturally a bad boy, was played by James Marsden. So that’s how I discovered him (and also Joey Lauren Adams of Mallrats fame, who played his edgy girlfriend). You can bet I was all over him in Disturbing Behaviour, was disappointed some idiot covered his handsome face in X-Men, had my ardour cooled when he appeared briefly in Zoolander as John Wilkes Booth, but anyway, he’s bona-fide Hollywood now and mugging like crazy in this new movie with Jack Black, also known (apparently) as Bad Bromance.

Jack Black plays a family man who thinks high school were his glory days. He’s not exactly right – he was a loser then and he’s a loser now, but he’s super keen on organizing his 20th high school reunion. His classmates aren’t quite as excited so he flies to L.A. to convince the class’s most famous and successful alumni (James Marsden) (who has just appeared shirtless in a national Banana Boat commercial) to accept the invitation.

Turns out, hotshot commercial actors are only fun up to a certain point. And what point is that? Well you’ll have to watch to find out. The truth is, this is a pretty standard comedy. Jack Black plays uptight pathetic weirdo remarkably well and James Marsden takes no effort at all to play too handsome for his own good, successfully pulling off man jewelry and sexy salt and pepper stubble. Katheryn Hahn, Jeffrey Tambor, and Mike White (sadly underused) round out a funny cast in a not funny enough movie. As a dramedy it manages to fail on both counts, offering no character development and only half-hearted chuckles. But as a vehicle for seeing James Marsden’s dreamy pecs, it’s aces – fair warning though, it comes with a heaping side dish of Jack Black’s tits as well, so you know, really think about whether you’re up for that.

Director’s Guild Awards

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Drum roll please! This weekend’s prestigious Director’s Guild Awards, hosted by the effervescent Jane Lynch, made history when Alejandro G. Iñárritu took 2016dgaw001 home top prize for Outstanding Directorial Achievement in Feature Film for his brilliant work on The Revenant. This is the first time in the Guild’s history that a director is rewarded in back-to-back years (he won last year for Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)). The nice thing about these awards is that directors are the first to admit that they do not work alone. There are lots of people sharing in Iñárritu’s win. His directorial team includes:

Unit Production Managers: Drew Locke, James W. Skotchdopole, Doug Jones, Gabriela Vazquez

First Assistant Director: Scott Robertson, Adam Somner

Second Assistant Directors: Megan M. Shank, Matthew Haggerty, Jeremy Marks, Trevor R. Tavares, Jasmine Marie Alhambra

Second Second Assistant Directors: Brett Robinson, Kasia Trojak

Who are these people and what do they do? Excellent question! A unit production manager (UPM) is hired by the producer to do the fun admin-y stuff to manage a film’s budget. Based on the shooting script, the UPM will create a working budget related to the physical production. The producer stays on top of “above-the-line” expenses, ie, the creative stuff that gets the ball rolling pre-production: securing the script, writers, actors, directors, budget producers, that kind of thing, fixed costs that no matter what scene is cut or special effect is scrimped on will still be paid the same. The UPM gets tasked with the less glamourous crew, the “below-the-line” costs, contracting with gaffers, makeup artists, sound engineers, all the “little people” who turn up and work hard to actually turn good ideas into reality. Plus he or she will be negotiating deals for location, equipment, etc.

An assistant director on a film has a full schedule: they track daily progress against the almighty production schedule, take care of logistics, prep the daily call sheets, check in with cast and crew, keep order on a busy set, and make makeup sure everyone’s safe. The first assistant director (1AD) is directly responsible to the director and runs the floor or set; they have to accurately estimate how long it will take to film a scene – whether several pages will be shot quickly, or one emotional paragraph may take all day. The 1AD is the communicator on set: all directions to the rest of the crew from the director will run through him or her. The second assistant director (2AD) creates the call sheets and then makes sure that all the cast is ready to follow through, revenant putting them through make-up and wardrobe. The call sheet tells cast and crew what scenes and script pages are being shot today, and where. They will provide exact start times (which rarely turn out to be all that exact), and addresses of shoot locations, and transportation arrangements so everyone can actually get there and maybe even park legally. It should also have contact info for the important crew, safety notes, maybe weather reports, sunrise\sunset times, and where to find the nearest hardware store when you inevitably need another extension cord. The second callsheet second assistant director (22AD) (yes, that’s their real title) comes on board when the production is big and\or complicated. You can be sure the 2AD is checking on Brad Pitt’s mustache while the 22AD is making sure there’s a dozen ladies in hoop skirts behind him, or a thousand extras in zombie makeup, or that all the parking meters are fed. This really frees up Alejandro Iñárritu to laze about in his director’s chair fantasizing about Leo’s frosty breath, or Wes Anderson to deliberate between Egyptian blue and Ultramarine, or Steven Spielberg to play another practical joke on Tom Hanks.

2016dgaw002 I’m also crazy excited to tell you that Alex Garland won for Outstanding Directorial Achievement of a First-Time Feature Film Director. Recognize his name? He’s the man behind 2015’s break-out indie success and seriously one of my favourite films of the year, Ex Machina. Remember the name, he’s only getting started. His directorial team includes:

Unit Production Manager: Sara Desmond

First Assistant Director: Nick Heckstall-Smith

Second Assistant Director: Ray Kenny

Also noteworthy: recipient of Outstanding Directorial Achievement in 2016dgaw011
Documentary, Matthew Heineman for Cartel Land.

These three directors may be men, but you’ll have noticed there are lots of females sprinkled in amongst their support teams, which I can only hope means the ladies are movin on up. Here’s a lovely lady worth highlighting – Mary Rae Thewlis was the recipient of the Frank Capra Achievement Award, given to an assistant director or unit production manager in recognition of career 2016dgaw013 achievement. Thewlis worked under Martin Scorsese on The Age of Innocence as a DGA trainee. She worked on the Tupac Shakur movie Above the Rim as the key second assistant director and under director Jon Avnet as second second assistant director on Up Close & Personal and then spent a lot of years at Law & Order originally as Second Assistant Director and eventually First Assistant Director. Kudos to her, and may she be an inspiration and example of hard work to aspiring young film makers everywhere.

A director is only as good as his or her team, so pick wisely, folks. It’s not just true of the movies. Find talent and nurture it.

The Diary of a Teenage Girl

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The eponymous teenage girl (Bel Powley), aka Minnie, loses her virginity to her mother’s boyfriend, Monroe (Kristen Wiig/Alexander Skarsgard) – don’t worry, they “aren’t possessive.” Obviously that should not have been the only obstacle, and she knows this isn’t ideal, but in her words, she’s ugly, and who knows how many offers will come her way.

So this isn’t one of those easily watchable movies, it’s not “enjoyable” or “comfortable.” It’s awkward in the ‘He only sleeps with my Mom or she’d suspect something’ kind of way that rings true for those of us who put up with our mother’s creepy boyfriends in our own childhoods, but true in the way that we’ve buried way down deep and aren’t anxious to revisit.

Don’t worry, the awkwardness doesn’t end there – anyone for random cartoon penises? Our heroine isn’t exactly likeable – relatable, maybe, but self-involved like any teenager, won’t stop talking about herself, only we don’t have the luxury of sending her to her room. And in a movie about a young girl being bedded by her mother’s boyfriend, she shouldn’t be the villain. And, okay, she’s not: Skarsgard’s 1970s mustache is, but my sympathy for her ran short.

Don’t get me wrong – on the whole, I’m still liking this film. It’s bold and unconventional, frank and non-judgemental, which, given the topic, is refreshing. Bel Powley is self-possessed, mixing sexual, spiritual and artistic awakening confidently. Kristen Wiig shows a lot of restraint in her role from the back seat. And writer\director Marielle Heller bravely bears witness without passing judgment – but it’ll make you squirm.

That’s the point, I guess. The diary of any teenage girl would make you squirm. I kept a diary myself – luckily not as a teenager (that was my poetry writing period, which, believe me, is worse) but as a little girl. It’s silver and has a unicorn on the front and stickers of Joey McIntyre from The New Kids on the Block, aka, my former future husband, littering the inside covers. The sickly-sweet pink pages feature lots of my extra-large loopy handwriting talking about boys, recess, how wonderful I was, and what a rotten cook my mother was, and would always be. Cringe-worthy stuff. Reminds me of a documentary I watched a while back called Mortified Nation – a series of events across North America where people stand at a microphone and read embarrassing excerpts from childhood diaries. Audiences laugh warmly along with the reader, who through some form of catharsis realizes that whatever mortifying inner thoughts we had as a tortured teenager, most were pretty commonly shared. And in a way it’s nice to look back on a time when we were young and innocent and everything was fresh and exciting, and we were self-absorbed enough to wallow in it, and to write it down for posterity, as if anyone would care.

Did you keep a diary in your youth? Is it filled with sexual transgressions? Does it tell of a wild and misspent youth? Are you embarrassed? Would you stand up and read it aloud to a room full of strangers?

…

Would you print an excerpt from it in the comments?

SAG Surprises

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Idris Elba took home the trophy for best supporting actor. Sylvester Stallone, considered the front-runner in the same Oscar category, wasn’t even nominated at the SAG awards, perhaps because the Creed momentum didn’t really pick up until after their nomination ballots were in. Or maybe it’s just because he’s crap and he’s never acted a day in his life.

Last weekend The Big Short took home the top prize at the Producers Guild awards, but it was Spotlight proving they’re still neck in neck, taking home the top SAG award (outstanding performance by a cast) and

boosting their success rate to about 10/20 now. Next weekend the Directors Guild will add their considerable voice to the tally, and they tend to be better predictors than almost anybody. Either way I’m angry – neither of these was the best thing I saw last year, and neither would probably breech my top 10.

Otherwise it was pretty standard: Leo won. Brie Larson won. Alicia Vikander won over Kate Winslet for supporting work in a role that is clearly anything but (she’s great in The Danish Girl, but that’s a lead role if we’re being honest, which apparently we aren’t).

Mad Max: Fury Road was justifiably honoured for outstanding action performance by an ensemble.

And the stuff that really matters: who looked pretty.

SAG loser but style winner Helen Mirren

Damn. Kate Winslet, born to vamp.

Sleeping With Other People

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In one of the opening scenes, Jason Sudeikis is standing in the middle of a New York City street getting yelled at by whichever woman he bedded the night before. Lots of confused tourist are driving by. I know they must be confused tourists because the same blue Beetle convertible drives by no less than 5 times during this short scene, and must literally be pulling constant U-turns to do so. Other cars make appearances even more often – a gray SUV can’t stop driving by them, and I counted a half dozen drive-bys before I gave up.

So that’s my review of the movie. It’s so generic that I literally counted cars.

Jason Sudeikis is likeable; Alison Brie is bland and has the charisma of a houseplant. These two late-bloomers lose their virginity to each other in college and then spend years whoring it up until their paths re-cross. The story never gets remotely close to anything original and is often trying to be funny, I believe, but falling short. Way short.

Sundance, Long Distance

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Stupid back surgery caused us to strike Sundance from our dance card this year, but we were there in spirit.

Some of the best films of Sundance so far:

Agnus Dei: Set in a Polish convent attacked by Russian soldiers at the end of WWII, you know this one won’t be an easy watch. But word has it it’s beautifully acted by a strong female ensemble, including Agata Kulesza, who you may remember from last year’s feel-good drama, Ida.

The Birth of a Nation: The story of Nat Turner’s slave rebellion – bound to be powerful, unflinching, and explosive, Fox Searchlight picked it up at this year’s festival for $17.5M, a new Sundance record.

Certain Women: Based on three short stories (by Maile Meloy) that tell tender and character-driven tales around emotional quandaries. Starring Laura Dern, Kristen Stewart, Michelle Williams, and a stunner of a performance from Native American actress Lily Gladstone.

Manchester by the Sea: Another slow-burning character study by director Kenneth Lonergan, this one stars Casey Affleck as a guy struggling to overcome his failures as a husband and father – but the other people in the movie know something about him that we, the audience, do not.

Morris From America: Craig Robinson’s going to surprise us all with this excellent performance as a father losing his grip on his son, a teen struggling to find his place while over in Germany. The script is supposedly charming without being cute and I hope it’ll be a sweet surprise.

Sing Street: John Carney (Once, Begin Again) is up to his old tricks with another intimate musical that some say is his best yet (I LOVE Once, was a bit less enthusiastic about Begin Again). This one’s an ’80s throwback that’s of course full of dizzying romance and super likeable characters that will, let’s face it, probably leave us tender-hearted viewers in tears.

This year’s most divisive title:

Swiss Army Man: Paul Dano is stranded on an island, and instead of a volleyball named Wilson, he “befriends” a farting corpse, played by Daniel Radcliffe, who teaches him about what makes life worth living, and also which body parts might be used to get him back home – heavy subjects for such a weird and wacky movie. Lots of people walked out of this one but reviews are mixed, with some really enjoying this ode to abnormality.

The Only Star Wars Trilogy that Matters

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So you may have heard that my darling husband Sean has used my recovery from back surgery as the perfect excuse to finally induce me to watch the very thing I’ve spent my whole life avoiding – Star Wars. No, I hadn’t seen a single one, and no, I never wanted to. And believe me, going 30 years in North America without seeing Star Wars is like going 30 years without a pregnancy scare: nearly impossible, and not without effort (I did both, and if I had to break the seal on one, damn right I’m glad it was George Lucas’s baby and not Sean’s).

Sean successfully dragged me to see The Force Awakens back in December, and I had to admit I didn’t hate it. I thought it was fun, and I knew that with a little oxy in my system, my resolve would crumble. And it meant so much to Sean, well, fine: let’s call it one of those marital compromises I usually think are a load of bullocks (after all, compromise usually just means you’re both a bit disappointed – might as well just make me happy, right, dear?).

First we watched the prequels, Episodes I-III. I can’t say I was inspired to go on with Star Wars OG, but you all were nearly as persistent as Sean, and so with minimal doping and only a little more whining, we did.

Did I love them???????

No.

Sorry, guys. I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I just know these films are beloved. They mean something to people, Sean included. They were part of his childhood. He was once a little boy who looked at the stars differently after this movie. They informed the way he’d watch movies for the rest of his life, the way he’d tell stories, even, the way he knew good and evil. Fuck.

But me? I’m an old lady with half a back who’s watching them for the first time with my 2016 eyes. Which is not a comment on the technology. I think the prequels versus the original trilogy makes a strong statement in favour of practical effects. No, what I mean is: I’ve been living in a Star Wars-soaked world my whole life. They debuted before I was born. Our popular culture is not just influenced by these movies, but built around them. Never having seen the movies, I could still tell you what sound a light saber makes, or at least the sound young boys (and let’s face it – young men) make when they pretend play them.

So I know who Darth Vader is. SPOILER ALERT! I know he’s “the greatest villain ever.” And I know he’s the father. I know the iconic music John Williams wrote for him. And I know he was a socially awkward, whiny emo kid with weird, murdery impulses and an inability to talk to women. See how I said “spoiler alert”? That’s like, something that’s evolved in the last 3 years, not the last 30. This stuff has just permeated culture at large. But in real life? Darth Vader doesn’t seem all that scary to me. I mean, Vader elevated the game, sure. But I’ve only ever exited in this elevated world. You got to compete.

But also: everyone complained about how Jar Jar Binks was so damned annoying in the prequels, but hello – isn’t he just the new C3PO? I wanted to find a wrench and beat his arms straight with it. Shut up you insipid, whining good for nothing sorry excuse for a robot (any droid built by Anakin would be whiny though, wouldn’t it?).

And Luke? What a wimp. How is it possible that the Skywalkers are constantly called upon to save the galaxy, or the Jedi way, when in fact the male lineage in that family is so damned lame (props to the ladies – Leia and Rey are tough as shit)? They whine and bumble and it makes me feel like the Jedis aren’t super-cool badasses like I’ve been led to believe, but a group of guys probably living in their parents’ basement, meeting up to wear costumes and braid each other’s hair and play magic card games and pretend that not getting laid is a “code of honour” when it’s really just “never gonna happen” and “beyond their imaginations” anyway.

So yeah, if you were 9 when you first saw this, I get it. Super cool space ships, weapons just aching to be turned into toys, and practically no kissing. Heaven! Or, you know, hell if you’re me.

The Program

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Lance Armstrong: hero or villain?

A liar and a cheat, that’s for sure.

And that’s what this movie is about: one man’s relentless, ruthless pursuit of the only thing that matters to him – winning. And it’s not just that he was willing to cheat to keep up with the others, no, you have to cheat the best to be the best. He didn’t just cheat, he hired a whole team of cheaters in order to boost his performance while cloaking his dishonesty. And he flaunted his power and prestige (that he largely earned being “The Face of Cancer through his Livestrong foundation) to intimidate and coerce others into staying silent.

Ben Foster stars as Lance Armstrong, and it’s a good fit. He does the smarmy bravado well, with glimpses of vulnerability that humanize him. Jesse Plemmons (the low-rent Matt Damon) co-stars as his team-mate, and Chris O’Dowd, my Irish boyfriend, as the sports journalist who thinks he smells a rat.

The script is the problem. It has to race through more than a decade of doping, and it does so pretty frenetically, not really dwelling on much other than his downfall. The story doesn’t seem to know if it’s about Lance Armstrong’s power-hungry cheating or David Walsh’s (the journalist) determined reporting, or about generalized ambition and abuse of power in the sports world.

Lance Armstrong is not a nice guy. He lied, repeatedly, unapologetically. He cheated in pursuit of fame and money and all things deplorable. He also beat cancer and raised a lot of money for its research. But it’s likely the reason he got cancer in the first place was all his doping. But his doping and his subsequent winning led him to rejuvenate his sport, and the Tour de France, inspiring many. So who is this man? Don’t look to The Program for the answer. It has little in terms of insight – it’s mostly a scrapbook of Lance’s greatest hits and David’s best articles about them, and questioning them.

The only part of this movie I found interesting is when Dustin Hoffman briefly appears as an insurer. U.S. Postal sponsored Armstrong’s team and paid him out bonuses for each win, and an insurance company backed them up. Armstrong won a LOT of Tours de France, and they owed him a LOT of money…except what if he cheated, then he didn’t really win, did he? Armstrong is prepared to throw EVERYONE under the bus to keep his lie alive, but we all know how that ended up. The truth is, there is little in this movie that we don’t already know. And with scattered story-telling and shoddy characterization – well, what’s the point?