You know what I wish? I wish that Michael Moore weren’t such an obvious manipulator of the facts. He’s such an unreliable narrator that it gets in the way of my enjoyment of his films.
Latest case in point: “Capitalism: A Love Story,” which I saw at the L.A. premiere Tuesday night. The provocateur rails against the government’s handling of the finance crisis in typical fashion: He satirizes the powers that be and tugs the hearts strings with stories of average working folk afflicted by corporate malfeasance.
Moore blames the government for its cozy relationship with Wall Street in particular and big business in general. According to “Capitalism,” things began falling apart when Ronald Reagan was elected president; deregulation and mindless focus on profits laid the seeds for the economy’s collapse last year. Further, he presents archival footage of FDR suggesting none of this had to happen: The ailing president apparently wanted to enact a second Bill of Rights stipulating the right to a decent wage and healthcare before he died. Moore told the premiere audience that this footage had been purposefully suppressed; even FDR’s library didn’t know it existed.
Salon critic Stephanie Zacharek calls “A Gate at the Stairs” exhausting and unsatisfying in a 
It’s been a while since Jane Campion’s last movie, so I’d almost forgotten what a stunning visual stylist she is. All that rushed back when I saw “Bright Star” last night. From the moment Abbie Cornish strode across the English countryside in her bright red getup, topped by an extravagant chapeau, I knew we were in for a visual treat. The movie is very painterly, with beautiful shot after beautiful shot. But that’s not the only way “Bright Star” appeals to the senses: the movie also served up aural delights, playing off the stillness and repressed desires with ambient noise. Rarely have rustling reeds been so evocative.
Who would you have guessed was the first Congressman to have a website? Al Gore, right? Nope, it was actually fellow Harvard alum, and decidedly old school pol Teddy Kennedy. This is my favorite factoid yet to surface in the wake of Kennedy’s death late last night.
Wrote a few words about the growing studio battle against Redbox for Thompson on Hollywood, riffing on the notion that Redbox is a 
Am back from muggyville, Virginia, where I caught a pesky summer cold while visiting my mother, who is recovering quite nicely from surgery on her ticker. Happily, the weather is much nicer here near the beach. And my review of “Born Round” popped up in today’s LA Times.
Many a foodie would kill for the job that Frank Bruni is leaving voluntarily. But how many of them have as complicated a relationship with eating as the outgoing NYT restaurant critic? In “Born Round,” Bruni chronicles his love for food, and battle to control his appetite, which he had finally gotten under control by the time he took the job. Few writers would be able to pull off these stories the way Bruni did. 
And now, for a reminder that middle-age need not mean sitting around whinging, I bring you Dara Torres. The Olympian who mounted an improbable comeback at age 41 is still competing one year later despite pesky knee problems and a rambunctious toddler at home.
Diane Garrett 