Truthiness is Errol Morris's thing and he's great at relegating "truth" to the role of the diminutive. But unless the tabloids tricked me into believing too much of what they captured (viz. the porn shots, the bizzaro outfits) the virgin-whore who was our protagonist was less an ebodiment of the Far Edges of Truthiness than she was of Bat-Shit-Craziness. Which ropes us, the viewers, into the chair of voyeurism, tossing back popcorn while watching the horribly grotesque, sans any bit of compassion whatsover. Which consequently renders this documentary into the very eponymous thing it questions.
B- Posted via email from Slothrop Watches Movies
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