Familiar as its art/life paralleling may be, it’s all fueled by a filmmaker with an intimate relationship to his subject matter.
Its looseness adequately portrays Plimpton as an inwardly conflicted figure, but it fails to make much of a case for his legacy outside of The Paris Review’s still-noticeable brand.
Strictly for women who complain about being treated badly by men but don’t care if they’re as cute as Jude Law.
There’s little sassiness or swing to this toothless update of the minor late-’60s film that made Michael Caine a star.