Sexy Dr. Moore is here to make all your doctor-patient fantasies come true.
After announcing itself with the requisite George W. Bush-as-incoherent-idiot sound bite, Michael Moore's SiCKO officially begins with a close-up of an unhealed wound. From that point on, Moore will train his camera on countless gashes and sores, most of them psychological, all of which hit the viewer with the force of a hurricane. The subject matter is so inherently powerful and frustrating, and the horror stories SiCKO relates are so relatable to American audiences, that one almost wishes that Moore had simply allowed his participants to just speak: to let the running camera record these everyday people's woes, to create a nonstop ethnographic view of contemporary American life from the point of view of those who've been let down by its bureaucracies and greed. Yet asking Moore to unyoke himself from his identity as an entertainer is like imploring Michael Bay to try his hand at E.M. Forster: it's not gonna happen, and, regardless of our own aesthetic criteria, do we really want it to?