There may be little truth in the story but truth be damned because this film is a hoot.
Egocentrism, eager interviewees, unsexy sexy scenarios and a heap of wildly misleading Mormon branding fills a runtime that flies by like an exiting season finale might.
But that's the thing... "Tabloid" gets as much wrong about the Mormons as it does right, even considering the era. Additionally, it never feels like we're supposed to treat the story or details provided by the interviewees seriously, which is a shame because that may have strengthened the narrative or in the least bit created an even deeper level of an "unreliable narrator" trope. And the incessant fawning over McKinney grows more than a little tiresome by the third act, particularly because she's the one doing most of it; it's less Tiger King and more Betty Broderick, sans steely scene chewing by Meredith Baxter. It's this last issue that leaves me feeling as if the tone isn't set but the expectation is to either buy in or at least mostly do so...and that's fine, just not as good as what could have been, I think.
But regardless, it's still a raucous time; not Morris' best but perhaps his most entertaining. It's a unique documentary and it's far more compelling than the majority of canned, banal fare Netflix and the ilk seem to be spewing out weekly at this point.
Simply put, it's worth the watch; just don't take any of it as gospel, pun intended.
Egocentrism, eager interviewees, unsexy sexy scenarios and a heap of wildly misleading Mormon branding fills a runtime that flies by like an exiting season finale might.
But that's the thing... "Tabloid" gets as much wrong about the Mormons as it does right, even considering the era. Additionally, it never feels like we're supposed to treat the story or details provided by the interviewees seriously, which is a shame because that may have strengthened the narrative or in the least bit created an even deeper level of an "unreliable narrator" trope. And the incessant fawning over McKinney grows more than a little tiresome by the third act, particularly because she's the one doing most of it; it's less Tiger King and more Betty Broderick, sans steely scene chewing by Meredith Baxter. It's this last issue that leaves me feeling as if the tone isn't set but the expectation is to either buy in or at least mostly do so...and that's fine, just not as good as what could have been, I think.
But regardless, it's still a raucous time; not Morris' best but perhaps his most entertaining. It's a unique documentary and it's far more compelling than the majority of canned, banal fare Netflix and the ilk seem to be spewing out weekly at this point.
Simply put, it's worth the watch; just don't take any of it as gospel, pun intended.