First Childhood Icon Documentary of the Week

These days, the most reliable films to see are usually documentaries.   And not only are they landing in theaters, but on streams like Netflix, Amazon, and HBO.   The interesting feature is that those venues allow these real stories to be told to the fullest and are not necessarily mindful of running time.   

Now I watch two of them recently and both came in at around four hours stretched over multiple chapters.   Of course, I can contrast that to the recent HBO documentary on the life of the late Garry Shandling, which came in at four-and-a-half hours.   So, let's think about that.   There was more story to tell about Garry Shandling than there was about the lives of Robert F. Kennedy and Elvis Presley, who were the subjects of the two documentaries I just watched back-to-back.

Let's start with the Netflix show "Bobby Kennedy for President."  This was catnip for this kitty as he was one of several noteworthy icons from my childhood.   I remember when the Kennedys were a family of legend.   I recall Bobby's run for the White House in 1968.   As I wrote the other day, he showed up for a campaign stop in my hometown of Mount Vernon, New York.  And I can still conjure up the images of him lying in a pool of blood in a Los Angeles hotel.

So I was thinking that this four-hour, four-part story would be extremely compelling.  And, to a certain degree, it was.  Admittedly, I wouldn't receive much more new information as I have sopped up a lot of that over the years. And there was new footage I had not seen.  But the major disappointment with this production was the reliance on the same five or six talking heads.   A couple of lowly campaign advisors, some chick who was associated with Cesar Chavez and the lettuce pickers, and journalist Pete Hamill.   That was it.  Where was any of the Kennedy kids or grandchildren?  I realize Ethel is probably a drooling mess these days, but couldn't the film makers find somebody inside to sit for an interview?

The other beef I had was with the structure of the hours.   By the end of the third hour, Bobby is already assassinated and buried at Arlington Cemetery.  But there was still another hour to go??  I couldn't fathom what more could drag this tale out for another hour.

And there was really nothing.  A lot of Hour 4 is focused on Sirhan Sirhan, the assassin and the notion that he didn't act alone.  Okay, I didn't know much about that controversy.   And can't a Kennedy get shot without a conspiracy theory being attached to it?

Most of the final chapter is devoted to some of the campaign workers, a kook named Paul Schrade.   Paul was actually one of the other folks shot that night in the Ambassador Hotel kitchen.  I'm glad he survived.  I'm not glad that his story lulled me into a coma.  You see, Paul now spends most of his time hunting down the other conspirators.  Who knows?  Perhaps he's trying to connect Donald Trump to the death of RFK.  Whatever the case, Schrade's manic search stretches this documentary out way beyond where it should be.   When he gives a tour of the high school (now standing where RFK was killed) to the bus boy who held the dying Bobby's head in his hands, I threw up my hands in bewilderment.  Get over it, Paul.   Find a new hobby.  Ugh.

I was really looking forward to this look at some moments I vividly recall from my childhood.  But it turned out to that the sum was not equal to all the parts.  This documentary is ultimately a dull and lazy affair.

And then I watched the HBO look at Elvis Presley.   How would that compare?  Well, come back on Thursday for the answer.

LEN'S RATING:  Two stars.

Dinner last night:  Chinese dim sum.