Political satire with all of the wit, nuance and insight of one of those Seltzer/Friedberg genre parody movies. I’d feel insulted by this parade of glib vacuity if I stumbled across it on Youtube, but the fact that this screened at honest-to-god film festivals is the only funny thing about it.

Buried within six hours of recycled pablum is one fascinating story, Heyman's anecdote about Vince, Shane, and the knife. The fact that more time is devoted to retelling the story of how Vince beat WCW than to exploring the fact that Vince is a cross between Logan Roy and Joaquin Phoenix's character from Gladiator is a crime worthy of prosecution in itself.
Otherwise, Netflix's history of bloated, meritless docuseries that leave me feeling dumber afterwards remains intact, and once again I finish a Chris Smith film feeling like my time might've been better spent watching something made by the dude from 'American Movie.'