Ah, but here we have a most curious case of cinematic chicanery-a so-called documentary chronicling the survival of a man from a plane crash into the ocean, except, rather inconveniently, not a word of it is true. Not a stitch, not a sliver, not the merest whisper of authenticity. A work of pure fiction, masquerading as fact.
Now, one might protest that storytelling has long flirted with the boundaries of truth and invention. Indeed, the Coen brothers famously began Fargo with that mischievous proclamation: "Based on real events," when in fact no such events had transpired. But that was a knowing wink, a narrative flourish, a kind of storytelling sleight-of-hand that added a delicious layer of intrigue.
This, however, is not that. This is something altogether more cynical. A calculated deception, designed not to enrich the tale but to ensnare the unsuspecting viewer, luring them in with the promise of reality only to reveal-too late-that they have been had. It is a contemptuous ploy, a disservice to the audience, and, frankly, a waste of their valuable time.
A filmmaker who holds their audience in such disregard, who treats them not as willing participants in the grand game of storytelling but as mere marks to be duped, should perhaps reconsider their vocation. Cinema, after all, is a contract between creator and viewer-built on trust, however elastic that trust may be. To shred it so brazenly is not the work of an artist but of a charlatan.
