I’m a neophyte where Michael Moore is concerned. I never watched Roger and Me, nor Bowling for Columbine. I did watch Fahrenheit 911. I’m not a fan of Moore’s, nor am I detractor. Friends invited me to watch Sicko with them, and I said yes just because I was craving a Godfather pizza from the Alamo Drafthouse.
That’s my paragraph-long disclaimer to say I don’t care about his politics, nor the politics of said fans and detractors.
That said, Moore’s reputation does precede him. After the film, one of my friends commented he wasn’t a documentairan — he was polemicist. Another doesn’t really like how Moore inserts himself in the story. If I didn’t consider Moore’s work to be partly entertainment, I’d be more bothered by that as well.
Moore doesn’t hide his agenda, and as such, I’ve turned a skeptical eye to the two films of his I have watched, despite being part of the choir to which he’s probably preaching. Still, watching Sicko was chilling and not surprising.
I’ve so far had the fortune of being covered by medical insurance, even during economically tough times. The closest I’ve come to a health care nightmare was shelling a few hundred bucks for an emergency visit, one which revealed I had to get my gall bladder removed. That procedure, thankfully, was covered 100 percent.
I hate to imagine what would have happened if it weren’t.