At the moment, you may harbor vague suspicions that the music-maker known as Moby is a pretentious self-absorbed twit. That feeling, however, will not survive a viewing of his new documentary Moby Doc. No, by the end of the film you will be in a state of absolute metaphysical conviction that Moby is a pretentious self-absorbed twit.
Moby Doc is a twee pity party heaping with bursts of cutesy animation and deadpan irony that are meant to make a 90-minute testament to its subject’s suffering palatable. Instead, the sensation generated is powerfully emetic. Moby wants us to feel his pain but also feel that he’s being extremely clever and dry about it when, for instance, he goes for a walk with the Grim Reaper, mutters of his woes on a cellphone call while wandering around an Indian grocery store, or dramatizes his therapy sessions with an actress playing his shrink. She looks terminally bored and as eager to escape mopy Moby as I was while watching the documentary.






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