Aaron Sorkin is a good TV writer and, when he has a director who can manage his diarreah of the word processor, such as David Fincher did on "Social Network", can deliver a good screenplay. However, giving this loggorheac the keys to the film kingdom (i.e. Allowing him to direct) is akin to letting a vampire loose in a blood bank. Things are going to get out of control and the viewer will soon be lost in the detritus of Sorkin's unending spew of verbiage, some of it clever, most of it compulsive, and way too much of it deadeningly repetitive. The result, for this viewer at least, was to gaspingly pull the plug about three fourths of the way through and, to mix the metaphor, come up for air. And once I was able to breathe and reflect upon what I had seen I was able to summon not one iota of interest in or sympathy for this skilled comedienne nor care whether her marriage succeeded or failed and quite honestly found Sorkin's evaluation of Ms. Ball as a great dramatic actress who could have been the equal of Bette Davis in "All About Eve" shockingly stupid. C plus.
Review of Being the Ricardos
