Michael Moore is a progressive’s progressive. He is a container of every correct progressive idea.
He bludgeons capitalism. He despises the big corporations. He wears a baseball cap. Susan Sarandon admires him. He hated George W. Bush. He endorsed Bernie Sanders in 2016. He despises Donald Trump. He is an outsider who wins Academy Awards. He is many times a millionaire. He always champions the little guy. Robert Redford used to love him.
The best Canadians worship him.
When he attended the 2018 Toronto Film Festival, in his honour red bandannas were handed out on opening night for Fahrenheit 11/9 to represent “resistance.” (Note: not the French.) Up until this week he was great buddies with Naomi Klein.
In the high cathedral of the progressive thought (the term is a loose one) Michael Moore is outstanding (pun, deliberate) buttress.
Truth to tell, Moore has always been specious, clever-cute, manipulative and one-dimensional in his presentations. His films, though labeled documentaries, were always more agitprop than analysis, more bent to making a persona for Moore, as that of a rotund dishevelled Don Quixote for the forgotten workers of America, than any worthier goal.
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