This artless art film perpetuates the romantic notion that as long as a clearly mentally ill person shows a tad of artistic inspiration every now and then, she should be given free reign to satisfy her every impulse, no matter how dangerous or self-destructive she may be. I'm getting a tad sick of the Manic as Martyr genre, but as cinema insists on looking back into history for more biopics, I shudder to think of what a future blockbuster like the Zelda Fitzgerald Story could do for the minds of talentless hangers-on everywhere.
