I keep my response dry.  No need to bring emotion in to play. 'Let it Be' was an utterly joyless wank that proved 50 million Beatles fans could be wrong.

"Peter Jackson has got hold of the original footage and is doing his own version."

"The guy who turned a 95,000-word book into three two-and-a-half hour movies?"

"That's the fellow.  He's told the studio he's turning it in to a six hour mini-series.  But our spies tell us it is closer to eight.  They're calling it Event Television."

"Well that sounds utterly fucking delightful" 

"Doesn't it, though," the voice in the corner said.  "But every fucker is going to watch it and have a fucking opinion."

"And you want me to...?"

"Watch it.  Observe.  Report with extreme prejudice.  People who don't have Disney are going to have to get opinions from somewhere."

If you don't know who the Beatles were, the documentary starts with a quick recap that sounds vaguely like a period March of Time movie short. 

Four loveable moptops from Liverpool conquer the world but stop playing live.  Their manager is dead. Can they ever play together again?

Where to begin?  This is a fly on the wall documentary gone mad.  At least a fly is looking for food to eat and somewhere to shit.  Flies don't have to listen to the words coming out of everyone's mouth.

As art, just as with watching paint dry, there is a grim fascination as this documentary provides you the feeling you were actually there.   In reality you wonder, if you were really there, wouldn't you be hunting for a way to quietly slip out the side door? 

To prove my point, Peter Sellars pops in at one point, looks uncomfortable and makes his excuses.  I feel he has the right idea. 

The band are set up in a studio at Twickenham because it's leased for another film production.  They're shooting "The Magic Christian" next door.  I doubt Badfinger fluffed around doing the soundtrack to that.  Here, the fluff is strong. 

I hear the pretentious crap the once loveable moptops half spout with the weight of a thousand Indian mystics.  "It's like kinda you now sorta squiggy sounding with a bit too much frert on the not high bit."

Paul McCartney keeps trying to talk about arrangements for songs he's only half written.  Ringo Starr looks like he's ready to slit his wrist if could only find the strength to lift a razor blade.

Then he remembers he's cast in "Magic Christian" and will finally get to be a movie star.  All he has to do is act naturally.  He acts bored instead.