The film’s biggest flaw, aside from positing Martin Sheen as a Salinger expert, is that it makes unforgivable use of corny cinematic devices to fill in the gaps and goose its own drama. I couldn’t decide which was worse: The score that plays through the entire movie and touches all the most hackneyed bases, from thrumming Jaws-style scare music to willfully elegiac passages that sound like 30th-generation Xeroxes of Aaron Copland? Or the repeated shots of an actor playing Salinger seated on a stage with a desk, a typewriter, and a cigarette, sometimes typing furiously, sometimes pacing murderously, while a screen behind him shows images of this or that?
...A documentary about Salinger should make you want to go out and re-read all of his work. This one makes you never want to think about him ever again.