Apparently, filmmaker and cycling aficionado Bryan Fogel was so disillusioned by the Lance Armstrong doping scandal that he could only respond in kind, and the result is Icarus. In preparation for the gruelling seven-day Haute Route cycle race in the Alps, the director subjects himself to a carefully structured doping regimen, all conducted under the watchful eye of a Russian scientist and filmed for our edification. Admittedly, amateur races like the Haute Route aren’t subject to the same stringent drug screening as professional sporting events, but the ramifications of Fogel’s actions remain disappointingly unaddressed by the film. Even if his doping doesn’t outrage the viewer’s sense of fair play, there are also his repeated insinuations that the race leaders are performing at an implausibly high level: in other words, doping themselves. Karma comes calling in the form of a broken derailleur, and he ends the race, demoralized and exhausted, placed lower than the previous year. What does this mean for the racers who spent months training and thousands of dollars on entry fees only to finish behind a second-rate filmmaker pumped up on testosterone injections? What are the health side effects of this entire horse-brained scheme anyway? Losing is apparently answer enough.
In an admittedly novel twist, the director’s sub-Spurlockian gonzo antics open up a global conspiracy that reaches all the way to Vladimir Putin. (But what global conspiracy doesn’t these days?) Fogel’s scientist friend, Grigory Rodchenkov, blows the whistle on Russia’s athletic doping program and flees to America, where he will ultimately go into witness protection out of fear for his own life. This jagged tale has intriguing implications—how international sporting events play into the political agendas of various governments, for instance—while Rodchenkov himself is the kind of colourful personality that most novelists can only dream of one day conceiving. But mostly, the film just scrambles to hold onto the runaway story it has chanced upon. Quick-hit newscast montages summarize the unfurling drama and animated infographics spell out the intricate mechanics of switching urine samples. Whatever charge the film offers comes from its own giddiness at being in such close proximity to a real-life conspiracy thriller, but Fogel and company remain wary of diving too deep into the legal, political, and moral tangle of the subject. Add in some generic glossy aerial footage of various cities and some slickly edited sequences of athletes in action, and you have all the makings of an Oscar-anointed modern documentary. Perhaps it’s time the academy started testing for performance enhancing drugs?
