Note: This review was contributed by Ryan Stewart

"I feel like Perry and I grew up in the same house. One day he got up and walked out the back door, and I walked out the front."

Could Truman Capote really have felt such a strong psychic bond with a killer who blasted away an entire family with a shotgun? It's a question largely without an answer, since, as the author reminded us throughout his life, In Cold Blood was a work of art, not a document. Capote funneled the first act of a crime into an alloy of fact and poetry that shouldered the punishing demands of both genres - a serious artistic project that’s not even visible by telescope from today’s realityverse. He then waited for the last act of the crime to play itself out, a process that takes up most of the running time of Capote. Thankfully, the movie spares us Capote's own last act, as a sweaty talk-show popinjay and embarrassing ornament of New York's sleazy disco scene.