Nearly three hours. I could have watched most of a game instead of this, but fuck, the Saints weren't worth watching today, so. This film has a lot to say, and to say very loudly, but it really doesn't manage to say it very well. In between statements about the dilution of the game, about teamwork and fighting for an inch, about loneliness and family, about legacies and evolutions, there's too much noise, too many fast edits that leave no time to consider the images before us, too many tacit endorsements of this bombast that it pretends to critique--this film is as loud and distracting as any athletic spectacle it's mining for... something? deeper. The strange, chaotic montages and flashy, dramatic effects that mean "concussion" or whatever seem ridiculous, cartoonish, and this all culminates when someone's eye is literally knocked out on the field. At that point, I just gave up taking it seriously, even if Oliver Stone didn't.