‘André Is an Idiot’ Review: Open up

A surprising side effect of André Ricciardi’s chemotherapy is astonishingly long eyelashes. Ricciardi is the main subject, the brains and the idiot behind the frank and wonky “André Is an Idiot” (2025). Credit for the title goes to his mom, because when André told her he’d been diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer, she called him a “fucking idiot” for not having gotten a colonoscopy sooner. And while the documentary is loaded with quotable quips (“Donate my body to television”) and zany digressions (stop-motion animation sequences), what’s truly enlightening and unforgettable are the moments that gesture to what cancer giveth (eyelash hair) and taketh away (all other hair), and how the resilient Ricciardi family forge forward to an inevitable curtain drop. Director Tony Benna captures with sincerity and curiosity the spikes of grief and acceptance, not to mention the laugh-don’t-cry coping strategy that André deploys in his valiant, cockeyed final bow. 

Four years ago, I had an irrational fear that my upcoming colonoscopy could possibly kill me. (Classic stalling tactic.) Nevertheless, I prepared according to doctor’s orders: the night before, only liquids and apple sauce and in the morning, I drained the recommended portion of that potent citrus diuretic. To combat the dread and dullness of the routine, I gorged on the usual comfort fare: movies (“Nightmare Alley”—the old one—between bathroom breaks at home), reading (John Cheever in the waiting and exam rooms) and the dream of an actual meal on the other side. All that, I can remember clearly, but what is more of a blur are the big, honking details, including what the doctor told me after besides, it all looks fine. 

A Life-affirming Documentary

Ricciardi, a former advertising executive, is a natural in front of the camera, effortlessly—and often, hilariously—summarizing the pleasures and pains of his failing body. He still wakes hopeful in the face of his terminal diagnosis and takes a customary 7 am bong hit. He pontificates about his mortality and is bracingly direct about what he’ll miss. Benna, who also edited the film (imagine the outtakes!), would have been justified in permitting André to dictate his entire biography. Certain experimental methods (the “Celebrity Deathmatch”–style interludes, and a bizarre scene involving Tommy Chong) seem designed to show-not-tell what everyone means when they say “That’s so André.” The most winning decision, however, is to allot ample, earned airtime to André’s co-conspirators, the life partners (best friend Lee Einhorn, daughters Tallula and Delilah and wife Janice) who transform a whacky, offbeat death story into a life-affirming document of joy and suffering.

Humble, charitable and agonizingly honest, Janice meets young André’s as a bartender. Soon, she’ll become his green-card wife and following a “Newlywed Game” triumph—which, according to André and Janice, sealed her citizenship interview—cemented her position in his life. But, Janice is far from the behind-every-great-man, pride-swallowing trope. Also, it’s not clear—or even offered—that André is a great man. He’s flawed, difficult, and strange. What makes him a topic worthy of the zoom-out treatment is not only his willingness to participate, but his family’s indelible contribution to the narrative, Janice in particular. She may talk down her role (“I just make snacks”) but André correctly points out she’s keeping him alive. Still, she’s human, unapologetically so. On the ride home after an appointment (“That was bleak.”), André reminds her that, well, he is dying. Janice keeps her eyes on the road and tells him: No, thank you.  

The Hardest Moments Aren’t Always the Crises

Part-PSA (for colonoscopies, talk therapy, and pets), part-tragicomic memoir, “André Is an Idiot” is a stark reminder that, to paraphrase Janice, the hardest moments aren’t always the crises. What happens when there’s no medications to administer, no doctor-speak to parse through? In other words, André will die, and that void will have to fill itself, eventually, on its own stupid, selfish schedule. Naturally, I survived my colonoscopy and wobbled out to see my family. On the way home, we stopped at Cava, my hero’s reward for doing the logical thing that André avoided for too long, even though his buddy Lee invited him to do a couples’ session.

At my next colonoscopy in five or so years, André and his movie will be on my mind. But it’s not the artificial elements—the awkward “death yell” encounter and fictional dad Chong’s cameo—of this fine documentary that will weigh on and stick to me. I’ll remember Delilah trimming and styling her dad’s lashes, a labor of love that she performed with a smile on her face. (Find a son who would do that!) I’ll think about how during a phone session with his therapist, André’s cat crawls up on his chest for a pet, returning the love that even death can’t kill. And then, I’ll cry, eager to get past the procedure so I can gorge on anything that qualifies as solid food.

Grade: B+
“André Is an Idiot” will screen in New York exclusively at Film Forum starting March 6th.