Documentary specials take a hard look at tough subjects

Two things most of us would rather keep private: our sex lives and our thoughts about our own bodies.

But oh how we're curious. And the subjects, when handled as deftly as "Frontline" and HBO do in a pair of documentaries tonight, make for fascinating TV.

A warning, though: both "Thin" and "A Hidden Life" will absorb you — but also leave you feeling deflated.

"Thin," the HBO documentary, takes you into a residential treatment center for anorexia nervosa. It's an unflinching look at how women — and girls — starve their bodies, failing to see their own beauty. By the film's end you question whether anyone in the grasp of anorexia can ever actually wrest herself free.

"A Hidden Life," meanwhile, profiles Jim West, the late mayor of Spokane who strove to keep his roaming sexuality private until a newspaper investigation unmasked him. The public threw him out of office. And shortly thereafter he died in disgrace, having succumbed to cancer.

But while the documentary doesn't raise West to the level of innocent victim, it's not always easy to applaud The Spokesman-Review newspaper and its practices.

With no dearth of political scandals — and constant debate over journalistic ethics — "A Hidden Life" merits that moniker of "must-see TV."

Sex and journalism

Say what you will about newspaper headlines, but by any measure, the one that greeted readers of The Spokesman-Review on May 5, 2005, was a grabber: "West Tied To Sex Abuse in '70s, Using Office to Lure Young Men."

And so began a sordid tale that shook an entire city and destroyed, if not the man entirely, at the very least Jim West's political career. A Republican legislator, he had recently returned to his hometown of Spokane to become mayor. And now the newspaper was reporting West had molested two boys in the 1970s; that he was trolling for young men online and using the trappings of his office to entice them; and that he went on a dinner date and had consensual sex with an 18-year-old.

But the story prompted an ethical discussion in journalism circles because of the way the newspaper outed West. As part of its investigation, the newspaper hired a consultant. And that consultant posed as a 17-year-old boy on the gay Web site the newspaper suspected the mayor was frequenting.

"Frontline" spotlights the journalistic decisions made to uncover and pursue the West story. It lets journalists explain their motives and actions. And what emerges is engrossing, leading viewers to question their own feelings about privacy vs. public interest and whether a newspaper can go too far.

Asked if he had concerns about a consultant posing as a boy online, reporter Bill Morlin replies: "Our code of ethics prohibit me from pretending to be somebody I'm not. And I'm mindful of those ethics. But we're not prevented from hiring consultants. And what those consultants do to accomplish their jobs, as long as it's legal, I don't have a problem with that."

"Frontline" producer Rachel Dretzin initially envisioned the West story as a jumping-off point for a larger story about homosexuality. But the West story became "more rich and interesting," Dretzin said in an e-mail interview last week. So she decided West's story alone would be her tale.

Indeed, his is a fascinating and at turns, sad story: a man embroiled in scandal who staunchly denied the molestation allegations, who anguished about his own sexuality and fiercely believed his private life was no one's business but his.

West tells his own story to "Frontline." The documentary also includes transcripts of West's online chats and a tape of the newspaper confronting him with its findings. It's filled out with appearances by West's ex-wife, some of the newspaper's own sources, community members and other journalists who covered the story (including David Postman of The Seattle Times).

Think what you may of West — that he was a hypocrite, a sexual predator, a victim of the powerful press. "Frontline" gives you a lot to ponder.

But a pair of lasting images in the final minutes linger: West, watching a TV broadcast reporting he's been ousted from office. Then toasting his beloved Spokane.

And the newspaper staff, that same night, laughing at their proposals for the next morning's headline.

Food as enemy

Equally provocative is "Thin," a harrowing, at times disturbingly graphic story about three women and a 15-year-old girl seeking treatment for eating disorders.

Director Lauren Greenfield previously shot photographs at Florida's Renfrew Center for her book, "Girl Culture." Now she's returned to the center as a filmmaker. The access and the trust she establishes with her subjects is remarkable. There's no narration here; rather, it's the ebb and flow of life at the center that is documented. Yawning young women being weighed early morning. A nurse checking for marks on their bodies, peeling back hospital gowns, finding only bones.

Bonding and bitching out on the "smoke porch." Group "sharing" sessions. Eating cafeteria food with pained looks. And late in the film, purging.

Alisa, 30, is asked to sketch her silhouette. A therapist then traces Alisa's actual body onto the same piece of butcher paper. There's an obvious difference, in plain black marker. But Alisa sees only problem areas and starts labeling: Saddle bags. Love handles. Help me.

What woman hasn't questioned her own body image? For that matter, what man hasn't wished for a little more here and less there? We are obsessed with physical looks — our own, if cosmetic surgery or the sales of diet and exercise books are any indication. The likes of Nicole Richie also fuel the public discussion: naturally thin or simply starving herself?

This alone pulls us to this film. And once we're introduced to each of the four protagonists — in particular Alisa, the divorced mother of two — we've become invested, compelled if not curious to keep watching to find out what happens next.

Eating disorders, we learn at the beginning of the documentary, affect 5 million people in the U.S. As many as one in seven women with anorexia will die from the illness.

But we're never told how many people recover — or if they can. The cost of such treatment is only hinted at; 'Thin" doesn't tell us how much Renfrew charges. And don't come to the film looking for a scientific explanation about the illness: Is it mental or biological?

Instead, what "Thin" accomplishes is showing us the enormous emotional and physical hurdles faced by someone living with an eating disorder. (The documentary is part of a broader campaign, including a resource guide about recognizing and dealing with eating disorders. The guide can be downloaded at www.thindocumentary.com.)

We start out hoping the patients, some as little as 86 pounds, will find their way. But how they end up after they leave Renfrew — sent home sometimes because their insurance runs out — is depressing.

Florangela Davila: 206-464-2916 or fdavila@seattletimes.com