Congalton seems to have moved on from themes of feline mortality and grief, as what pets appear in Authors Anonymous survive the picture intact, and settled instead into bitterness and resentment: His film is little more than an exercise in sustained contempt, a petty little missive directed at anyone who dares to wield a pen. The tone is broadly satirical, and the target is all manner of apparently disreputable writers: out-of-touch genre scribes, housewife hobbyists, vacuous success stories, the lot of them united only by Congalton and Kanner's reductive gaze. The form is the mockumentary, all the better to flatten stock types down to a more readily ridiculed two dimensions. One of our leads has never heard of Jane Austen; another mispronounces Joan Didion. Time and again we're reminded of their stupidity. The film needs to be reminded of the same.