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    ‘The Pitt’ Has Impressed Real Doctors With Its Accuracy

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    Max’s unusually accurate medical drama, starring Noah Wyle as a beleaguered E.R. physician, has become the talk of real-life hospital breakrooms.Doctors and nurses who love Max’s “The Pitt” remember the moment they realized it wasn’t like other medical shows.Caitlin Dwyer, a charge nurse in Milwaukee, took note of a character’s decision — counterintuitive but medically correct — not to defibrillate a patient with a particular type of heart failure.Dr. Elizabeth Rempfer, an attending physician in Maryland, felt a pang of recognition at the depiction of a chaotic and desperate waiting room.For Dr. Tricia Pendergrast, a resident physician in Ann Arbor, Mich., it was a character who faced such an unrelenting caseload that even a trip to the bathroom was cut short.“It’s the first time that I’ve watched doctors on television that I felt like I could see myself in them,” she said.Most medical professionals learned long ago not to expect reality in dramatizations of their work. From the early days of “General Hospital,” to “Grey’s Anatomy” and its various spinoffs, to more recent hits like “The Good Doctor” and “Brilliant Minds,” TV medical dramas have tended to go heavy on the drama, light on the medicine.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      in Music

      In Hospitals and Hospices, ‘Music as Care’ Offers a New Kind of Comfort

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      A violinist plays for her father. A singer takes requests. In hospitals and hospices, bedside performers offer a new kind of care.In the five years my father was languishing in a nursing home in Hamburg, I often brought my violin to play by his bedside. I would prop up my copy of Bach with the help of a water bottle and read through sonatas and partitas I had learned as a teenager, when I was considering a career in music.My father’s reaction was hard to read. His gaze was unchangingly stoic during that final stage of his struggle with Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s disease. Sometimes my mother saw him attempt to clap. After a halting reading of Bach’s majestic “Chaconne” that would have drawn scorn from the critic in me, we both clearly heard him say “thank you.”One day, a caregiver buttonholed me in the corridor and requested that I play in the day room where they wheeled residents for a change of scenery. As it was, she said, they could all hear me through the walls. She might have picked up on my hesitation: Playing in front of any kind of audience always triggered my anxiety.I agreed, mostly for my father’s sake. But on the appointed day, with my audience fanned out in their beds in various states of consciousness, I found myself playing freely. Nurses glided by on soundless sneakers, a lunch cart clattered in the distance; one woman let out sighs. Afterward, I realized that I had never entered into such a state of flow while playing in public. What had been intended as an act of care for the residents had also healed a tiny bit of the rift in my relationship with the violin.Vocke, Okundaye, Sean Brennan, Lara Bruckmann and Tamara Wellons practice before making their rounds at the Johns Hopkins Hospital.Maansi Srivastava for The New York TimesI shared this story on a brisk January morning in Baltimore in the old boardroom at Johns Hopkins Hospital, where I sat in on a peer supervision session of professional bedside artists. These musicians, all faculty members at the Peabody Institute, are part of a nationwide trend to bring the arts into health care settings.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      in Television

      Michael Crichton’s Estate Calls New Show an Unauthorized ‘ER’ Remake in Lawsuit

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      The best-selling author’s estate has filed suit over “The Pitt,” an upcoming series, claiming that it is an unauthorized reboot of the hit hospital drama.The estate of Michael Crichton filed suit against Warner Bros. Television on Tuesday, claiming that its upcoming Max series, “The Pitt,” is an unauthorized “ER” reboot that fails to credit him and compensate his heirs.The suit accused Warner Bros. and R. Scott Gemmill, the showrunner of “The Pitt,” of breaching a contract that requires Crichton’s consent for any remakes of the hit hospital drama. The estate also sued John Wells, an executive producer, and Noah Wyle, set to star and serve as an executive producer.“The lawsuit filed by the Crichton Estate is baseless,” Warner Bros. Television said in an emailed statement, calling “The Pitt” a “new and original show.” The company said it would “vigorously defend against these meritless claims.”The complaint, filed in Los Angeles County Superior Court, claims that in 2020, Warner Bros., Gemmill, Wells and Wyle began developing a reboot of the show without informing Sherri Crichton, the author’s widow and the guardian of his estate. Gemmill and Wells were executive producers on “ER,” and Wyle was a star of that show.When they told her about the project, nearly two years into development, Crichton’s estate was prepared to approve a reboot based on the condition that he would be credited as a creator, in addition to a set of financial terms. But Warner Bros. later walked back on many of its promises, the lawsuit said.After negotiating for nearly a year, the parties did not reach an agreement, according to the suit. But Warner Bros. “simply moved the show from Chicago to Pittsburgh, rebranded it ‘The Pitt’ and has plowed ahead without any attribution or compensation for Crichton and his heirs,” the complaint said.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      in Music

      Four Tops Singer Sues Hospital Over Being Put in Restraints

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      The lawsuit by Alexander Morris, who joined the group six years ago, said the staff thought he was “delusional” when he told them he was in the Motown band.A singer who joined the storied Motown group the Four Tops in 2018 sued a Michigan hospital on Monday, accusing its staff of placing him in restraints and ordering a psychological evaluation because they did not believe he was part of the band.The singer, Alexander Morris, who is Black, filed a lawsuit accusing Ascension Macomb-Oakland Hospital of racial discrimination and two employees of negligence for an incident in April 2023, when he was taken there by ambulance with chest pain and difficulty breathing.When Mr. Morris, 53, told hospital staff that he was a member of the Four Tops — which helped define the Motown Sound in the 1960s with hits such as “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch)” and “Reach Out I’ll Be There” — the staff “wrongfully assumed he was mentally ill” and a security guard was instructed to put him in restraints, the lawsuit alleges.When Mr. Morris offered to show his identification card, the lawsuit said, the security guard, who is white, told him to “sit his Black ass down.”“None of the nursing staff intervened to stop the racial discrimination and mistreatment,” said the lawsuit, which accused the staff of taking Mr. Morris, who had a history of heart problems, off oxygen while they pursued a psychiatric evaluation.The nonprofit health system that oversees the hospital, Ascension, released a statement in which it declined to comment on the pending litigation but said, “We do not condone racial discrimination of any kind.”The Four Tops has seen a rotation of replacement singers since its heyday. Its only surviving original member, Abdul Fakir, invited Mr. Morris to join the group in 2018 and he has been performing with them since 2019. At the time of Mr. Morris’s hospital visit last year, the lawsuit said, the Four Tops had been touring with another Motown jewel, the Temptations, and the group had recently performed at a Grammys charity event honoring Berry Gordy, Motown’s founder.Seeking to convince the hospital that he was not “delusional,” Mr. Morris’s lawsuit said, he showed a nurse a video of him performing at the Grammys event. Then the staff canceled the psychiatric evaluation, removed the restraints — which the suit said had been in place for about 90 minutes — and placed him back on oxygen.The lawsuit, which was filed in the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Michigan, said that after the ordeal, Mr. Morris was offered a $25 gift card to a supermarket, which he said he refused to accept.“The hospital denied my identity and my basic human dignity and then offered me a gift card,” Mr. Morris said in a statement provided by his lawyers. More

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      in Movies

      ‘Our Body’ Review: Patience

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      The French director Claire Simon’s profoundly humane documentary focuses on patients in the gynecology ward of a Paris hospital.Slightly past its midpoint, the nearly three-hour documentary “Our Body” hits its stride and never lets up, as the film sutures scenes of patients — younger and older, cisgender and trans — at the gynecological unit of a Paris hospital. In a potent and intimate sequence, the film goes from a midwife-aided birth to a C-section delivery, then to a mother who has experienced painful complications during her delivery and, finally, to a woman trying to navigate her pregnancy while in chemotherapy.After one mother uses a smartphone to record her newborn’s wails, our tears may already be warranted. But it is the leap from this sequence to a powerful doctor-patient consultation — one for the documentary’s director, Claire Simon — that adds a fresh layer of depth to this already profound meditation on patients, and women at large.“You see to the film,” the doctor tells Simon, as the filmmaker receives a cancer diagnosis. “I’ll see to you.”Simon’s own words to her care provider, about going from filmmaker to patient, seem to speak to the limits of cinema-forged empathy, even as the documentary provides another achingly human example of its power.“Our Body” includes footage of a vehement demonstration protesting gynecological violence that is staged outside the hospital. But there are more scenes of compassion than of medical arrogance. The patients often meet hard news with equanimity. How much the presence of a camera has to do with this, we can’t fully know. But Simon’s belief in the interconnectedness yet singularity of the varied patients is palpable. She rewards our patience with a deeper understanding of our bodies and ourselves.Our BodyNot rated. In French and English, with subtitles. Running time: 2 hours 48 minutes. In theaters. More

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      in Television

      Coping With Crohn’s Disease, With the Help of Rachael Ray

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      The stars of the Food Network help a teenage patient make it through the long days in the hospital with no solid food.When I was 15, I fell in love with the voice of Rachael Ray. That velvety contralto was the soundtrack of my days in the children’s hospital I hated — with its plaid curtains and kind nurses — but called home.For weeks I spent my days hopped up on morphine, in and out of consciousness, nestled in a snake hive of drip tubes and wires. I was intent on fighting off this invader without a name, but even more devoted to the tiny television set that was giving me an education on how to beat a meringue into submission or throw a “simple yet stunning” dinner party (even when one of the guests is a vegetarian).What I remember most was the hunger. I was starving, literally. But I had the Food Network.Under doctors’ orders, I ate hardly anything — not a drop of ginger ale, a bite of a cracker or even an ice chip. This was my first foray into a kind of forced asceticism, something that my body, ravaged by this yet-to-be-diagnosed disease, would frequently require. Ravenousness was embedded in my bones, a constant pang.My gut was too inflamed, spastic and maniacal to handle nutrition by mouth, and the team of doctors proclaimed, with the nonchalance of those who could pop down to the cafeteria for a sandwich, that my digestive tract needed “a break” and should “cool down.” Forgoing food by mouth was the way to get this done.My fate was N.P.O. — nil per os, Latin for “nothing by mouth.” When I had run out of celebrity tabloids to inhale and dutifully completed my homework, I became fluent in medicalese, injecting abbreviations and obscure medical terms into my vocabulary. I learned that this diet — or nondiet, really — was the first step in getting my irate system back to a seemingly elusive homeostasis.I soon received the decidedly unsexy, unglamorous diagnosis of Crohn’s disease. It’s one of those things — chronic, incurable, but can be managed — that can physically and financially debilitate you for long periods of time, in events called flares.Without food, I became half girl, half robot, with angst coursing through me and machines pumping nutrition into my body intravenously in a process called T.P.N., or total parenteral nutrition. T.P.N. is a common treatment for a severe Crohn’s flare. It bypasses the digestive system, giving your colon the ultimate vacation. How luxurious.I lost the contours of a fully sane and satiated human, morphing and flattening into pure desire — skin and bones, ribs visible, thighs that no longer touched — and I became obsessed with the idea of preparing food and thoughts of my favorite meals. Roast beef. Buttery potatoes. Burgers so big and dripping with juices that you’d need six napkins. Most bewildering to those around me, I became obsessed with the Food Network.Instead of food, I devoured clips of Paula Deen inserting pounds of butter into a cake recipe and Sandra Lee concocting something deliciously semi-homemade. Emeril Lagasse’s shrieks of “Bam!” sounded even more authoritative through the fog of opioids. And watching Rachael Ray whip up something “delish” became a lustful experience through those hours of rotting in a hospital bed.I grew accustomed to the emptiness of days unbroken by the familiar markers of mealtimes and instead became dependent on the intervals of carefully dispensed pain medications, always wanting more. I felt swathed and safe in that chemical cocoon and didn’t realize, until years later, that what I had thought was feeling happy really meant being high.All the while I was flipping through channels to see the beloved friends who were always there for me: Rachael, Emeril, Sandra, Paula.The rays of the setting sun would blaze through the hospital windows. Then came the darkness that would allow me to see the TV screen with more clarity as I curled into the warm abyss of a sleeping aid — “the good stuff” that sent me drifting off to a zone of semiconsciousness, free of pain, with dreams of lunches and Coca-Cola and a warm, full belly. The Food Network shows, with their bright colors and erotic displays of shiny spatchcocked chickens, were my proxy for a primal unmet need.I endured the daily drone of doctors and medical residents who poked and prodded, promising “just a few more days of no food.” This went on for weeks, with starts and stops along the way. The few days when I was allowed the most delectable of gastronomic wonders — chicken broth and lemon water ice — were followed by pains so searing and gruesome, and complications so life-threatening, that I would be forced back to square one.I became an animal closing in on its prey, except the prey was a vanilla pudding cup and the messenger was some poor nurse named Liz. If I smelled food, I would devolve into a rageful miscreant, screaming at the visitors who had food with them and ordering them out of my room. I resented those who could tend to their most basic needs with such ease.Psychologists and therapists tried to teach me breathing techniques and other coping mechanisms, which I scoffed at with laughs and eye rolls that only teenage girls know how to give. Even as some of my muscles atrophied, it seemed my middle finger functioned just fine. More than ever, I came to rely on the trusted TV hosts who grilled and baked with such ease. Imagine Ina Garten denying me a meal!I try to think of when Food Became Good Again, when eating became a vehicle of pleasure and not pure pain. There’s no perfect data point. That’s the thing with having an illness that goes on and on: “Before” and “after” are irrelevant. Living in a body on fire requires you to tend to it like a garden — carefully and meticulously and, most importantly, every day.I say I have two jobs, my day job at a newspaper and a second as a secretary of myself and of my body. Skills include a deftness at wading through the health care system, an ability to scream on phones at middle-managing insurance agents and a knack for properly budgeting for “emergencies.” One wrong move could mean a Crohn’s flare or a hefty medical bill.There came a time, after that initial stay in the hospital, when food became not the enemy, but a sort of benign suitor. After months of feeding tubes and stomach pumping, along with one helicopter “life flight” and surgery, I began to get over being sick. The drugs seemed to be working. The doctor’s visits, though tiresome and often marred by procedural nonsense, were helping.I was once again able to eat in a “regular” way — small bites of pizza and greasy chicken tenders, crisp apples cloaked in drippy peanut butter, my favorite. The saccharine taste of Diet Coke and the zing of cheap black coffee are daily pleasures. Rachael, Ina and Emeril are still in the picture, but now when I watch them, at home, I can run to the fridge.Annie Tressler is a corporate communications manager at The New York Times. More

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      in Movies

      ‘Take Care of Maya’ Review: A Chronicle of a Family’s Pain

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      In this Netflix documentary about a young girl who was held in a hospital and barred from seeing her family, we hear their side of the story.In 2016 in St. Petersburg, Florida, Maya Kowalski was rushed to the pediatric emergency room for extreme pain. The 10-year-old would be held in the hospital for three months under a state-issued shelter order and barred from seeing her parents, whom doctors suspected of medical child abuse.The story of the Kowalskis, which was reported in The Cut last year, is at the core of “Take Care of Maya” (on Netflix), a chronicle of the events and their aftermath. At the hospital, Maya was evaluated by a child-welfare agency pediatrician who specialized in detecting child abuse and who initially diagnosed Munchausen Syndrome by proxy. The documentary unfolds mostly from the Kowalskis’ viewpoint, relying on court testimony, Maya’s father’s recollections and video, audio and written records from Maya’s mother.To watch this film is to submit to a punishing experience. This is only partly because of its content, for, while Maya’s case involves a thorny jumble of issues — a rare pain syndrome, a controversial regimen, a dubious child welfare system — the director, Henry Roosevelt, approaches the material with an eye toward sensationalism. Every minute is charged with tension, and one senses that scenes were shaped with the intent to scandalize rather than enlighten.What’s sacrificed in this approach is rigor, the drive to exhaustively analyze the circumstances that led to the Kowalski family’s troubles. For instance, the film mentions but declines to explore the relationship between Florida’s hospitals and the privatized child welfare companies that serve them. “Take Care of Maya” is grueling, but it is also oddly deficient, wanting for the precision and perspective essential to deriving insight from profound trauma.Take Care of MayaNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 43 minutes. Watch on Netflix. More

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      in Music

      Lisa Marie Presley, Singer-Songwriter and Daughter of Elvis, Dies at 54

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      Her death in Los Angeles on Thursday, after a life tinged with tragedy, came after a medical emergency and brief hospitalization.Lisa Marie Presley, the singer-songwriter and only child of Elvis Presley, died on Thursday in Los Angeles after a medical emergency and a brief hospitalization. She was 54.Sam Mast, a representative of Priscilla Presley, her mother, announced the death in a statement. Earlier in the day, Ms. Presley said her daughter had been receiving medical attention but did not provide more information. Ms. Presley lived in Calabasas, Calif., west of Los Angeles.The daughter of one of the most celebrated performers in music history, Ms. Presley followed her father’s career path. She released three rock albums, on which she set out to establish a sound of her own while also paying homage to the man who forever changed the American soundscape with his blend of blues, gospel, country and other genres.Hers was a life tinged with tragedy. She was 9 when her father died in 1977, and she lost others who had been close to her along the way, including her former husband, Michael Jackson. The suicide of her only son, Benjamin Keough, at age 27 in 2020 hit her especially hard, an episode she wrote about movingly last year in an essay for People magazine to mark National Grief Awareness Day.“My and my three daughters’ lives as we knew it were completely detonated and destroyed by his death,” she wrote. “We live in this every. Single. Day.”The enormous legacy of her father was a constant presence in her life. On Tuesday, she was again celebrating him at the Golden Globe awards ceremony, telling Extra TV that Austin Butler, who won the award for lead actor in a drama for his performance in the title role of Baz Luhrmann’s “Elvis,” had perfectly captured the essence of her father.“I was mind-blown, truly,” Ms. Presley said. “I actually had to take, like, five days to process it because it was so spot on and authentic.”In his speech accepting his award during the televised ceremony, Mr. Butler singled out the Presley family for its friendship and support as the camera panned to a visibly moved Priscilla and Lisa Marie Presley seated at his table.Ms. Presley in 2012 beside a display of her childhood crib at Graceland, Elvis Presley’s home in Memphis. Lance Murphey/Associated PressOn Sunday, Ms. Presley was at Graceland, her father’s estate in Memphis, to commemorate what would have been his 88th birthday.Father and daughter were extremely close. Elvis once flew Lisa Marie to Idaho after she said she had never seen snow. He named his 1958 Convair 880 private jet the Lisa Marie.Ms. Presley owned Graceland and her father’s artifacts, as well as 15 percent of Elvis Presley Enterprises, the corporate entity created by a Presley trust to manage its assets.Though Ms. Presley’s music career never reached the heights her father’s had achieved, his influence was evident in her music and lyrics. “Someone turned the lights out there in Memphis,” she sang in “Lights Out,” a song from “To Whom It May Concern,” her debut album, released in 2003. “That’s where my family’s buried and gone.”In 2018, she co-produced an album celebrating Elvis’s love of gospel music and sang along with a recording of him on one of the songs. “I got moved by it as I was singing,” she said in an interview.If her albums produced no signature hits, her last name enshrined her as a celebrity. And her star-studded relationships only deepened that perception. Foremost among those was her marriage, from 1994 to 1996, to Mr. Jackson. Together, the pair — one the daughter of the king of rock ’n’ roll, the other regarded as the king of pop — attracted the glare of cameras and bountiful attention. In August 1994, The New York Times reported on the couple’s revelation that they had married.“After announcing a union that might have been conceived in supermarket-tabloid heaven and proclaiming a need for privacy, the world’s most famous newlyweds were holed up last night in a place not known for its isolation: Trump Tower,” The Times wrote. “At 5:40 p.m., a few hours after the statement was released in Los Angeles, the developer Donald J. Trump emerged from Trump Tower to the kind of reportorial throng normally reserved for the likes of, well, Michael Jackson or Donald Trump, and confirmed that, yes, the couple were ensconced on the top floor of the Fifth Avenue tower.”There was speculation that the marriage was an effort to deflect attention from investigations into allegations by a 13-year-old boy that Mr. Jackson had molested him. For a time the couple portrayed a happy marriage — Ms. Presley said she wanted to be known as “Mrs. Lisa Marie Presley-Jackson.” But by the end of 1995 they had separated, and they divorced the next year.Ms. Presley was married three other times; those marriages ended in divorce as well. She married the singer and songwriter Danny Keough in 1988, the actor Nicolas Cage in 2002 and, most recently, in 2006, Michael Lockwood, a guitarist who was music director of her 2005 album, “Now What.” They divorced in 2021.Her survivors include her daughter with Mr. Keough, the actress Riley Keough, and twin daughters with Mr. Lockwood, Harper and Finley.In a foreword to the 2019 book “The United States of Opioids: A Prescription for Liberating a Nation in Pain” by Harry Nelson, Ms. Presley wrote about her struggle with addiction, which she said began when she was given a prescription for pain medication after the birth of the twins in 2008. She quoted her own response to a point-blank question about her problem posed to her on the “Today” show in 2018.“I’m not perfect,” she recalled saying. “My father wasn’t perfect, no one’s perfect. It’s what you do with it after you learn and then you try to help others with it.”Elvis and Priscilla Presley with their daughter, Lisa Marie, after her birth in 1968. Associated PressLisa Marie Presley was born in Memphis on Feb. 1, 1968. “I’m a shaky man,” her famous father told reporters when his wife was admitted to Baptist Memorial Hospital for the birth, an occasion that made international news.In “Elvis by the Presleys,” a 2005 book of recollections by Lisa Marie and Priscilla Presley and others, Lisa Marie wrote of her childhood memories of her father.“The thing about my father is that he never hid anything,” she wrote. “He didn’t have a facade. Never put on airs. If he was crabby, you knew it. If he was angry, he’d let you know. His temper could give Darth Vader a run for his money. But if he was happy, everyone was happy.”Home life had its odd moments.“One time in the middle of the night I’m awoken by this incredibly loud noise coming from my father’s bedroom, which was right next to mine,” she related. “I get out of bed and see the guys buzz-sawing down his door so they can move in a grand piano. He felt like playing piano and singing gospel songs.”In the same book, Priscilla Presley wrote of Elvis’s tenderness toward his daughter in her early years.“Twice he spanked her on her bottom,” she remembered. “Once she colored a velvet couch with crayons, and once she ignored his warnings and got too close to the edge of the pool. The spankings were restrained and also warranted. But poor Elvis was a mess afterwards. You would have thought he had committed murder.”As a performer, Ms. Presley, whose most recent album was “Storm & Grace” (2012), knew her name would always be impossible to escape. But she was eager to be taken on her own terms.“It’s my own thing,” she said of her career in a 2003 interview with The Times. “I’m just trying to be an artist. I’m not trying to be Elvis Presley’s child. And I’m not trying to run from it either.”Kirsten Noyes More

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      in Movies

      ‘InHospitable’ Review: Fight for Survival

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      Patients push back on a medical behemoth in this persuasive health care documentary.“InHospitable” is a decent advocacy documentary that compellingly argues a couple of points that aren’t easy to make compelling onscreen. One is that supposedly nonprofit hospitals often behave more like for-profit hospitals and don’t provide benefits commensurate with the tax breaks they receive. Another is that hospital mergers and anticompetitive practices tend to increase costs for patients.The movie, directed by Sandra Alvarez, focuses on a surge of activism in Pittsburgh, where, in mid-2019, a pair of consent decrees agreed to by two medical bodies, the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center (or U.P.M.C.) and Highmark, were set to expire. Both organizations were insurers and providers rolled into one, as well as competitors. The agreement ensured that U.P.M.C. would remain in-network for Highmark subscribers for certain care.The bad guy, in the film’s telling, is U.P.M.C., which is described as Pennsylvania’s largest employer and portrayed as having enormous political power. If the agreement expired, many Highmark patients would in effect have to switch insurers, pay higher costs or find new doctors elsewhere.“InHospitable” spends time with subjects like Vicki and Maurice Arnett, who travel to Atlanta to obtain covered cancer treatment for Maurice rather than risk a disruption in his care, and Evie Bodick, who is frustrated with having to leave her doctors at U.P.M.C. and find five new specialists.How this dispute was resolved three years ago — and even an early-pandemic coda from 2020 — is old news at this point. But Alvarez showcases a handful of experts, including health care economists and the former New York Times reporter Elisabeth Rosenthal, who cogently explain how the principles apply nationally.InHospitableNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 42 minutes. In theaters and available to rent or buy on Apple TV, Google Play and other streaming platforms and pay TV operators. More