Category Archives: Film Reviews

Basquiat

Posted on by
1

Artists, Jean Michel Basquiat (Jeffrey Wright), Andy Warhol (David Bowie), Albert Milo (Gary Oldman, essentially portraying Julian Schnabel) and dealer Bruno Bischofberger (Dennis Hopper) pose for a photographer in a scene from the 1996 film ‘Basquiat’.

Basquiat (1996)

Directed by Julian Schnabel

The term ‘Neo-expressionism’ has little currency amongst art historians today. A meaningless moniker, it’s authority as a label for a perceived ‘return to painting’ in the 1980s is gradually eroding. There are two artists for whom the term is most often employed. One is the director of this film, Julian Schnabel, and the other is its protagonist, Jean Michel Basquiat. Apart from its lead, Basquiat presents a vignette of characters who are all surface and no depth. The idea is to emphasise Basquiat’s enigmatic and isolated nature. The result is a cold yet visually compelling film.

Before he was discovered by the New York art world, Basquiat was a known graffiti artist who, along with his friend Al Diaz, daubed humorous and bizarre haikus around the city signed SAMO© (‘Same Old Shit’). At the start of the film we see Basquiat (played by Jeffery Wright) emerge from a cardboard box in Tompkins Square Park where he has been sleeping rough, using every opportunity to leave his mark on the surroundings. As he looks up at the New York skyline, he imagines a surfer riding a wave in the sky. This visual metaphor crops up several times throughout the film. It encapsulates Basquiat’s independent and tempestuous nature, whilst also serving as a symbol of his ambition and eventual fate. As his friend Benny (Benicio Del Toro) puts it: ‘for all you know you might just be a flash in the pan man, and let me tell you, you can never tell’.

At a house party, the artist and critic René Ricard (Michael Wincott) is blown away by a painting propped upon a mantelpiece and races after Basquiat in the street. Soon Basquiat is surrounded by the front runners of the New York art scene, including Andy Warhol (David Bowie) and the dealers Mary Boone (Parker Posey) and Bruno Bischofberger (Dennis Hopper). The centre of attention, Basquiat ostracises himself from his friends, including his long-suffering girlfriend Gina (Claire Forlani). We are presented with a familiar and tragic tale of a flourishing career paralleled by a ruinous personal life (Basquiat died of a heroin overdose aged 27 in 1988). Throughout the film Schnabel pokes fun at the myth of the tragic, isolated genius, mostly to ensure that the cliche doesn’t completely cannibalise the film’s narrative. The opening lines of the film are Ricard’s ruminations: ‘Everybody wants to get on the Van Gogh boat…The idea of the unrecognized genius slaving away in a garret is a deliciously foolish one’.

Jeffrey Wright is an undervalued actor. Why isn’t he given more lead roles instead of bit parts in big blockbusters (such as Felix Leiter in the latest Bond films)? He remains enigmatic as Basquiat and is the most three dimensional character in the film, employing subtle ticks and idiosyncratic expressions. The remaining star-studded cast is a constant distraction, detracting from the reality of the narrative. On one level the casting works because Schnabel is knowingly critiquing the artifice of the art world, but the cost is that the actors, despite their best efforts, are incapable of making their characters believable. There are cameos by Courtney Love, William Dafoe, Vincent Gallo and Christopher Walken. David Bowie uses Warhol for comic relief, uttering inanities in-between conversation. Having gone through the trouble of wearing Warhol’s actual wigs, it’s a shame that Bowie and Schnabel aren’t able to communicate the essence of the artist’s friendship with Basquiat. Apart from their mutual isolation, we cannot comprehend the extent of their friendship. Bowie, though the king of androgyny, is too masculine for the role. He doesn’t look like Warhol. He looks too alert, too sharp, whilst Warhol was aloof and affected a glazed expression.

Schnabel chose to name Gary Oldman’s character ‘Albert Milo’, even though Oldman is clearly portraying him. Did he fear that his presence would compete with Basquiat’s or was he uncomfortable with being explicitly portrayed on screen? He seems keen to emphasise that Basquiat was a friendly acquaintance, not a close friend. So many people cashed in on their relationship with Basquiat that the Oldman character is probably a sound strategy. Parker Posey plays the art dealer Mary Boone to type. She is poised, focused and ruthless. Posey can turn a seductive smile into a snarl. ‘It’s a very handsome show’, she tells Basquiat, ‘it’s just in the wrong gallery’.

The film’s cinematography is its slickest feature. Schnabel brings the nightclubs and galleries of the film to life, employing contemporary music appropriately and with a metaphorical flourish. Surreal scenes that take us into Basquiat’s mind feel genuinely illuminating, such as when he imagines a future artwork made out of car tyres. Schnabel enjoys using fixed cameras angles accompanied by rapid edits that reveal the development of a work in situ.

I suspect Schnabel knew that a film about Basquiat would be hampered by the baggage of art mythology and the cult of celebrity that surrounded him. He bravely tackles both subjects head-on. It is entirely to his credit that the film maintains a humor and winking knowingness. It’s well worth watching for its visual inventiveness and flair, though those looking for a solid drama will be disappointed by the film’s emotionally flat tone.

 

Drive

Posted on by
1

Drive (2011)

Directed by Nicholas Winding Refn

Drive will almost certainly split audiences into two camps. There will be those who will describe the film as a triumph of style over substance and those who will argue that its substance is to be found in its style. A.O. Scott described the film as ‘a prisoner of its own emptiness, substituting moods for emotions and borrowed style for real audacity’. Unlike Scott, I find my self in the latter camp; Director Nicholas Winding Refn knowingly uses gloss and surface to illustrate the character of L.A. and the spiritual absence at the core of its inhabitants.

Ryan Gosling plays ‘Driver’ whose real name is never revealed. His apparent rootlessness and lack of motivation adds to his mystique. By day he is a Hollywood stuntman. By night, he is a getaway driver for bank heists. Presumably Driver makes a fair packet from these heists but seems content to assist Shannon (Bryan Cranston) at his garage. The implication is that Driver needs danger to feel alive and as a substitute for a lack of emotional intimacy. This changes when he befriends his neighbour Irene (Carey Mulligan) and her son Benicio. Imbued with a tangible purpose, he rises to defend them after an attempt to alleviate Irene’s husband (Oscar Issac) from prison debts goes horribly wrong.

Drive bears comparison to Luc Besson’s Leon. Both are about alienated single-minded professionals who lack any meaningful relationships and who find solace (briefly) before tragedy ensues. The directorial approaches are also similar, the key difference being that Winding Refn’s overall tone is far more pessimistic and cynical whereas Besson’s films are imbued with a child-like enthusiasm. Both place an emphasis on marrying sound and music to image. After the opening sequence, the screen briefly fades to black before Nightcall (by Kavinsky & Lovefoxxx) ear-piercingly rips through the speakers accompanied by slick aerial shots of Los Angeles at night. It’s hard not to be seduced by the bombast. There is something inexplicably satisfying when visuals and sound are so effectively synchronised that the images haunt you long after you’ve left the cinema. But there are also disquieting scenes laden with subtle nuances that confirm the director’s range.

There are frequent references to surfaces and reflections; Driver looking through his rear-view mirror, the use of bland stunt masks, neon lights flickering upon faces. Gosling’s acting is understated to the point of self-effacement. With barely any lines he communicates through exchanged glances, unblinking concentration or even the faint curl of a smile. It works very well, though it will no doubt elicit parodies.

I struggled to reconcile Carey Mulligan with her role, but on second viewing it was apparent that she is a good fit. She embodies a believable vulnerability, exuding a warmth of character that attracts Driver’s affections.

The supporting roles are brilliantly fulfilled. Though the plot is plainly elemental, none of the characters are played two-dimensionally. Oscar Issac conveys a palpable susceptibility, which intensifies right up to the films botched robbery. Christina Hendricks extinguishes any hint of her role as Mad Men’s Joan Holloway. Bryan Cranston who has proved such a revelation in Breaking Bad manages to steal some of the film’s laughs alongside Ron Perlman as west coast mobster Nino. Most surprising is Albert Brooks who plays Bernie Rose. Brooks oozes with hostility. He is a terrifying presence, committing horrendous acts without care or hesitation. Rose is a character whose emotions have long since deadened. After committing a murder he sits with a drink at home and looks positively lost. Yes, he did it for practical reasons, yet there is just a hint that he may well realise the absurdity of his existence and the needlessness of the violence which surrounds him.

Film still from ‘Drive’ (taken from IMDB.com)

The violence of the film is highly aestheticised, punctuated aggressively with sound and music. Driver veers between two poles of emotional state, perhaps because he is incapable of any thing in-between. It is not the casual and muted violence of your average action film. Instead, it is searing, disturbing and at times, plainly ridiculous. The tragedy of the film is that in protecting Irene and Benicio, Driver’s capacity for violence will have to reveal itself, thus threatening to destroy the very thing he is attempting to protect.

It struck me throughout the film that though heinous crimes are committed, there is virtually no police presence (save for the opening sequence) or any suggestion that any of the characters are concerned about covering up their actions. This lends itself to the film very well, serving to extenuate the loneliness of the protagonist whilst conveying the expanse of unregulated urban jungle in which he is lost. It’s hard to even image if Driver could ever leave L.A., in the sense that the city stands in for a sort of continuous, inescapable urban environment without any clear boundaries. It lends additional weight to Bernie Rose’s threat: ‘any dreams you have, or plans for your future, I think you’re gonna have to put that on hold. For the rest of your life you’re gonna be looking over your shoulder.’

The visuals reminded me of Michael Mann’s Collateral, its protagonist of numerous lone individuals from Westerns. Its unsurprising that the work of Winding Refn is already being worshipped by cinephiles. He has a brilliant capacity to weave influences, styles and cinematic references together to create something new. His directorial virtuosity inspires admiration amongst his audiences. It is to this type for whom the film will appeal. Others will deem Drive to be shallow and gratuitous. A similar charge was levelled at Besson, whose films inspired the term Cinéma du look. The label stood for the prioritising of the visual over plotting and characterisation. I always felt that the charge was unfair. Besson’s films, whilst being visually slick, are surprisingly affecting (I’m thinking specifically of Leon, Nikita and The Big Blue) as is Drive, which ends on an ambiguous and sombre note. If such films really do articulate the alienation of youth, they should at least inform us of the sophisticated lengths with which emotion is deferred and reconstituted as something palpable, if imperfect.