my satan sense tingling

I’ve been dwelling on new ways to increase the productivity of my life as of late. I haven’t done a lot with it as I’m more than a few screws loose from a pretty solid approach towards what I expect to be a not so wide embrace. My Satan sense tingling far be it from me to question our dumb civilization or stupid customs. Believe it or not, on a weekday Tuesday I decided to head into the public and smoke the kipper back for breakfast with the old pal J-Rod. We had a couple drinks and talked about the carnival of our realities. Soon enough we conspired for the upcoming long weekend in an attempt to find intrigue. I think he’s on the right track, but I also think any attempts he makes in appealing to regulators of the opposite-sex will be somewhat on deaf ears. Then again, now that he’s bigger and badder... the folks may heed this air of present tension. I dunno.

Afterwards, for the main event, J-Rod and I went out to see the film Art School Confidential which started out honest and funny and seemed promising but ended pretty lame as we had found. It didn't suck outright, but the cop-out ending certainly brought it close. The moral of the story? You'll never make it as an artist unless you lie, cheat, and scheme your way to the top... or you're a no-talent hack that gets mistaken for genius. Though it contains some modicum of truth, I found it entirely too discouraging and cynical to be entertaining all together entertaining.


I am not positive, but I think Art School Confidential will end up being one of those films that most people hate, but a few, prominent, loud people really feel passionate about whether they really liked it or not. I sat down not wanting to write this review because I was always told that if you cannot say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Then I decided I could say a few nice things, but not nearly enough to adhere to the sentiment of that declaration. I thought about just leaving the space blank with a few words like, "Make up your own mind on this one." Part of the problem is that there is so much technically right and wrong with this film by the reunited Ghost World team of Terry Zwigoff (director) and Daniel Clowes (writer) that settling into either camp automatically puts you dangerously close to the fence—a rickety fench, at that, which might just fall over and crush you with the weight of the opposition. Boiling it down, though, if a film is technically flawed in many spots, it almost doesn’t matter that there were some good parts, they are quite simply negated.

So, the technically good parts: It is about time somebody skewered pretentious fine arts students with a little of their own medicine—face it, most of the really great skewer films were probably made by pretentious fine arts students. So, I say let the skewerers be skewerees for a change. This makes for some good humor, especially if you are, know or have known some fine arts students from a real fine arts school and the professors. From my perspective, gathered by my history in art, there is a lot of truth in these characters and situations minus the campus strangler, of course.

Technically, there wasn’t that much in the area of filming, lighting, costuming, and set design to criticize. The main cast includes Max Minghella as Jerome the main character and Picasso-wannabe, Sophia Myles as nude model and daughter of a famous artist Audrey, Matt Keeslar as Jonah the mysterious new student and Jerome’s rival, John Malkovich in very rare form as the archetypal visual arts instructor Professor Sandiford, Jim Broadbent as the alcoholic former art-student-has-been turned sage Jimmy, Joel Moore as Bardo Jerome’s college mentor, Ethan Suplee as Jerome’s filmmaking roommate Vince, Steve Buscemi in an uncredited role of Broadway Bob restraunteur and art gallery owner, and more of a cameo that a real role, Anjelica Huston as Art History Professor Sophie.

The casting director did an exceptionally good job with the possible exception of Jerome. Max Minghella comes across as a nice boy, but he doesn’t come across as a really great artist or even a kid who will go on to become one. More on this later in the flawed section to come. Mr. Malkovich was stupendous—he nailed Professor Sandiford to a tee from his holier than thou attitude, to his my advice comes with a price professing, to his "I’m always there for you as long as you aren’t better than I am" teaching philosophy, he was perfect. Joel Moore also did a brilliant job with Bardo—I’ve met this character 10 or 12 times in my life, and as his character states, he is just a cliché of a cliché. The story concept, I believe, started out a good as a good one. And, to be fair, it was an interesting, interlocking mystery that takes advantage of the twists and turns that cropped up. Unfortunately, the final twist just about completely ruined the film.

Now for the exposing the flaws… My first inclination was to go after the script / plot. With more thought, however, it occurred to me that it is the director’s job to reject a poor script and ask for re-writes. In fact, when all is said and done, the lack of success of this film has to come down on the shoulders of the director in this case. Here are a few of the most glaring wrong turns made. First, casting Max Minghella in the lead was a poor choice. Mr. Minghella is a talented young actor. But, he was not ready for this role, nor maybe even to carry a picture of this complexity. For the film really to work, we had to be able to believe that he has/had the capacity to become a brilliant artist. Unfortunately, all we believe he can be is a lovesick puppy who confuses politeness and courtesy for real artistic sensitivity, hard work for creativity, and outspokenness for genius. Were I his mentor as an actor, I would have sent him to enroll in fine arts school for a month and get to know the kid he was playing. The role he turned in, the kid he played just doesn’t exist in a real fine arts school, he would never have gotten in. Art schools require portfolios and talent. They don’t care what you look like, if you have any social graces, they certainly don’t care if you are a doey-eyed, polite young man full of chivalry and happy thoughts. And, when he went through the class critiques, if he were whom he aspired to be, he would have been able to back up his crass comments about other students’ works, not just have a minor temper tantrum about how the other kid’s work wasn’t any good. As I say, I don’t fault Mr. Minghella. I think he was just in over his head in a very pivotal role that required someone with a temperament more along the lines of a younger Leonardo DiCaprio in say Basketball Diaries (1995) to carry it off. After this casting flaw, however, the blatant script flaw should have been even more obvious instead of less to the director who should have asked for a re-write.

I don’t want to ruin the story, so I’ll just say this…late in the film, to try to win the heart of Audrey, Jerome makes a decision that, in the visual arts world, would be considered nearly the highest possible crime (just below murder). This decision is so desperate, so pathetic, as to force a nearly total reassessment of how you have felt about him as a character all along. Worse, the decision is entirely incongruous with all that you thought you knew about him. It is the worst decision since Sophie’s Choice, and orders of magnitude more grim. In the end, it was this that really sabotaged the film. So, for all that’s right with the film, the fatal flaw is just too big for the rest to overcome. The film has its small merits—it's just not worth seeing at this time for the usual price.

But the reaction of Jerome—and the viewer—is derision towards the arrogance and phoniness of an art world that rewards high-concept or no-talent work while dismissing deserving efforts. Minghella switches his soft brown eyes into burning embers, as his character grows increasingly disillusioned and becomes as willing as the rest of them to sell his soul for 15 minutes of Warholian fame, money and the adoration of his muse.

If you’re an aspiring artist, prepare to sell-out or slit your wrists. In the meatime, keep smiling. Always remember to keep smiling. Whatever will be, will be. There is nothing more pathetic than a sore loser freak of an artist. So keep smiling. Everything will take care of itself. As in that same night I had taken a photo of roadkill while walking my way home. Thank goodness for art on the sly.