Street View
Aren’t I plucky, persevering with my little blog even now that Prince has declared the internet to be dead (long live the internet)? And Prince has never been wrong. Ever.
I shall happily refrain from discussing any of Prince’s body of work for the forseeable future, since I know it would only enrage him. Now, back to bidness.
Disclaimer: I, the Arts Glutton, do not support graffiti, no matter how technically accomplished or artistically captivating it may be. In my view, even if every other person on earth loves the piece and wants it to be there forever, this does nothing to diminish the right of the person who owns the wall not to like it, not to want it, and not to have it.
Now. Exit through the Gift Shop is delightfully entertaining, and part of that owes, without question, to the glimpse into the “lifestyle” of graffiti’s perpetrators. Some crime is, of course, more entertaining than other crime; where would Guy Ritchie be if it weren’t?
The premise: would-be documentarian (but actually just obsessive home-video taker) Thierry Guetta follows various graffiti artists for a ludicrous number of hours — ostensibly to make a movie about them, but the truth is that he just can’t stop. Once Guetta has grasped his holy grail, intimate footage of the legendary artist Banksy at work, he decides it is his turn to make — and sell — some danged art. The story is half “The Little Engine That Could,” half your annoying kid brother tagging along to the basketball court and making you hoist him up over and over to dunk.
But like I said, delightfully entertaining. Two themes resonated particularly well with your trusty glutton: (1) the motif of addiction to art. Yes, cast your stones if you must, gentle readers, but I may be a little bit addicted to art. (2) The compulsion to become a part of the artistic landscape by any means possible. An offshoot of Theme #1, but still important to recognize. The more immersed one is, the deeper one wants to go — or is it just me? Who cares. Fun movie.
As a postscript, I also took care of Fantastic Mr. Fox this weekend. Okay, so I’ll admit I’m a little late to that party, but you have to remember that I am but one small glutton, making her way through this artistic wilderness as best she can. My fourth-grade teacher (not her real name) read us the Roald Dahl book over the course of many meandering class days, and I recall being disturbed by the chapter in which (spoiler!) Mr. Fox’s tail was shot off. I am pleased to report, as a milestone in my personal development, that the incident was far less upsetting this time around, in part because Mr. Fox himself accepted it with such grace and dignity. But more to the point, let us remember that I am now someone who has watched The Human Centipede, from start to finish. I’m sure it will be years before I fully understand the ramifications of the corner I have turned in this odyssey of the mind.
