The Physical Impossibility
of Life in the Mind ofÉ
Untitled directed by Jonathan
Parker
Josh is a
successful painter. He makes elevator art and sells it for $10,000 apiece. His
brother Adrian (Adam Goldberg) is an avant-garde composer. He is tormented, with a Van Gogh complex. This Cain and Abel
pair do not compete for parental approval (though it is implied that that
would be nice), but for the attention of gallerist Madeleine amid a callous
art scene swarming with predatory art dealers, clueless collectors and
beastly artists. When Josh (Eion Bailey) brings Madeleine to AdrianÕs
sparsely attended concert, her fanning with a program infuriates the artiste, who shows a real flair for audience-interactive
improvisation with an American flag. His intention backfires: It ends up
fanning MadeleineÕs passion.
Just like the kind of artwork that inflames the
black-clad art dealer, director Jonathan ParkerÕs Untitled is a challenge to its viewer: ItÕs depressingly
ugly. The filmÕs most effective visual insult is not AdrianÕs perma-scowl but the objects that
litter its galleries and lofts that are, as props, supposed to remind you
of some recent blockbuster artists. Though they may be fine by themselves,
they are piled here like low-rent bring-Õem-all. Like the taxidermy-art
creator Ray Barko (Vinnie Jones), a 20th-century relic of a male
auteur, says, they need room to breathe.
What is worse than the art is its audience, condemned
ÐÐ along with creators and middlepersons ÐÐ in a populist stance as
ÒpretentiousÓ and Òshallow.Ó Writers Parker and Catherine DiNapoli refuse
to credit them with even a scrap of civilization. Canby is an overgrown
geek who buys art as investment, upstaged only by Monroe, MadeleineÕs new
discovery. When AdrianÕs ensemble emits hoot-hoots and macaque mating calls
at RayÕs bestiary opening, no one appreciates the thematic connection (or
commentary on its immediate environment, for that matter). Critics eagerly
assault the composers during pauses in concerts, in a show of ÒgrittinessÓ
that elevates New York above all others. Annie Hall is, after all, 40 years old.
The sole visual relief comes in the form of Madeleine
(Marley Shelton). Like an Amber Valetta in a pair of Prada specs, Shelton
models a series of dastardly mixed-media outfits that squeak like a toilet
cleaner or an ostrich hula skirt that would work very well in a porcelain
bowl. She has the best lines and delivers them with conviction: You know you can trust her to sell your art.
Ironically, itÕs AdrianÕs compositions that engage
the viewerÕs interest among the filmÕs onslaught of bad art. ItÕs even good
when he Òloses itÓ in a restaurant where he works as a piano player and
proceeds to ruin the dinersÕ evenings.
To the filmmakersÕ credit, Madeleine ultimately ÐÐ or
accidentally ÐÐ makes Adrian realize that heÕs been disconnecting himself
from what matters. Even JoshÕs paintings improve. The epic saga of
ambition, passion and betrayal winds up on a beach in Nantucket, with a
reminder that validation of an artistÕs toil and trouble lies not in
financial rewards or fame. ThatÕs a fat proposition slapped on a
Kodakscape, in such a commercial artform (a movie) with Main Street
pretensions. Salvation cometh, but only after 75 minutes of a downward
spiral of visual banality: too late, too little.
