My girlfriend and I decided to greenlight this to the front of the queue because Jeffrey Wright lives around the corner from us and we feel like we know him.
"Where'd you park the car," she'll ask.
"Oh, in front of Jeffrey's," I'll answer.
You know, I'm sure he parks in front of our building too. Or in his climate-controlled Bruce Wayne garagecave. And when she walked past his front door while he was hanging Halloween decorations, and he made a ghostly "oo-oo-oo" noise and a funny face at her, she took it as acknowledgement that they are now very close friends. We should probably get out of the house more.
So you can imagine the personal disappointment we felt and the awkward spot that puts us in, after watching this. It's not that it's a bad movie, but like Gertrude Stein's Oakland, once you're there, there isn't any there there. The performances are hit and miss. Jeffrey Wright's Basquiat is exciting; his physicality is different from any work of his I've seen since. But the shrug and grunt style of acting Benicio Del Toro sometimes resorts to is distracting. Then David Bowie's Warhol is hilarious, "do you have any money, Bruno?" And it's great to see
Michael Wincott in something other than B-movie heavy mode. But, at the same time,
Claire Forlani just never fits with the rest of the movie, which you could argue is a genius bit of casting, illustrating Basquiat's personal and professional worlds could never click together, or you could simply write off as she must have known somebody on the production. Who knows?
The visuals are interesting throughout, though I suppose they should be when the director's the big deal painter he's supposed to be. The painting progression scene in the basement is cool, and the sound design when he walks into his first big show with his headphones on, and Big Pink reclaiming her scarf, and the "all stop but Basquiat" as he walks out. They're all promises of what's to come, if the advance praise for
The Diving Bell and The Butterfly can be trusted.
But the script is empty. If you don't already know the Basquiat story, chapter and verse, you're lost. The Netflix envelope claims the film captures "...his anguish over his family and his hatred of a society that both courted and exploited him." Well, if you say so. In the end, the movie feels more like a very "in" love letter from Julian Schnabel to the painting scene, than a story for the rest of us about someone we don't already know. You know, like Jeffrey Wright.
Shifting between the rough streets of 1986 Astoria, Queens, and present day, we follow the real-life story of Dito Montiel reconciling with the friends and family he left behind when he followed his dreams to California. The 1986 section is exciting. The cast is fantastic. Shia LaBeouf's ease is kind of amazing. And Channing Tatum, who I'd only known from the previews for Step Up, was surprisingly good. And Martin Compston as Mike O'Shea deserves a nod too. Hell, they're all good, except for Chazz Palminteri, whose dramatic line readings lead me to believe he thinks he's in a play instead of a movie. And "Chazz," who allows themself to be called "Chazz?" Maybe a toe-walker, ranked second on the high school tennis team, prone to double faults and tantrums, while Dad screams at the line judge. But a grown man? Sorry, I digress. It's an old grudge.
