Dan Gilroy's
Velvet Buzzsaw is definitely unlike any other movie you will probably see this year. As a critique/satire about the rampant commodification of contemporary art, it plays out like a B-movie slasher, like what would be the result if the art world collided with
Final Destination films. But it needed a much better screenplay, packing in a lot more than what's at best a superficial exploration of the uneasy equation between art and commerce. "Take art seriously," screams the movie in not so much words as a tableaux of gruesome deaths, but the idea is hardly new. In a field where everyone thrives on external validation, what does "value" even mean? At what point do you begin to question your own self-worth? The movie teases you with all sorts of questions, yet too much here is left unsaid, and nothing really leaps out at you the way it should. The result is a gory, pulpy romp about a "killer painting" that's steeped in horror movie conventions, settling into a formula that barely creates any genuine suspense. But boy, those pared down visuals are striking and gorgeous (cinematographer Robert Elswit), and Jake Gyllenhaal as the sexually fluid art critic and Rene Russo as the punk rocker turned gallery owner are dependably fantastic.
Comments
Post a Comment