Basquiat (1996) – Movie Review

After wanting to cleanse my system of schlock like Jack the Reaper and Shadow People I decided to watch Basquiat, a movie directed by Julian Schnabel, about the titular artist who moves from squalor to fame and then dies at the age of 27 from a heroin overdose. I was wary of this film for a number of reasons, mostly because it is a movie about an artist and such films are usually pretty bad, perpetuating bad cliches and stereotypes about the “tortured soul” of the artist and his search for “truth.” They also tend to be uninteresting–focusing on, instead of the art itself, the melodrama and various “scandals” the artist may have experienced. Another reason for my doubt was the fact that Jean Michel Basquiat was simply not a good artist and whose work resembled the scribblings of third-grader trying to imitate Picasso. But I decided to open myself up to the film, after all Basquiat boasts a great cast consisting of Jeffrey Wright, Benicio Del Toro, Dennis Hopper, Gary Oldman and David Bowie as Andy Warhol. And I’ve also been wrong before about movies about artists as Howl was a good flick. So what could go wrong?

Man, was this one boring slog of a film; it manages to be even worse than Jack the Reaper. This movie is what I would call a “shit-film” a term reserved for movies like Dead Poets Society and American History X. I’m of the opinion that while schlock films such as Jack the Reaper are bad they are nowhere near as bad as terrible films that are pretentious. This is because that a film that is wretched yet tries to pass itself off as something deep and relevant is far more insulting and tiresome to watch than something like Plan 9 From Outerspace which never tries to fool or manipulate the audience into thinking it’s something more than what it actually is. And Basquiat belongs in this esteemed category for it tries to pass on dreadful artist cliches as “deep” and apply them to the life of Basquiat as reason for us, the audience, to be compelled by him. But the problem is that Jean Michel Basquiat, played by Jeffrey Wright, is nothing more than a cipher and the audience never gets a deeper understanding of the artist outside of the typical, pain-by-numbers, tropes. He is homeless, he gets famous, he is frustrated and disappointed, he does drugs, he does art, he rides around New York on a bike, and then he dies at the stupidly young age of 27, and that’s it. And yet the film really tries to tell us that this man is interesting, but the way the movie depicts him he’s not; all we get is surface-level emotionality and no reason to be interested in this character. This movie stinks.

The movie starts-off with a trite scene during the opening credits where a young Basquiat and his mother looks at Pablo Picasso’s Guernica. His mother begins weeping but stops and smiles when a crown glows on Basquiat’s head. This scene is made triter when this is revealed to be a dream and Basquiat is older and wakes up in a cardboard box in the park. The problem with this, other than the heavy-handed symbolism, is the fact that this is really the only explanation for Basquiat’s behavior and motives. Yet, his relationship with Picasso (or artistic aspirations) and his relationship with his mother is hardly referenced again. Instead Basquiat does drugs or whatever. There are some scenes that mention his mother and early on he visits his mother who has been committed, but these are very brief and don’t seem to matter. Again, everything is just surface-level. We are merely told things instead of offered ways to understand the character more. Basquiat also mumbles somethings to his best friend Benny (Benicio Del Toro) about fame and there is his reaction on seeing Andy Warhol (who, by the way, is played well and even humorously by David Bowie) as well as some of his aspirations to his girlfriend Gina (Claire Forlani.) But all these attempts are weak in trying to paint Basquiat as being more than a one-dimensional drug addict, artist-poser. We get no reason as to why he does art nor do we are shown the passion he has for it. There are also a couple of voice-overs done by Rene Ricard (Michael Wincott) that attempt to comment on the struggle of the artist and society. These voice-overs could have possibly served information as to why Basquiat was the way he was but there’s still a disconnect. At least they offer some reasoning behind Basquiat’s fame, mainly that people want to be the ones to recognize the Van Gogh of their times as well as the attraction to the suffering young artist, even if such observations seem obvious.

Another issue is the unbelievable relationship between Basquiat and Gina. They first meet at the diner Gina works at as a waitress. When Basquiat first sees her there is slow-motion applied (because how else is the audience supposed to know of his attraction?) She inspires Basquiat to be a total dick and dump the maple syrup on his table and start using his fingers to make a painting of her in the puddle. Gina smiles at this even though, what basically happened, was that a creepy homeless man with bad dredlocks just made a mess that she’s going to have to clean-up. As the relationship continues he moves in with her and, probably because he’s stoned out of his mind, decides to paint on her paintings and paint over her dress. She wakes up and is rightfully distressed and angered by this but then Basquiat somehow calms her down and she smiles. Oh Basquiat! And later on, Gina finds Basquiat unconscious from an overdose, and even later starts to suspect Basquiat of cheating on her. There is absolutely no reason why this woman would be with this drug-addled loser. How the hell are we supposed to believe in such a relationship? I mean, yeah, there are people who enter into destructive relationships but we’re given no reason as to why she would stay. Maybe it’s because she’s attracted to someone who is as unique and free-spirited as this guy with stupid hair? Afterwards, when Basquiat is famous and hanging out with his new buddy Andy Warhol, he mistakes another woman for Gina and then decides to meet up with her at a fancy restaurant. Since then they have broken-up. They have a boring conversation about how she’s moved-on and how he further realizes that fame ain’t what it’s all cracked-up to be. We’re obvious supposed to be sympathetic toward Basquiat in this scene yet, from what we saw of their relationship, we simply have no reason to. It also doesn’t help that they’re sitting by a table full of rich guys that are staring and pointing at Basquiat. He is dismayed by this but tells the waiter to put their bill on his tab. He then goes into the bathroom to check out the sores on his face. This scene might even be worse than the first one because it tries to show Basquiat’s downward spiral in such a heavy-handed way as we get his ex-girlfriend, the stereotyped rich guys conveniently placed there for the scene and the sores.

Another way that the audience is failed into caring for Basquiat is when he finds out about Andy’s death. He is affected by this and watches home movies of him and Andy as Tom Waits plays in the background. Do I even need to tell you that this is also heavy-handed? It also doesn’t help the fact that it’s completely unwarranted considering that we barely got anything of Basquiat’s relationship with Andy Warhol other than that they hung-out. Oh, wait, Basquiat did tell Andy Warhol that he was “the only friend that he had.” Ah, so I guess they were friends! I forgot to mention that Andy Warhol, earlier in the film, tells Basquiat that he had two ducks growing-up after he’s reminded by this when watching a guy selling toy ducks. Can you guess what Basquiat was doing before finding out about Warhol’s death? I’ll give you a hint: it’s he was buying two toy ducks from that very same guy. Fuck this movie. I mean the only reason why he bought those ducks was to set-up that faux-symbolism. Ugh.

The best scene in the movie is between Basquiat and an interviewer played by Christopher Walken. This is the closest we get to getting into the thoughts of Basquiat as he describes his crummy paintings and his familial relationships. One might be able to infer from this scene that Basquiat knew that he was a hack and was fully aware that he was being exploited or that he was exploiting the art world. But there’s really know reason present in the movie as to why we should give a fuck about this guy.

I could talk about the end where Basquiat hilariously stumbles around the city as if he has a turd in his pants, and where his friend Benny finds him and Basquiat begins talking about a dumb story that is supposed to be a parallel to his, but I don’t feel like it. I think I’ve given you enough evidence to support my thesis, that Basquiat lies within the exclusive realm of “shit-films” or “shit-movies.” I guess it’s fitting considering that Basquiat was one of the ultimate peddlers of shit-art and an inspiration for countless others to comment on mainstream society’s oppression by sticking a brush between their buttocks. It’s appropriate that a movie about his life be a total turd as well. Because fuck convention.

Of course, it’s entirely possible to make a good movie out of the life of Basquiat despite his being terrible at art. Basquiat had opportunities to make a greater commentary on the artist as well as how society receives art. Director Schnabel could have made this into a satire about the art world. Hell, you could have just made a movie about Basquiat snorting coke and it would have been good if done right. This review went on far longer than I anticipated but there was just so much shittiness in this movie to distill and, I assure, there’s much more, but I don’t think it would be necessary to pour it all here. You get the point. This movie is pointless, offering nothing and wasting a good cast and money that could have been spent on worthier pursuits, like booze. All I wanted was to watch a nice, critically-acclaimed film that would make up for the brain cells lost watching Shadow People, but now I just feel worse about myself thanks to this useless turd. A Warhol-esque ten hour film of a man pleasuring himself would have been a more insightful piece on Jean Michel Basquiat and his art than this dumb, dull slog.

Shadow People (2013) – Movie Review

Like Jack the Reaper, this is a horror movie with a potentially interesting premise but instead settles for mediocrity; at least Shadow People isn’t nearly as bad as Jack the Reaper but it is also a dull ride. The main problem is with Matthew Arnold’s screenplay (he also directed.) When reading a synopsis for the movie one would expect something more intriguing, but Arnold unfortunately doesn’t do anything with the ideas present in the film and instead presents a mostly-standard, competently-made horror/thriller. 

The movie is about Charlie Crowe (Dallas Roberts,) a radio talk show host discussing topics relating to the paranormal. In contrast to the callers he receives on his show Crowe is a skeptic. But he soon gets involved investigating the suspicious death of one of his callers whose paranoia about shadowy creatures that kill during the night might be justified. From here the movie gets predictable for we know that Crowe is destined to become a believer and soon be obsessed by what he discovers about the “Shadow People” as he probes deeper into the conspiracy. There are also other familiar tropes such as the fact that Crowe is divorced and has a hard time connecting with his son. Such bland characterization may have worked if it were presented more interestingly to the viewer, same with the entire plot, it also doesn’t help that Roberts simply isn’t a good actor. It’s good that he doesn’t feel the need to over-emote, but at the same time he doesn’t seem to be his character but rather vacantly occupy his role. While this approach may have been desired for the character is supposed to be detached but it doesn’t really work. 

Perhaps the most unique element about the film is that the bulk of the action is seemingly recreated, as in the film implies that the events have actually happened and that the movie mostly consists of reenactments as if this is an extended episode of a show on Discovery or the History Channel. We get “real-life” footage of Charlie Crowe (who looks nothing like the actor in the reenactment) as well as talking-heads and interviews with witnesses. Of course these sections are fictional as well but are purposely presented as real in order to ground the events of the film in real-life, thus making the phenomena of “shadow people” in the realm of possibility. This is an interesting gimmick and it reminds me of movies like Paranormal Activity or various horror movies that introduce themselves with a “Based on a True Story” disclaimer. These sections are also done well and the acting is actually pretty decent and believable. Unfortunately, they are spliced within the film haphazardly, either letting long stretches of time go without a real-life witness confirming the events, or stuffing a bunch of footage and information into one area with little reason. 

The other technical aspects such as the camerawork aren’t bad, but aren’t good either and don’t exactly illicit much in the scare department unless you’re easily frightened by shadows. The titular baddies themselves are CGI creations and I doubt they would inspire much more than a yawn from the viewer. Perhaps the most successful and effective tool used is the lighting which manages to create a creepy atmosphere to the film. 

Overall, this movie isn’t nearly as bad as Jack the Reaper but it is nowhere near good as well. Story-wise it doesn’t deviate too far from the template thus making it too uninteresting and predictable to make it effective in creating a good scare, but if the movie had better cinematography then the movie could have been saved, if only somewhat. The acting, aside from Roberts is all around decent, but nothing great. This is just a below-average horror flick that could have been something greater if Arnold would have done something more with his interesting concept. Meh. 

Jack the Reaper (2011) Review

Jack the Reaper, written and directed by Kimberly Seilhamer, could have been an interesting and decent horror flick if it weren’t hampered by its incredibly low budget and general incompetence. The basic premise is that a group of high school students are stranded in the desert after their bus crashes (which is shown by not the actual bus crashing, but a reddened freeze-frame) and find a carnival where a murderous undead railway worker lurks who begins to hunt them down.

While the acting ranges from okay to bad and the budget is obviously low the film suffers most greatly from its script which is overly reliant on formula and general horror movie cliches. This is evidenced early on by the introduction of the characters who are all just off-the-rack Breakfast Club archetypes; there’s the overweight nerd who spouts lines like, “wait for me guys!” the jock whose primary characterization is that he wears a football jersey, the tortured albino kid, an emotionally-damaged girl whose father sexually abuses her, the rich girl, the ditz and her cousin who happens to be deaf, a weird-ass, and two normal guys. None of these characters are particularly interesting and the actors aren’t good enough to give them any dimension more than what their stereotypes allow; it also doesn’t help that half the cast is obviously in their thirties. This might have been okay, however, if the kills were satisfying, but unfortunately even the violence in this film is dull. It also doesn’t help being able to predict who is about to be killed-off. The best character in the film is probably Railroad Jack but even then he lurches around like a typical horror movie monster and uses a pick-axe to slaughter his victims. However, his presence is sinister and he manages to be the best part of the film.

The script also frustrates for the characters often engage in too-dumb-to-live actions that are prevalent in these types of films, like when one of the students finally decides to leave the crashed bus and uses a flare to help him see as it’s night, but the audience has been shown that there were some flashlights still on the bus. And there’s also the fact that the characters, instead of searching for help at the carnival, engage in the activities and bicker among themselves. While one can argue that this is how dumb high schoolers would act in this type of situation it still doesn’t excuse the fact that it’s frustrating for the audience to witness and pulls them out of the film.

However, there are some interesting ideas provided that help individuate Jack the Reaper from other slashers, but they are handled poorly, such as the “twist” at the end of the film. There is also some images, like whenever another one is killed the Ferris wheel lights up with a red spiral, and near the end where the dead bodies are riding the carousal.

Technically, the film ranges from passable to just awful. Before getting to the carnival most of the camera work and lightning is bad especially when we’re riding on the bus with the students. Fortunately, the camera work gets better when we get to the carnival even if the camera work is purely functionary. The make-up, especially the blood, is cheap-looking and the appearance of Railroad Jack isn’t all shakes.

So for the reasons cited Jack the Reaper remains an interesting failure that could have been a passable diversion. Even in it’s best parts it doesn’t inspire any creeping sense or excitement; the movie overall ranges from being dull, to just plain bad, and unfortunately not laughably bad either.


The prisoner woke-up and saw the usual grey and green brick walls. Every night he slept on a straw bed. He had a wooden stool that wobbled on the floor, and a window with a tree in it. This was his room, a home which he lovingly called his “Mausoleum.”

The first time he was cast into this room he was a man, defiant about not letting this suffocating hole shut out his dignity. First, he tried to accept this situation and look upon it objectively, forbidding emotion to drive him into despair. When he was marching down the hall to meet his prison the hall was filled with indignant screams, howling and groans from the other prisoners that occupied their own spaces. He didn’t want to be like that; he was a man. But that first night, when he was staring at the tree outside and the cold surface of the moon his stomach rebelled and turned to sickness. He wouldn’t eat the bowl of brown gruel and bread, and felt like a pathetic animal as he lied awkwardly on the straw. The air alternated between staleness and dampness and his neck gagged. The pain in his stomach was harsh and he could only yell and cry.

But now, he was no longer sick; he was no longer a suffering animal or a man adamant about dignity. He was a man who marveled at the tree outside and wondered what the previous occupants of his room thought of this tree. Surely, some fools saw it as a symbol of freedom. Perhaps a prince stared at the tree and felt it was placed there by sadistic hands, intent on mocking his utter downfall. The prisoner didn’t know better for he often looked at the tree both ways, disgusted, or consumed by joy as the wind moved the leaves.

Emil Bennett Rides the Bus

I get on the bus around twelve and look
at the other heads and wonder what if
Melville had written Moby-Dick about us
and not whale-hunters.

This eternal movement of passing,
men stepping on and off and on,
has to be the ultimate summation
of humanity.

But where is the passionate captain–
is he the one moving us to stops?
Is he the older man scanning a tabloid,
or the lonesome child screeching?
And where are the untamed jaws
of a deformed god? Waiting for us
at the next stop–and what of me?

This weary congregation
must reflect something
greater, surely…

Finally, the bus stops. I walk a block
to Taco Bell and bite into a shell–
its gooey innards mean more now
than any large thing.