It’s been over twenty years since the footage of esteemed/adored/regarded graffiti artist Jean-Michel Basquiat was filmed by Tamra Davis, a “friend” of Basquiat’s while he was in his L.A. phase. That footage is now a documentary called Jean-Michel Basquiat: The Radiant Child. You may detect a hint of derisiveness in my tone when I refer to Davis as Basquiat’s friend, but it’s only because I find it a hair exploitive that she would turn the footage into a movie in the wake of directing 2002′s Crossroads (that’s right, the one starring Britney “Hot Mess” Spears). Since then, Davis has directed television episodes only. And while I would like to have faith in the assumption that she created the project out of appreciation for the mind of a genius, a part of me can’t resist thinking there’s an ulterior motive. Though in Davis’ defense, the Basquiat crowd is definitely a niche audience, but that doesn’t mean the film won’t work to the benefit of restoring her credibility.

Promotional poster for The Radiant Child

The film opens with an eerily prophetic poem from Langston Hughes, called “The Genius Child.” The poem reads as follows:

This is a song for the genius child.
Sing it softly, for the song is wild.
Sing it softly as ever you can -
Lest the song get out of hand.

Nobody loves a genius child.

Can you love an eagle,
Tame or wild?
Can you love an eagle,
Wild or tame?
Can you love a monster
Of frightening name?

Nobody loves a genius child.

Kill him – and let his soul run wild.

The utter accuracy of this poem is astonishing. It is as though Langston Hughes crafted the words expressly with Basquiat in mind. From there, the film proceeds to inform us of the gloom and metaphorical alluvion that took place in the New York of the late 70s and early 80s. Because of how cheap it was to live in the East Village at that time, artists were actually able to be artists without having to have the motherfucking scourge known as a day job. Basquiat, already a native of Brooklyn, didn’t have too much difficulty making the transition to downtown New York, where he essentially lived as a vagabond tagging the walls of SoHo with the moniker of Samo (an abbreviation for Same Old Shit). This notoriety would allow Basquiat to parlay his name recognition into a loosely autobiographical film called Downtown 81, following Basquiat through the sullied streets of downtown in search of someone who will buy one of his paintings.

Basquiat: In his post success phase

Gradually, the downtown scene came to consist of several key players, such as Keith Haring, Debbie Harry, Thurston Moore, Fab Five Freddy (a frequent cohort of Basquiat’s), Madonna (who naturally had a brief sexual dalliance with Basquiat around 1982, referred to in several of his paintings), the already firmly established Julian Schnabel, and, eventually, Jean-Michel Basquiat. These well-known faces of the Lower East Side became known as “The Downtown 500″ (though I find it hard to grasp that there could be five hundred famous people within such a small radius).

Basquiat would often paint with the TV on, the record player playing, and a stack of books that he could intermittently refer to

In spite of Basquiat’s immense strife at the start of his career, it didn’t take long for people to start asking questions about who the elusive Samo was and where they could get more of his unique take on graffiti art. Diego Cortez, the first supportive curator of Basquiat’s work, was more than willing to help the young prodigy move forward in his career, noting of the 1980s New York art scene, “I was tired of white people, white walls, and white wine.”

Opening credits for The Radiant Child

Once Cortez started promoting Basquiat’s art, it took about less than a second for the 20 year old to explode. Soon after, curator Annina Nosei was offering the young artist a basement studio on 100 Prince Street (currently the building where Prada offshoot Miu Miu has taken up residence). At last, Basquiat was given the space and the freedom to create limitlessly.

During happier (read: drug-free) times

However, as many critics and fans have speculated, becoming famous at such a young age and continuing to ascend into the limelight at such a rapid pace forced Basquiat to fall even harder. In 1986, Basquiat had a joint exhibition with mentor/friend Andy Warhol. Rather than being praised as one might have expected, the show was unanimously panned, seen by outsiders as a way for Warhol to cash in on a trend and a way for Basquiat to gain acclaim from the largely white-dominated art world.

Advert for the Warhol/Basquiat collaborative art show

Another speculative reason within the documentary for Basquiat’s insistence on turning to heroin for comfort and validation was the lack of such predilections from the tastemakers of art and the curators of major museums like the MoMA, still largely dominated by a crusty, oldish white demographic. In an early TV appearance, the interviewer talking to Basquiat makes the mistake of telling him that his work is “primal.” Basquiat retorts, “You mean like an ape?” It is unquestionable that Basquiat was constantly under pressure to prove himself as a representative for the “black community.” And while the “white people are assholes” bandwagon is already pretty fucking full, in this case, the sentiment rings true.

Basquiat fled to Los Angeles for a time during his later career, opting to live in the laidback Venice area

What Jean Michel Basquiat: The Radiant Child seems to be saying is that all geniuses are subconsciously doomed to spiral out of control, too sensitive and too lonely to exist in the same world with the rest of us, merely grateful admirers of the work.

Before the currently lauded–though paled in comparison to this documentary’s subject–music producers of recent decades (Timbaland, Nellee Hooper, Dallas Austin, William Orbit, Stephen Street, Mirwais Ahmadzai, Feadz, Brian Eno, Dr. Dre, et. al.), there was the unworldly genius of Phil Spector. And he is an incontestable genius. This is one instance where music is not subjective. The Agony and the Ecstasy of Phil Spector is simultaneously intimate and impersonal. It does not rehash the events of Phil Spector’s life, so much as it interweaves footage from his trial for the murder of actress Lana Clarkson with sound bites and video footage of the music he produced, along with filmmaker Vikram Jayanti’s (who loses just a shred of artistic integrity by having directed another music documentary called Britney Spears Saved My Life) interviews with Spector while he was on trial the first time in 2007.

One of many scenes from the film that involves long shots of Phil Spector simply sitting there tremoring.

Phil Spector’s openness and ability to discuss some of his greatest collaborations (The Ronettes, John Lennon, The Beatles, The Righteous Brothers, and The Crystals) stem from the mindset of facing a possible conviction and sentencing. He is unafraid to malign, among others, Tony Bennett (the person he regards most as overrated it would seem), Paul McCartney (when discussing how Spector felt about McCartney re-releasing the Let It Be album without Phil Spector’s production and arrangements, he said, “He has me mixed up with somebody who gives a shit”), and Yoko Ono (on producing her music, he asserts, “I had to pass on that”).

Spector during more dashing days

The reason the film can be both agony and ecstasy for viewers is because of just how bluntly it portrays the bleak and lonely existence of being a genius. And while Spector may claim that loneliness is a state of mind, you can either choose to be lonely or not, I imagine he is someone who has been misunderstood from the very beginning. Case in point being his first hit song, “To Know Him Is To Love Him” by The Teddy Bears. The song is automatically interpreted as the lament of unrequited love, though it is actually, Spector confirms, about his father. That is in fact the epitaph on his father’s grave, who committed suicide when Spector was ten years old.

One of Spector's finest musical contributions, The Ronettes

Regardless of Spector’s inner turmoil, he has always been able to turn his pain into solid pop gold, as he did with The Righteous Brothers’ classic “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” (immortalized in cheesy goodness by Top Gun). “Imagine” and “God,” two of his finest John Lennon songs, are also indicative of a very despairing, yet hopeful person. That tinge of hope would ultimately be obliterated in the decade that followed John Lennon’s murder. Additionally, the death of his son, Phil Spector Jr., in 1991 didn’t fortify his faith in spirituality. He notes that it merely reiterated to him that there is no god, but there must be a devil.

John Lennon's message of peace is slightly saturated with Spector's cynical air

The purpose of this documentary is not to create a bias about the guilt of Phil Spector in the murder of Lana Clarkson (although I have difficulty believing that someone with such a tremulous, unsteady hand could aim a gun that well), but to give an honest portrait of a man who has lost everything in spite of giving so much to the world of music, and, resultantly, to the world as a whole.

Promulgated as the world’s first street art disaster movie, Banksy’s Exit Through the Gift Shop informs you of just how easily an underground phenomenon can be sugar-coated for the masses craving chocolate covered raisins as opposed to just raisins (it’s an analogy, work with me here).

One of the many unexpected venues for Banksy's art

Initially, Thierry Guetta a.k.a. Mr. Brainwash sets out on a whimsical crusade to document the surge of street art/graffiti in various parts of Europe and Los Angeles. But as the digressive personality of Guetta seeps into the content of the footage, he starts to become aware that perhaps he might have been in over his head in making the declaration to several well-known street artists, including Shepard Fairey, the mind behind “Andre the Giant has a posse,” that he was making a documentary chronicling the explosion of the graffiti movement. Enter Banksy, the answer to the recent void in British vicissitude in the absence of Blur, who stepped in after watching the rough cut of what Guetta had planned to release as a film.

The cover that launched a thousand art drones

Banksy, concealed throughout the film by a hooded sweatshirt or a Cops-esque scramble around his face, confirms that Exit Through the Gift Shop is not Gone With the Wind, but there’s probably a moral to be found somewhere in it. What that moral turns out to be is: People will consume whatever you’re selling, as long as it is packaged correctly. Mr. Brainwash had the resources, the word of mouth, and the support of one of the most revered artists of the moment. His art is more processed and unoriginal than Andy Warhol’s, and yet, people are drawn to the combination of its superficiality and its popularity. One such art collector in the movie owned artwork from any artist ever deemed “major,” at one point showing a drawing from Keith Haring who she admits, “I don’t even like.” Bitch, then why do you own one of his paintings? Because someone told you that it was worth something and that you were supposed to like it.

Mr. Brainwash’s unbelievable propulsion into art world renown resulted in the ultimate measure of success, being commissioned by pop culture beacon Madonna to create the cover art for her greatest hits album Celebration. Not only that, but it allowed for a two-month exhibition of “Life is beautiful,” where inhabitants of L.A. were lured by a cover story from LA Weekly called “Mr. Brainwash Bombs L.A.,” but, as one patron of the arts put it, “It’s one of those things where I’m not sure why I’m here, I just know I’m excited.” That seems to be the fundamental sentiment at the core of the film. Half the time, people don’t take action of their own willingness, they take action because of suggestion, because of propagandist coercion.

More often than not, you’ve found yourself in a YouTube circle jerk, where you see one video then another and then another; sometimes you stay on topic, but you typically get to something that stops the momentum and end up getting back to whatever you were doing. When You’re Strange, The Doors documentary by Tom DiCillo, took me on a similar ride. Here I am thinking I’m gonna get something ground-breaking and new, yet I finish this film not knowing why I got to where I was.

Originally, DiCillo slated himself as the narrator, but after initials complaints about his monotone voice (something I too share), he opted to get Johnny Depp to take over that responsibility. I’m sure in some circles, men don’t compliment other men on their voice, but Johnny Depp could speak all day and I’d listen. His timing was on point, and he kept me engaged throughout the entire film. That is, until I started questioning exactly what I was watching. I realize there’s no requirement to conduct interviews for documentaries, but when the people it’s about are still alive, why not? Albeit, the film (as is much Doors-inspired creations) was chiefly geared around Jim Morrison, but still I would have really enjoyed hearing from his bandmates. Ray Manzarek, John Densmore, and Robby Krieger are all still alive, yet none of them had a present-day interview conducted.

When You're Strange: The Doors Documentary

It was an hour and a half of Doors footage. Some of it was very rare, and awesome to be able to see, but random video footage a documentary does not make. There really wasn’t much of a direction I took from it in general; the crux of the documentary was about Morrison’s shenanigans. Who cares? We (the general Doors “public”) all know Morrison did drugs, drank himself stupid, and fucked random sluts, so what was the film trying to show me? It showed me that the general public (not the general Doors “public”) will always only get to understand Jim. Ray, John, and Robby did a hell of a lot more than play instruments, but When You’re Strange makes it seem like they were merely clowns in Jim’s circus.

I really wanted to hear from the other bandmates, but I’d even settle for fans that went to The Doors shows back in the day. Someone had to be sober, right? Maybe sober is a stretch…someone has to have some drunken / stoned memories, no? Before it’s too late for their to be “survivors” of The Doors shows, everyone needs to hear from them. I know they are out there. I can smell ‘em.

If you’re a Doors fan, go check out the film. Everyone else, save your money (assuming you’ve even heard of the documentary).

Chevron's spill has killed thousands already.

There’s a rumble in the jungle, folks.  It’s a David and Goliath battle, and it’s the subject of Joe Berlinger’s excellent new documentary Crude: The Real Price of Oil.  If you’ve ever been a little angry knowing you’re getting screwed at the pump, while oil companies boast record profits, year after year, this movie will let you see what it really means to get screwed by Big Oil.  If you don’t know enough to even be pissed off about it all, just google, ‘Record Profits.’  You don’t even have to type in the word ‘Oil,’ because the first hits go directly to stories about the oil industry’s big profit bonanza.  In May of 2009, Chevron’s annual report boasted record profits for the fourth consecutive year, with ‘profits of $18.7 billion’, just as crude oil prices climbed to their highest levels in 26 years.  But don’t let me bore you with all the numbers, people.  There’s a story in this movie that’s much more fascinating than Chevron’s amazing ability to screw us all at the pump.  Crude is more about Chevron’s costly efforts to screw people out of their basic human rights, in the most criminal way possible.  If a Documentary is not your idea of an action packed summer flick, keep in mind that Crude offers a treacherous villain, a large number of innocent victims, mass disease, and even murder.

Guess who owns Texaco? Chevron!!

 But here’s the kicker: This story isn’t make-believe.  How’s that for a twist?  Granted, there are subtitles, and the pace is a little slow at times, but I challenge you action fans out there to find a fictional villain as scary as the real ones on display in this film. Just imagine a landmark court battle between Chevron and the indigenous people of Ecuador, fought over oil drenched jungle soil, where thousands of people and animals have died, thanks to what’s been referred to as the ‘Amazonian Chernobyl.’  Think big and dirty.  Big as in a spill roughly the size of Rhode Island, and dirty as in ten times worse than the Exxon Valdez disaster.  That’s what this fight is all about.  Fighting in the green corner, coming in at a significant size, and financial disadvantage is our lovable underdog, Pablo Fajardo.  Fajardo is an Ecuadorian lawyer living in a two-room shack, still battling on behalf of the disadvantaged people of his country, even after thirteen years without a ruling from the courts.  During those first few years, Pablo’s brother was murdered when the bad guys hired to kill Pablo got all mixed up, and tortured the wrong guy to death.  Hmm… I wonder who might want Pablo dead?  Fighting against Mr. Fajardo, in the dark and slimy corner, is Chevron, with their endless scare tactics, resources, and spin campaigns, hiding behind their army of lawyers. 

Pablo Fajardo talks into the cameras.

It’s pretty disturbing to watch all the well-paid Chevron representatives speak on behalf of the company in this movie.  These people don’t bat an eye.  Even when they’re exposed to the laundry list of human rights violations their company is responsible for, even when the evidence is completely obvious, these people still find a way to put the money where their mouthes should be.  What’s maybe the most disturbing thing about Crude though, is the fact that Berlinger worked on this film for three years, and there’s still been no verdict in the case, thanks in large part to the company’s efforts to stall proceedings at every turn.  Tack those last three years on to the thirteen that Pablo and his friends have been fighting against Chevron, and you’ve got a total of sixteen years.  Which begs the question: How many angry, dying, indigenous Ecuadorians does it take to prove that Chevron should clean up the enormous toxic mess they made?  How many skin rashes, cancer cases, stomach infections, and dead relatives do these people have to suffer through to get a little justice?  Well, watch the movie, decide for yourself, and get back to me.  I’ll be stringing together every red cent I’ve got so I can afford another gallon of gas, but rest assured, I won’t be buying that shit from Chevron.

There's something worth seeing behind the lens in this film.

If you love music, if you’ve ever been passionate about something, or if you ever just wished you could be a fly on the wall, Rock Prophecies (presented by the Samsung Memoir™) will connect with you.  I caught an advance screening of the documentary at a Capitol Records release party and left both inspired and enthralled.  But don’t just take my word for it.  Directed by John Chester, the film has garnered audience awards at festivals in Maui, Dallas, and Nashville already this year.  The film will screen at Hollywood’s ArcLight Cinemas between August 7th and August 13th, before hitting more stops on the 2009 festival circuit.

Robert's shot of Led Zeppelin in Honolulu-1969.

What powers the film throughout are the photographs and amazing life experiences of Mr. Robert M. Knight.  Robert was at the Capitol Records screening I attended, and after fielding questions from the crowd, then getting mobbed by admirers, he was kind enough to let me talk with him for a few minutes.  On screen, in person, and during our subsequent taped interview, Robert’s compelling photos and stories seem to have a way of creating a captive audience time and time again.  As a rock photographer for the better part of five decades, the guy has collected a few good stories, to say the least.  But there’s an amazing amount of discretion and integrity on his part, with regard to the stories he won’t tell, and the photos he won’t sell.  He’s captured some of the earliest and most iconic images of the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, and Led Zeppelin, right up to current artists such as Green Day, Sick Puppies and Tyler Dow Bryant.  As a result, the film is filled with amazing images, and the kind of stories you might actually wish were your own.  But these aren’t kiss and tell type stories.  On the contrary, there’s no real gossip in the movie.  It becomes clear early on in the film, that the relationships he’s built and kept with the musicians in his life depend upon a well developed trust.

One of Robert's early Rolling Stones shots.

That doesn’t mean that the stories and photos on offer aren’t the stuff of dreams though.  Nowhere is that made more obvious than on the big screen, where Chester and co.help Robert’s images take flight in mysterious ways.  If you ever wished you could watch Jimi Hendrix play live, or just hang out with Led Zeppelin, before the rest of the world knew who they were, you might want to see this movie.   The filmmakers do a great job of allowing the viewer to actually travel through the photographer’s images in the film.  As for how that part works, well, you’ll just have to see the film to know what I’m talking about.  The quality of the images, the mesmerizing movement through them, and the cinematography all combine to create a multilayered visual effect that is technically impressive.  But it’s Robert’s life long love for the music, and his genuine excitement about the artists he photographs, that really provides the emotional uplift for the viewer.  If it’s been a while since you’ve seen a movie that inspires, this might be just the ticket for you, as it’s worth the price of admission and then some.

Robert's wife Maryanne took this great shot of her husband and Slash

After watching Grey Gardens, it’s safe to rank Hollywood as the runner up for the place where dreams go to die. The real champion of this title is the estate of Edith Bouvier-Beale and her daughter Edie Bouvier-Beale, strategically sequestered in the Hamptons, in the only area isolated enough to contain the psychological fumes emanating from what is known as Grey Gardens. Now, just to avoid confusion, this film is not to be mistaken with the more recent butchering starring Drew Barrymore as Little Edie and Jessica Lange as Big Edie. The original documentary, which, for some reason, just had to be turned into a narrative version with the abovementioned street cred seeking actresses, is a stark tale of the two women who are best known as Jackie Kennedy’s kooky, uncleanly aunt and cousin.

A glance at the most neurotic mother-daughter relationship of all time

One of the many moments of drudgery in the Bouvier-Beales' lives

Behind the scenes of the documentary

 Other than that, the interactions of the Bouvier-Beales are few and far between, restricted to two unnamed guests who appear for a celebration of Big Edie’s birthday. This particular scene of the film is another solemn depiction of how detached from real life the mother and daughter pair has become. Filling their days with essentially nothing, Big Edie generally sits in her bed looking at the scant memorabilia from her failed singing career while Little Edie tans out on the deck (an exercise that never seems to change the pigments of her skin).

Solitude redefined

This is the best documentary I have ever seen. Anvil is the real life Spinal Tap, the ones that never made it.  You are rooting for these 50 year old rockers from beginning to end. I am a Metalhead and I hadn’t heard of them until this film. If you like Metal – go out buy their albums – they deserve the money.

Lips and Robb love each other...when they aren't at each others throats!

Now back to the movie review. The story follows the remaining two original members,  Steve ‘Lips’ Kudlow and Robb Reiner, as they set out on a European tour based off of what some crazy European fan set up. Europe is the stronghold of metal so they should be loved over there right? Some shows are packed while many others are not. They miss trains, have to sleep in their tiny camper, everything that could go wrong does, and you just feel for these guys. There is an incident towards the end in Prague, where they don’t get paid for a full set, and during one gig five people show up and one dude just headbangs from his chair.

After that month long debacle, they return home to Canada in search of the right people to produce their 13th album. They get the producer and the cash but no label wants them, so they sell it themselves like true metalheads. Then in the third act they get a call to play a show in Tokyo for hundreds of screaming fans, which makes you leave the theater feeling Anvil might actually make it yet on their own terms.

In a long line of band documentaries, Anvil, stands out because they weren’t on top of the world. It’s better then Some Kind of Monster because Metallica didn’t need to come back from bass player Jason Newstead’s departure; they have millions or dollars. Kudlow has to work as a school cafeteria distributor, so the sense of urgency and perseverance is there through out the film. It’s funny, sad, inspiring, awesome, and brutal all rolled into one.

Lips and Robb still got it after all these years. Nice Crocs

The reason they are still struggling isn’t because of their sound, it’s because they never had the right people in their corner with them; they have had only the love and support of their families and fans. In the beginning, they have famous metal players singing their praises, which left me was upset at those artists for not helping Anvil out by bringing them on tour, although they claim to love the band.

Kudlow and Reiner are the two best characters a documentary maker could ask for. They are also the nicest people to ever come out of Canada who deserve fame and fortune. Even if you don’t like Metal, go see this film. You can’t hate these guys – they can teach us all a lot about being humble. It’s a great story about humanity and being true to the ideals you grew up with.

Two metal horns way up for this one. Find it when it rolls into your town or wait for the DVD.