Pandrogyny. That is the real subject of Marie Losier’s documentary about eccentric couple Genesis P-Orridge and Lady Jaye Breyer. What is pandrogyny, you (presumably) ask? Well, I suppose you might say it’s androgyny meets total obsession with another person. Although The Ballad of Genesis and Lady Jaye covers the highlights of Genesis P-Orridge’s career as the trailblazer of industrial music via the formation of Throbbing Gristle, followed by the more ethereal project, Psychic TV (which P-Orridge started with Peter Christopherson in 1982), the film is really a testament to one of the rarest, most all-consuming loves to hit the screen in decades.

Promotional poster for The Ballad of Genesis and Lady Jaye

If imitation is, in fact, the sincerest form of flattery, then Genesis P-Orridge flattered Lady Jaye more than any human being possibly could have. Believing that the purest manifestation of love is to become quite literally the same person, P-Orridge underwent major reconstructive surgery that included both breast implants and facial alterations to mirror Lady Jaye as closely as possible.

Starting to think this is where Pedro Almodovar's true inspiration for The Skin I Live In came from.

With the occasional random smattering of avant-garde imagery (P-Orridge making over the top expressions as bird sounds play at the beginning of the film, for instance), Losier approaches the story of P-Orridge and Lady Jaye with a uniqueness that could only suit this particular couple. P-Orridge’s reminiscences about meeting Lady Jaye for the first time are incredibly heartfelt, in spite of the fact that their initial meeting place was in a dominatrix dungeon (Lady Jaye paid for most of her luxuries that way during the 80s while living in Alphabet City). The genderless guru also finds time to reflect on the profundity of an early record s/he put out with the disclaimer: “We have nothing to say, but we’re saying it anyway.”

P-Orridge commemorates the love of his life in many ways, including this tattoo.

This tongue in cheek warning, however, does not mirror the message of The Ballad of Genesis and Lady Jaye, a documentary that seems to impress upon its viewer an unlikely dichotomy when it comes to relationships: One can be both self-obsessed and obsessed with another–the catch being that you are basically the same person. The idea of modifying their bodies was ultimately a substitute for having a child in that the two of them were essentially creating another person by melding into one: A hybrid of themselves called Breyer P-Orridge.

Together forever.

One of Lady Jaye’s most vehement wishes for what has been dubbed the Pandrogyne Project was to be remembered as “one of history’s great love stories.” While, at this moment in time, their love story might be underrated and viewed as a novelty rather than genuine, I think time will favor their romance rather well. After all, what other couple has sacrificed its bodies so freely in the name of love?

There is really no other name in the industry of hairdressing that anyone from London, England to Boise, Idaho could recognize. And, with that sort of fame – which is difficult to attain for someone in any medium – it seems long overdue that a documentary, entitled Vidal Sassoon: How One Man Changed the World With a Pair of Scissors, about this man’s cultural impact should be released.

No, he is not gay.

Just like Sassoon himself, the film takes an original approach to chronicling the life of a (hair)style icon in that, rather than evincing the tone of a biopic-type documentary in the vein of The September Issue (detailing the quest of Anna Wintour to complete the most important issue of Vogue‘s calendar year) – creating distance between the film’s subject and its viewer - Vidal Sassoon receives a form of active and candid involvement from the haircutting guru that is unparalleled in most other recent documentaries. A man as passionate about haircutting as he is about life and the Chelsea Football Club, Sassoon reveals more about his personal nature in the span of an hour and thirty minutes than most people reveal in years of therapy.

Paired with Mary Quant's mini-skirts, this haircut was one of the most sought after of the 60s.

Covering primarily the decade of the sixties, when you couldn’t walk down Bond Street without seeing one of Sassoon’s signature five-point haircuts, the film’s highlights include a discourse between Sassoon and fellow sixties legend Mary Quant (innovator of the mini-skirt) and Sassoon’s account of his time working on Mia Farrow‘s hair for Rosemary’s Baby.

The "Rosemary's Baby" look.

Hailing from modest beginnings, Sassoon was coerced into apprenticing for a hairdresser by his mother, who was forced to place both him and his brother in an orphanage for seven years because of how abjectly poor she was. Additionally, Sassoon suffered the discrimination that went with being Jewish in a staunchly Protestant country in the 1930s. Sassoon’s dealings with struggle, however, seemed only to fortify his zeal for success.

The signature Sassoon five-point haircut

As the documentary also highlights, Sassoon is a man extremely devoted to his personal life–perhaps even more than he is to his empire. Four children and three former wives (he is now married to his fourth wife, Rhonda) to speak of make that much apparent. The death of one of his daughters, Catya Sassoon, from a drug-related heart attack at the age of 33 also took an emotional toll on Sassoon. But it undoubtedly served as one of the many events in his life that have put his career in perspective. As the undisputed pioneer of the hairdressing industry, Sassoon’s self-effacing groundedness exhibits what a truly unique public figure he is.

In Martin Scorsese‘s latest documentary, Public Speaking, Fran Lebowitz contends that she knows everything. After watching her in the film, one is liable to believe she is completely correct in making such a presumably arrogant statement. The documentary features clips of Lebowitz’s extensive and recurring tour of different colleges and institutions throughout the United States, but, more importantly, explores the rapid deterioration of intelligence in modern society.

Promotional poster for Public Speaking.

One of many additional fixtures to enter the orbit of Andy Warhol’s 1970s agenda, Lebowitz secured a job as a writer for Interview Magazine when it first started. Referencing the story of her first meeting with Warhol at the “new” Factory on 33 Union Square West, Lebowitz recounts that there was a sign outside of the door requesting guests to announce who they were before entering. Using the quintessential Lebowitz wit, she announced herself as Valerie Solanas (the woman who shot Andy Warhol in 1968). As the 1970s progressed, Lebowitz battled her desire to simply waste time when she published a collection of essays called Metropolitan Life (featuring titles like “Children: Pro or Con?” and “Success Without College”) in 1978. The only subsequent prose Lebowitz has released are Social Studies in 1981 and Mr. Chas and Lisa Sue Meet the Pandas in 1995.

“I just wanted to do nothing,” Lebowitz says of her time in New York during the 1970s.

Since what some deem her golden era (the 70s and early 80s), Lebowitz has focused largely on TV appearances, writing a novel twenty plus years in the making called Exterior Signs of Wealth, and, naturally, public speaking. Her satirical view of the world around her has only augmented as the media has become the sole source of news, entertainment, and overall cultural value. Incidentally, Lebowitz blames Andy Warhol for creating the innate societal “ambition” to be famous. In Public Speaking, she states that Warhol jokingly coined the term “superstar” to encourage the grandiose behavior of Factory regulars like Candy Darling and Ultra Violet. It was, she notes, one of numerous inside jokes that should have stayed inside.

Much has been said about Herzog the man over Herzog the director. He’s just too damned interesting not to notice whenever he opts to make a documentary. Ever since Grizzly Man came out in 2005, the notoriously deadpan filmmaker has developed a devoted American audience that seems to relish watching him interact with his documentary subjects as opposed to the actual documentary subject itself.

Promotional poster for Cave of Forgotten Dreams.

For most people who have been forced to take an Art History 101 class, the Chauvet Cave is the first thing you learn about. Its intricate paintings of animals of every variety–created nearly 30,000 years ago–almost puts modern artists to shame. Herzog’s methods for making history “fun” are not all that divergent from how he usually goes about documentary filmmaking. That is to say, he hones in on one or two interviewees and subtly belittles them, greatly contributing to the humor value of the movie (e.g. a juggler turned archaeologist that Herzog has a playful rapport with). Seeing Cave of Forgotten Dreams in 3D also helps give it a greater entertainment value. Add a pinch of ganja to your popcorn and you’re in for the most entertaining movie of the year.

The not so crude animal drawings in the Chauvet Cave.

As for the person responsible for drawing the legendary artwork in the cave, scientists and archaeologists have pinpointed two very specific characteristics: The man was six feet tall and had a crooked pinkie. If only this primordial man could now how obsessed future generations would become with finding out his identity. He might not have been as  comfortable leaving traces of himself behind.

Exploring the cave under the strict conditions of France's minister of culture presented quite a challenge to Herzog's film crew.

Herzog’s interest in filming the inside of the cave sprung from reading an article in The New Yorker called “Letter From Southern France: First Impressions.” The article, written by Judith Thurman (one of the executive producers of the film), discusses how eerily advanced the drawings in the cave are. How the concept of perspective and movement–artistic principles that were not reintroduced until centuries later–are finely tuned and expertly conceived throughout the walls of the cave.

One of Herzog's interviewees details (in perhaps too much depth) what types of animals the nomadic people of the cave lived amongst.

As the film draws to a languorous finale, Herzog, as is his way, catches us completely off guard with the closing scene: A biosphere of albino alligators populating the area surrounding the Chauvet Cave. Paired with Herzog’s narration, this unexpected bookend to the story will leave you feeling both gawky and ennobled.

There is a belief that is perpetuated in American society, even though we practice the exact opposite: To cultivate a love of things–material possessions–is to lead a life of emptiness. In L’amour Fou, the documentary that catalogues the enduring business and romantic partnership between Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé, this belief is shattered by the concept that each possession tells a story, and is just as important to a life and a relationship as a person.

Promotional poster for L'amour Fou

The meeting between Pierre and Yves took place, somewhat poetically, at the funeral of Christian Dior in 1957. Yves was only 21 years old when he took over the legendary couturier’s line. As the lead designer under Dior before his death, Yves was trained to one day take over the house of Dior, but preparing for it versus actually doing it were two very different actions. To have that much pressure at such a young age only increased the sense of solemnity Yves already bore.

Andy Warhol's rendering of Saint Laurent. The painting is addressed with levity in the documentary.

And yet, the prolific designer was able to pioneer a new era of fashion, one in which haute couture was nurtured and revitalized. In 1960, after Yves won a lawsuit against Dior for breach of contract, the designer felt the only thing to do was to start his own business with Pierre. This constant closeness to one another, rather than incite petty arguments or spotlight personality clashes, only served to heighten the love they felt for one another. It also gave Pierre a unique insight into Yves’ depression. In the film, he notes, “I only saw Yves happy twice a year: After he put out a collection.”

During the 70s, Saint Laurent's love of drugs began to match his love of fashion.

It was only when the couple got away from Paris that Yves seemed somewhat at peace. The duo owned houses in both Normandy and Morocco (a locale that would inspire Yves often throughout the 1970s). Even so, the unspoken demand for Yves to constantly surpass expectations took its toll, and he turned to the numerous illicit drugs available in that ambiguous decade called the 70s. The dependency became such a problem that Pierre moved out of their Paris apartment and separated from the love of his life in 1976.

Yves and Pierre amid their precious collection.

While director Pierre Thoretton’s method of slow pans and detailed shots is effective for revealing the genuine attachment and sentimentality Pierre has for his shared possessions with Yves, there are moments in the film when the emotion comes off as forced–like the viewer is being cued by certain contrivances. While this is generally how a movie, especially a documentary, is supposed to work, L’amour Fou fails in being subtle about that fact.

At their house in Morocco.

Thoretton, however, finds as perfect an ending as he can get from such a melancholy union by concluding the film with an epic Christie’s auction in New York City. After it is over, Pierre finally appears to achieve some sort of catharsis by parting with the items (then again, who wouldn’t feel catharsis from getting that kind of financial sum?).

For anyone who thought that the United States never had Third World characteristics, Celine Dahnier’s Blank City proves that Manhattan’s Lower East Side in the 1970s and early 1980s closely rivaled the apocalyptic conditions of Ethiopian living. However, born out of this generally fetid and unseemly lifestyle came the desire of Lower East Side denizens to create films using the most minimal methods possible. The directors, actors, and musicians that make up the documentary aptly called Blank City (due to the movie Blank Generation and the overall clean slate provided by an abandoned area of town) survived through a period of time when just getting by was considered an unattainable feat. Such notables as Amos Poe, Lydia Lunch, Debbie Harry, James Nares, Patti Astor, John Lurie, Jim Jarmusch, Richard Kern, Beth and Scott B, Vivienne Dick, and Steve Buscemi were able to turn poverty into profit as their careers progressed, but in the beginning, it was all about the art.

Jim Jarmusch was one of the filmmakers that benefited from the intensely DIY style of Lower East Side living.

A strong basis for an artist community was formed in the ramshackle buildings that the city of New York did not have money to renovate or repair. The city’s bankruptcy was ignored even by then president Gerald Ford (made extremely evident in a New York Daily News headline, printed in October 1975, that read “Ford to CITY: Drop Dead”), leaving L.E.S. ragamuffins with the pick of any vacant building they desired.

A minor indication of what the Lower East Side was like circa 1975.

Soon, a coexistence between the mediums of film, music, and art were melding into a single cauldron of inventiveness and ingenuity. The availability of Super 8 cameras (often borrowed or stolen) gave the residents of the Lower East Side a YouTube-esque power in that, suddenly, film was democratized–available to anyone who had the inclination to make one.

Promotional poster for Blank City

From this knack for functioning amid chaos and destruction, a number of unprecedented films were released, films that were shockingly candid and reflective of an era when everyone felt as though this year could be their last–drug addiction, AIDS, and poverty all being chief contributors to this feeling. Eric Mitchell’s The Way It Is, Jim Jarmusch’s Stranger Than Paradise, Beth B and Scott B’s Vortex, and Nick Zedd’s They Eat Scum were all indicative of the nihilistic, yet somehow hedonistic, lifestyle that New York had adopted.

One of Steve Buscemi's first roles was in Eric Mitchell's The Way It Is.

And then, as quickly as the No Wave movement had descended upon the Lower East Side, it was gone. With Reagan and the mid-80s came gentrification and wealth, leaving no place for those who had previously embraced the independent spirit that goes hand in hand with being broke. In Nick Zedd’s 1986 short, Police State, the horror of being kicked out of an apartment building to make way for those who could afford to pay an obscenely overpriced rent fee marked the demise of the Lower East Side as these seminal artists had known it.

Debbie Harry in Amos Poe's The Foreigner

While many of the L.E.S. filmmakers were able to achieve commercial success (Susan Seidelman’s Desperately Seeking Susan being the most overt example), that period from 1975 to about 1983 was an inimitable blip. And while we can try to liken it to the tools that are available today (video cameras on iPhones, iMovie, and the whole fucking iLife gamut), what is missing from the current age is the struggle to survive, to create something out of a fierce need to actually exhibit a meaningful message to the world.

There is a rare breed of person that will devote his life entirely to his career. This passion/obsession for a single field has been present in every truly great genius: Van Gogh, Warhol, Dickinson, et. al. All of these eccentric icons shirked marriage, family, and “community involvement” so they could devote themselves to their respective art forms. Bill Cunningham’s place amid this particular type of artist is firmly proven in Richard Press’ documentary, Bill Cunningham New York.

Unabashed about appearing perverse.

Bill Cunningham’s beginnings in the world of fashion photography first took place in the late 1960s, the height of ostentation and innovation in New York hippiedom. Cunningham would spend his weekends in Central Park and SoHo, documenting the sartorial revolution that was happening in addition to the social one. From that moment on, Cunningham’s only concern in life was clothing and its associated trends. Difficult though it may be–considering how elusive Cunningham is–Bill Cunningham New York delves into the core of Bill as a person who has hidden so well behind his camera for all of these decades, and touches on some of the reasons why this might be.

You know you're a significant fixture in New York when Anna Wintour is willing to stop and pose for you.

Cunningham’s intense focus on seeking out the next fashion zeitgeist has, by Press’ visual account, prevented him from addressing his lack of a personal life. Those who know him–even some of his oldest friends, like photographer/former Warhol muse Editta Sherman–can only glean the most cursory of information. At the time of the documentary’s filming, Cunningham was still living in one of the few artists’ studios left in Carnegie Hall, where his entire apartment was lined with file cabinets containing archived negatives of every photograph he had ever taken. If that isn’t taking your work home with you, I don’t know what is.

Promotional poster for Bill Cunningham New York.

And yet, without Cunningham’s unwavering allegiance to his profession, the history of fashion in New York and as a whole would have some severely gaping holes in it. Cunningham’s photography has covered the gamut of social environments–from the street to the high society gala–making his viewpoint the most unbiased one in fashion.

Cunningham: The only objective eye in fashion photography.

The film’s third act features Cunningham being honored by the French Ministry of Culture during Paris Fashion Week. Cunningham’s modesty shines through not just during his acceptance speech, but also at the party itself as he takes pictures of others, never one to miss out on an opportunity to spot the next remarkable ensemble.

On the Street with Bill Cunningham has been the crux of The New York Times Styles Section.

While Bill Cunningham New York may not depict the most welcoming vision of what it is like to let work consume you, it does paint Bill Cunningham as a generally content person who somehow sees the positive light in everything and manages to let unpleasant realities roll off his back (mainly being evicted from Carnegie Hall). It also reveals that it is possible to become a prevalent force in New York without being a total asshole–even though Cunningham is correct in noting that staying honest and good-natured in New York is “like Don Quixote fighting windmills.” Appropriately, as the film’s credits roll, The Velvet Underground’s “I’ll Be Your Mirror” plays. No other song could be more relevant to what Cunningham has done for our culture.

February 12, 1981 at 11:45. I think that’s supposed to be the metaphorical and literal time when Joaquin Phoenix jumped off a cliff. With an opening clip from a home movie, the introduction to the dubious mockumentary I’m Still Here is almost dramatic enough to be in a legitimate documentary. Though the film is not serpentine in the sense that we don’t know what the Affleck/Phoenix alliance is trying to say overall (being famous fucking sucks when it’s forced on you and will drive you mad), but it is convoluted in terms of the manner in which the message is conveyed (pretending to be a loon for a year to prove a point).

Promotional poster for I'm Still Here

In any case, after our brief glimpse into Phoenix’s childhood, we see him roaming around in what appears to be the shrubbery near Mulholland Drive (or some othe creepy part of L.A. with shrubs–and there are quite a few) with his back turned to the camera and his hooded sweatshirt covering his head while he delivers the following soliloquy:

“I’m just fuckin like stuck in this ridiculous like self-imposed fuckin prison of characterization, you know, and it happened to me young. It’s like the chicken or the egg. I don’t know what came first: Whether they said, um, that I was emotional and intense and complicated or whether I…or whether I was truly complicated and intense and then they responded to it. I don’t want to play the character of Joaquin anymore. I want to be whatever I am.”

"So what can you tell us about your years with the Unabomber?"

There is definitely a bit of the real Joaquin somewhere amid those solemn words, but it becomes difficult to take his plight seriously (not that we’re supposed to) when the next shot Casey Affleck cuts to is of Joaquin prodding at a bird with a broom as his voiceover rants about acting, “You’re just a fuckin’ puppet. You’re this dumb fuckin’ doll that wears what someone else tells you to wear, stands where someone tells you to stand, says what somebody else tells you to say. That’s not expression. That’s not creativity.” As far as setting up how Phoenix will spiral out of control, it’s pretty goddamn well-crafted by co-writers Affleck and, yes, Phoenix.

Being filmed by Affleck in B. Hills

It is perhaps because Affleck and Phoenix wrote the script together that there is an elevated perception of how a celebrity breaks down. It’s not gradually and then suddenly in a The Sun Also Rises fashion, it’s fucking zero to psycho in .3 seconds. While this is amusing to watch during the first forty-five minutes, the hilarity starts to dissipate as the film nears the almost two-hour mark. But they do save one of the best moments for last when Joaquin’s assistant Antony takes a shit on his face while he’s sleeping out of retaliation for how Joaquin’s been treating him.

Yeah, if I was Diddy, I wouldn't be able to stop grinning either.

Another memorable moment toward the end of the film is how Joaquin managed to keep a straight face as Diddy listened to some of the tracks he’d composed, like “Complifuckincation.” That performance alone may make him the worthiest actor ever to receive an Academy Award. The parody of a “trainwreck star” reaches its most heightened proportions when Joaquin does a bump of cocaine in his car after Diddy tells him that they can’t work together.

Joaquin, pre-"breakdown."

After risking his career to pull such an intricate hoax (Phoenix was the undisputed laughing stock of L.A. County, so much so that Ben Stiller and Natalie Portman did a send-up of his new look at The Academy Awards), one has to ask if making the movie was worth the involved process. Eh, maybe. A mockumentary about Lindsay Lohan might have provided a more acute PSA. Additionally, the comedic tone of the film is contradicted when it ends on a note that suggests suicide, failure, and Hollywood’s innate ability to drive a person fucking crazy. So maybe there is a little less “mock” to this mockumentary than meets the eye.

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.