Art School Confidential comes across, at first, as a half-hearted attempt at a gross-out comedy.
And 15 minutes into the film, I was disappointed, and was considering an early exit. But by 20 minutes in I was hooked, swept up by the ridiculous story and contrived characters all wound up in a package that is way too clever, and with a cast that is way too good, to be accidental.
Soon I was riveted to my seat, waiting to see where director Terry Zwigoff (Ghost World, Crumb) was taking me.
The story follows Jerome (Max Minghella) – a freshman, suburban America kid, as he ventures out on his own for the first time in an effort to hone his art skills, meet girls, and become “the greatest artist in the world,” like his hero Picasso.
But this school and the people in it are ridiculous, and he realizes quickly that he may not fit in any better here than he did in high school.
But he falls in love with Audrey, an artist’s model played by Sophia Myles, and his heart gets broken, and he starts smoking and drinking, and he twists some moral guidelines, and maybe accidentally kills someone – and soon he’s surrounded in all the inspiration an artist could ever ask for.
The girl I saw the film with is clasically trained singer. She told me that when she was in school, she knew musicians who wanted to be in a relationship just because they believed the passion and the pain – all the ups and downs of love – would make their music better.
If that theory is true, Jerome finds himself run over by a steamroller of inspiration by the time this story concludes.
But the plot and the characters really are so clichéd, and so over the top, that there has to be more to the message of this movie. I think it’s a mockery of Hollywood laziness. I think Zwigoff took these common clichés to an entirely new level – he really broke new ground in cinematic obviousness – in order to make a statement. I think he’s telling Hollywood ‘look, you guys need to try harder. Look at this brilliant film I made just by recycling all the old clichés and multiplying them by 10 and tying them together with a generic storyline. So smarten up!’
I mean seriously. The list is endless. Jerome’s roommates are a flamingly gay but still in the closet fashion student, and an eccentric film major who’s making a movie about a series of strangling murders that have taken place on campus. (Oh yeah, the subplot is about a serial killer haunting the campus.) And the roommate says the killings are the best thing that ever happened to him because they’re creating his plot for him.
There’s John Malkovich’s character – the jaded artist/prof who invites Jerome to his home and then hits on him.
There’s the more experienced, older art school veteran who becomes his best friend, showing him around, introducing him to people, but disappearing halfway through the movie when his presence is no longer necessary. “I’ve figured out who you are,” he tells Jerome, when it’s his turn to exit the plot. “You’re the class duschbag.”
There are even typecast cops investigating the murder – one who goes undercover as a student – a male artist’s model who walks around casually with everything exposed, and a jaded artist who hates the world and everything in it.
It’s crazy! It’s silly, it’s over the top. But somehow it works really, really well. My friend and I talked about it for a long time afterwards, and I’m still mulling it over.
The cast helps. Steve Buscemi is Broadway Bob, the owner of a café that is known for displaying the work of up-and-coming artists, Anjelica Huston is a professor at the school, Jim Broadbent is the once great, now jaded, alcoholic artist who is fed up with humanity.
And the fact that it, like Ghost World, was based on a graphic novel by Daniel Clowes, helps add credibility to the project.
The ending takes a brilliant twist that somehow makes it plausible that Jerome really is well on his way to becoming the famous artist he dreamed he would be.
And then, at the very last moment, the movie ends with a reminder that this is parody and cliché taken to new heights – and that the viewer should strike a balance somewhere between not taking it too seriously, but not discounting the brilliance that went into every inch of celluloid that comprises Art School Confidential.
