I wish I could have been inside director Jennifer DeLia‘s mind as she was making Billy Bates; not only is it a colorful overload for the senses, it’s a wonder how she kept track of everything. This film, set in New York and produced by Julie Pacino– yes, daughter of Al- is the epitome of an avant-garde, art-house performance piece. Centered around a struggling artist/ photographer and titular character Billy Bates, the film begs the question: “When life imitates art, where does it all begin?” After successfully watching the film, my answer to that question is still: I have no idea.
The movie is a giant question mark with no answer, much like the literal wording of the script. Billy (James Wirt), a disheveled man in his late twenties (I’d imagine) is asked a series of theoretical questions in an interview-like fashion throughout the film. The questions are extremely intimate, such as asking if there are such things as soul mates, or remembering what his dead mother smelled like. While these thought-provoking questions are sprinkled throughout, there is a somewhat linear story that takes place.
Kaia puts on a blue bob wig à la Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation during their romp. It’s purpose is never revealed, but I’d have to guess it’s because that’s “artistic.”
As to be expected from this art-house genre film, creativity is pushed into outer-most boundaries. Billy befriends, and later seduces, a singer named Kaia (Savannah Welch) who seems to be his ideal manic-pixie dream-girl. She floats the idea that themes the film– that artists always stand in their own way– leading to a self sabotage that Bates can relate to. They connect on a personal level when they have sex (which doubles as an emotional torture session for Bates) as Kaia forces him to revisit memories of his dead mother and abandoned father, which eventually leads to a stay at a mental institution. Kaia puts on a blue bob wig à la Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation during their romp. It’s purpose is never revealed, but I’d have to guess it’s because that’s “artistic.”
Billy Bates is not for the faint of heart; it’s gritty and raw, much like how I would expect an acid trip to feel like. Kaia is one proponent of Billy’s struggles, and as he unleashes his pent-up frustrations physically, the rest of the film plays more of internal. Kaia leaves and Billy is left alone. The literal darkness lasts the entire film; visually we are thrown into a pallet of different hues of blue and black and white images. Emotionally, there is no joy or lightheartedness coming from this tortured artist.
For now, only the lucky residents of New York City will be able to catch Billy Bates as it’s only playing in select theaters. There’s no doubt that this film will make its way to Los Angeles soon enough though, and it would make for a great midnight movie put on by Cinefamily at the Silent Theater. Honestly, though, I can’t say you’re missing much.
