If you’re in the mood for an easy watching, just entertaining enough movie about the pains of artistic grief by way of existential angst, you might feel disappointed after watching the attemptedly-edgy yet uninspired Art Machine. Though a poignant story seems to exist underneath, the movie’s much too formulaic and telegraphed story plays all too safe, for a movie about upsetting/transcending the conventional art world by upsetting the established order, no less.
Once a child prodigy painter, Declan’s (Joseph Cross) life has lost all meaning. Especially living under the roof of his career controlling mother Prudence (Joey Laurence Adams), whose “prudish” character name is so painfully on-the-nose that it can’t help but show as but one instance of the deliberate and mechanical storytelling on display here. The film introduces Declan, now grown up and without his previous critical and commercial success, in a rut of producing less than important or otherwise “good” art. Of course all things come to a head when he meets the manic pixie character, rebel guerilla artist Cassandra (Jessica Szohr) who, along with her fellow punk art collective do-badders, bring Declan in to let loose and join in the merry mischief within their law and art-world circumventing lifestyle. With a heaping of anarchic philosophy (and a touch of psychedelics), Declan stumbles into a new artistic world of inspiration, though with its dangerous and sprawling possibilities and a re-activation of previous mental disturbances, the troubled artist must decide whether his newfound artistic motivations are worth it.
With a heaping of anarchic philosophy (and a touch of psychedelics), Declan stumbles into a new artistic world of inspiration.
Art Machine ultimately goes to say that the “art world” (Brooklyn, NY being its backdrop) has gotten to a point of producing unchallenging and meaningless art, not unlike that of a rudimentary machine. While I would not go as far as to say that this film’s detractors stem from a meaningless storyline, as it displays an intriguing premise about its contemporary questioning, the same defense can’t be made that this outing has any sort of exceptional craftsmanship. We’ve seen the story of the sheltered, mama’s boy of a millennial turn to dark times and mushrooms to achieve a higher functioning experience. We’ve seen the same goofy art click side-kicks with names like “Flash” and oppositely buttoned-up art studio sniffler “Serge,” and here is where we remember that. Perhaps most evidently, even the “art” in the movie is doctored up as a means to an end that one can only guess the property department conjured up to simply qualify. Declan himself is presented as an artist whose work is supposed to speak for itself, but in this case, it all just screams “bad.”
Though there might be one or two familiar faces in this low-budget clunker, the film itself doesn’t have much in the way of entertainment. Unless your idea of a good time stems from watching the most watered down version of Fight Club meets art school, there’s not a lot to fuss over.
