The pain of creating, the pain of creating, the pain, the pain, the pain of creating! How many times have I read the biographies of artists who came into this world and in a brief lifespan revolutionized the art world but went ignored by their contemporaries? You would think that someone who comes from the art world -- like I do -- would appreciate this film and stand in (snobbish) applause after seeing the all-too-brief life of Jean-Michel Basquiat, an artist who created thoughtful meditations on graffiti art which burnt a sieve throughout the New York art scene of the 80s, but I can't. Despite Jeffrey Wright's performance as the title character and David Bowie's spot-on vapidness as Andy Warhol (another artist whom I fail to see his significance), there's no profound connection with the audience. I can't seem to relate to the self-involved superficiality that Julian Schnabel brings to the screen, and much less so when he self-promotes his own art while telling the story of another who isn't alive to stand up for himself in defense. Also, some scenes of people acting outrageously seem made just to shock -- for example, when Rene Ricard rips into Basquiat's dinner party because he's accepted an offer which does not include Ricard in any way. What on Earth is a party guest doing dancing from table to table and singing in a falsetto? Snobbery of the worst kind. If I had seen this film when it came out and while I was active in the art scene I would have blindly accepted it as the Next Major Vanguard Film About An Artist, but seeing it for the first time as a much older person, I can't see it, I don't get it, because creativity is not that profound and painful and doesn't warrant that much existentialism.
