Jonathan Parker’s “Untitled,” is an amusing send-up and celebration of the idiosyncrasies and pretentiousness of the modern art world. Adam Goldberg seems born to play the disgruntled and neurotic tortured artist unwilling to compromise an inch and Marley Shelton does a superb job as the vacuous and affected Chelsea art gallerist who falls for his brooding ways.
Hollywood and Fine’s Marshall Fine is mostly on the money (if a little generous) when he says the picture is “a laugh-out-loud satire with a dry-martini wit [that] manages the neat trick of poking wicked fun at the worlds of experimental music and art — from all angles — even as it gives a humorously sympathetic look at the plight of the serious artist working far outside the commercial mainstream.”
Yet where “Untitled” falters and looses its sharp footing is during its second half where it begins leaning too heavily on the sympathetic side of self-serious artists and jettisoning its humorous wit in order to examine notions of why some starve to pursue their passions and why some simply must create as they must breathe oxygen each day. It essentially becomes (with chin-scratching and affected accent in tow): What IS art? If that second half sounds much less enjoyable, that’s because it is.
But the picture starts out rather deftly and auspiciously, Goldberg plays Adrian Jacobs, a gloomy avante garde sound collagist who plays in tiny theaters to even more minuscule audiences; leading a duo of other musicians into a hilarious satire of art-noise compositions that include honking horns, shredding paper, kicking buckets, skronking discordant saxophone farts and tinkling away at atonal piano notes. Dismayed in the audience — aside from his parents who abruptly leave after the ridiculous (yet very wickedly funny) cacophony begins, is Goldberg’s brother Josh (a scene-stealingly good Eion Bailey); a veritable opposite evil twin, who is also artistically inclined, but essentially a shallow sell-out who sells safe, pseudo-impressionist circles to dentist offices for a tiny fortune. In attendance as his date is Madeleine Gray (an attractive Marley Shelton playing against type in an icier role), the 20/20 vision, yet-bespectacled-anyhow art dealer who runs her own little Manhattan gallery and is sensitively attuned to the beating heart of uber-challenging artists.
Over dinner Josh pretends to understand his brother, but then, as per usual, regresses into attacking questions about what it is it he is trying to artistically achieve and does he enjoy playing to zero crowds? The take is the populist vs. nice, and both brothers seem to want what the other has (integrity vs. exposure), yet are too stubborn or witless to achieve it. But completely dazzled and taken with Jacob’s wryly ludicrous soundscapes is Josh’s date Madeline, seemingly more attracted to the more hirsute sibling simply because his work is more difficult and excruciating.
As pretentious as can be, the shallow Madeline finds confrontational works exciting and arousing and soon enough she’s ditched the more successful Jacob for the struggling artist. She throws herself at him with aplomb and in short order is convincing as both hap and depthless, but rich art dilettantes pay top dollar to commission his “music” for gallery outings.
So a half-hearted love triangle emerges, but once the picture’s arch and crisp first act is complete, it glides into a malaise-y comfort zone that it cannot break free from. As aforementioned, romances get serious, but the humor takes a backseat to make room for pseudo-ish intellectual ponderings about what constitutes art. While these questions shouldn’t be dismissed and can be cleverly discussed with a devious little smirk, Parker’s take generally sucks the joy out of the room and the overall entertainment value tends to drop rather heavily.
There are some highlights though. Vinnie Jones does a wonderful job at lampooning a Damien Hirst-like gaudy and vainglorious artiste who “conceptualizes” and then hires lackeys to complete his art. Luna’s Dean Wareham does a funny little cameo as an art critic. And Ptolemy Slocum takes a humorous turn as a maladjusted shut-in, who places push-pins onto a colossally big white canvases and then comically titles the works, “push-pin on white canvas,” but “Untitled” looses steam and direction and can’t really successfully figure out what it’s trying to say aside from: anything is art if you want it to be (which of course is a big lazy cop out that says absolutely nothing new).
Not a terrible picture in the least and a decent little indie with small aims, but listlessness does set-in during the second, fairly predictable last-half and a promising opening is soon undermined by narrative fatigue, a plot that stalls and funny characters with no real satisfying arcs. [C+]