[Mosquito Bite]
Serious considerations raised by Marla Olmstead semi-tragic story include the following:
1. What does a 5 yo child's 'ability' to produce occasionally impressive works in line with a 50 yo 'avant-garde' tradition, say about said form?
2. How has Marla's work been generally received among the contemporary art world, besides by a few pathetic fogies?
3. Why would Marla's parents even begin to aggressively sell their non-yet-in-kindergarten daughter's work and why would they continue?
4. What are the economic ramifications of a child's play time in an already poorly perceived adult medium (at least by the "masses") that's paying for her college education? To the delight of her Frito-Lay-factory-employed parents, that is.
5. Isn't it problematic that Marla's dealer admits, on camera, that his initial goal in getting involved with the girl's work was to give a big 'screw you' to the art world (abstract expressionism more specifically), which he felt left out on. This dick head has, however sold photo-realistic canvases for $100,000.
Etc.
Instead, My Kid throws on the dunce cap and sharpens pencils for an hour and a half while I wonder why I could frame a better shot every fucking 2 minutes. Seriously, this is a horrible movie with little to no conception of an arresting or even basic documentary approach. There are absolutely no solid interviews here and nothing approaching an enlightening perspective on a curious human interest story.
Roughly .614 through My Kid's running time, director Bar-Lev courageously breaks through the fourth wall and directly addresses his camera as it gracefully wobbles atop his dashboard, capturing scintillating eye candy of the approaching highway asphalt. Our humble auteur ponders his own stake in the increasingly problematic documentary underway by asking:
"What is my investment in this film--to convince you that I'm a 'great director?'"
Wow. Twee moments of startlingly naked self-reflexivity aside, chalk me up as 100% un-fucking-convinced, Mr. Bar-Lev. Approaching documentary filmmaking like a friendly game of 20 questions without the nasty inconvenience of the question-asking, My Kid's director plays push-over substitute professor to an enthusiastic audience of remedial students by like totally not giving the pop quiz, and then instead--check this--ordering pizza and having everyone sit in a circle and say what they like about each other.
Okay, for real, this unbelievably incompetent and ironically (or is that appropriately?) visually juvenile documentary is not quite as lite and pussy as the title. It almost certainly would have been however, were it not for a late second act controversy that sets our trusty documentarian on a Bergman-esque (good year for it!) journey through hallways of self-doubt, paranoia and self evaluation. This it appears, much to the delight of many cineastes, as gleened from on-line blog comments, reviews, et al. who were like totally relieved at not having to learn about, you know, art.
U C , Marla Olmstead started painting with her dad as a wee one, and by 4 and 5 was selling the odd $25,000 oil canvas in, omfg, Chelsea. After a year or so of the debatably deserved limelight our pint-sized Picasso (oy...) gets set up with a hidden camera by 60 Minutes for a month or so and after producing--under the covert eye of Big Brother herself--a decidedly non-masterpiece, according to Charlie "Skeletor" Rose's guestpert (along with a snippet of audio in which Daddy Mark sounds to be coaching her just a wee nip too hard), a major blowup ensues suggesting that Marla may not be the true author of her work. Given that her brand of Ab.Ex. varies from very good to tardsville, this revelation mostly subverts the child prodigy mythology and accompanying dollar figure (a point that Bar-Lev's aesthetically bereft film seems fixated upon) of Marla's works more than any taste issues. Which are left, 'surprisingly' unexamined.
Given that any kind of public backlash towards the film's subject was apparently never considered, Rose's revelation is a pretty hot potato for our director to handle. Thus, his boring, troubled conscience takes over for Marla in the heroine role for the remainder of the film. Tragically, this controversy turns out to be a big blow (in the real world) for the Olmsteads. Marla appears destined for baby genius skid row until her industrious parents manage to film their own TOTALLY CONVINCING "start-to-finish" DVD of Marla making a masterwork.
Before this tight disc drops, Bar-Lev attempts a similar project, just to prove his and others' suspicions wrong and ends up with some spilled paint and a shiny Mr. Sunshine. Curiously however, Marla's return-to-glory work is totally gay and bad and looks like oil painting as channeled by a schizophrenic street artist (aren't they all?). So, the film never really answers that question, whether or not Marla really did or does get some serious help from Pops. But it sure as fuck milks the mystery as dry as a prerequisite art history class. Meanwhile, director Bar-Lev completely forgets to maintain anything like a professional relationship with his subjects and incisive inquiry gets dragged through the shit heap like a bunch of models through blue paint.
That said, My Kid Could Paint That is worth seeing for anyone vaguely interested in contemporary art and questions of authorship, etc. Don't expect to take much away from the theater besides frustration and questions un-addressed, but do go. It's like totally okay on some level.
[MUSIC BOX THEATRE]
