First, let me say how awesome it is that Bronson Pinchot can still find work, even in this economy. Second, let me further say that it isn’t every day I see a movie that actually makes me check my door locks and leaves me in fear for my safety. Sounds kind of broad, I know, but as long as the writer of Mr. Art Critic is running around free and unmedicated, I’m gonna have a tough time sleeping at night.
Bronson Pinchot stars as M.J. Clayton, the titular Mr. Art Critic, who’s apparently become renowned for his blistering reviews of art galleries and their respective shows. He sets off for a vacation on Mackinaw Island, proving once and for all that Michigan really IS the cheapest place to film movies. And while on vacation in the wilds of northern Michigan, he runs into a previous victim who ends up getting a twisted challenge out of him–can the critic actually MAKE art?
Clearly, somebody involved with this production has been blasted by critics before. So much so, in fact, that he felt the need to create an entire movie featuring one being systematically destroyed in every particular.
This movie represents a fundamental misunderstanding of the entire nature of criticism. There are damn few critics working today that actually operate like M.J. Clayton, and with good reason. Even if we’re so massively jaded that we can’t find anything we like anymore, chances are, we’ll still at least manage to connect SOMEBODY to it. Those that don’t, meanwhile, generally burn out under the constant stream of venom they emit. Real critics want to find something they like so they can tell everybody who reads them about it in a desperate bid to prove that their entire medium of choice (art, film, food, whatever) isn’t a completely irrelevant loss.
I’ve seen enough craptacular vampire movies to choke a horse, and I know that every single one I see has about a ninety-eight percent chance of sucking the second I settle in, but I can still manage to say that, if you like vampire movies, some certain titles might be good for you. Anyone could go back through my own body of work and discover that, while I personally may have found a movie unpleasant, I could still recommend it to certain kinds of enthusiasts. In fact, I’ll even have a specific recommendation for THIS crap sandwich. Stay tuned.
One of the movie’s final lines is “don’t listen to the damn critics”, as though we had nothing useful to say. The movie almost manages to begrudgingly admit that there are “some good critics out there”, as though it were being threatened with lawsuit or as some desperate last minute sop to the numerous critics who would be actually WRITING ABOUT THIS MOVIE. But even this is much too little much too late as they’ll then gleefully carry on with the demolition of M.J. Clayton.
This bizarre poison pen letter can’t even properly be called a movie as there’s just so little going on here that isn’t aimed directly at critics. I’m downright horrified that someone would write this. The only way I could be more unnerved is if the islanders got together and MURDERED the guy at the end of the art show.
What’s the SEQUEL look like? Clayton is publicly skinned and rolled in salt?
The Screenhead Ten Scale, meanwhile, will rise above the repeated slanders and character assassinations, but in the end realizes that this is just some sad attempt at payback and hands this grotesque wish-fulfillment fantasy a one out of ten. Don’t even bother seeing this unless you too have a mammoth grudge against critics.
See? Told you there’d be a specific recommendation!
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