Too Cruel for School
Art School Confidential aims low, sinks lower.
BY GREGORY
It would appear that the makers of Art School Confidential were going for irony or satire or something in making their
mean-spirited and depressing little movie, and as such I’m giving them a big fat ‘F.’ Why? “Hey man, don’t you get
alternative culture?” Well, yeah, actually, but this movie isn’t really of that ilk at all. While it purports to be (somebody
save us from this adjective and its hypocritical purveyors) “edgy” and somehow bold regarding youth, the creative
process and modern urban mayhem, the movie is really -- at its tiny little heart -- a very typical Hollywood sad-sack
rehash, and not even a good one of those. If you enjoy murmuring the word “lame” repeatedly to yourself in the dark,
have at it.
Granted, this movie boasts the “alt” pedigree of its director Terry Zwigoff and comic-book writer Daniel Clowes, of the
overrated Ghost World (which essentially gave the world Scarlett Johansson; gee, thanks), and fans of that (and
Zwigoff’s Bad Santa; I didn’t even bother) are likely to flock to this. Yep, I’ll bet you right now that thousands of girls
with black fingernails all over Europe and Japan are twitching with excitement over the arrival of this latest entry in the
geek-love sweepstakes. Yawn. And here I thought the whole idea of an “alternative” film was to surprise the audience.
Art School Confidential -- unlike, say, Heathers, which really did assault the youth movie paradigm with surprising
bravado nearly twenty years ago -- plays its gags and (barf) “meaningful moments” strictly on the safe and clichéd side.
Zwigoff and Clowes desperately smudge nasty “outsider” chic over a connect-the-dots mainstream plot, resulting in an
embarrassing and unsatisfying canvas unfit even for hanging.
The protagonist is a suburban nobody named Jerome (Max Minghella, a really terrible actor whose mouth closely
resembles a butthole and who eventually attempts to cover this by donning those stupid, trendy “rectangle” glasses),
whose primary goal in life is to paint like Picasso so he can have sex with a lot of women. Charming. Not. As with too
many movies, the main character is a crashing bore, serving no purpose other than to make all supporting characters
seem more interesting than they really are. Jerome mopes his way into a rather crummy fictional art-school, where his
fellow students include Vince the talent-free wannabe filmmaker (the ever-dependable Ethan Suplee), Eno the totally
useless “aesthete” (Jeremy Guskin, craftily rising above the material) and Jonah the dubious and undeserving Aryan who
gets all the glory (Matt Keeslar).
On the faculty we get producer John Malkovich, taking a break from buying property all over Europe to play himself yet
again (does the man ever actually act, or does he intend to keep doing that lazy “sorta gay” thing that the ladies love, all
the way to his grave? -- because Johnny Depp is already a lot better at it). Malkovich plays Professor Sandiford, and I
will admit that he gave me chills because his vague overtures toward Jerome reminded me very much of the high school
drama teacher who hit on me and once gave me a note telling me that he was the “taskmaster” who could extract from
me my “hidden talents.” (He sucked as a director too, and I quit the theatre for several years thereafter.) This creep-
factor Malkovich gets right -- but he’s still merely playing himself, ho-hum. Inexplicably, Anjelica Huston also shows up,
briefly attempting to add warmth to an enterprise bent on proving how icy it can be. Her moments are snuffed out in
seconds, however it is interesting to see how one of her front teeth sticks out further than the other.
What happens? Well, since the opening shot puts us in the POV of Jerome (as a little boy) being punched out by a bully,
we’re pretty much stuck with his POV for the whole movie. Thus we receive, in no particular order, a mediocre girls-
are-crazy sequence, a very unfunny gay subplot, a “murder mystery” (which almost makes the third act interesting; key
word: almost); lots of montages of kids making crappy art and insulting one another’s crappy art, and a bit of (again)
almost-“edgy” family dramedy which seems very much like outtakes from some or other already-weary Todd Solondz
movie. Mainly I noticed that, rather than being witty, the script generally has every character say every single line in the
rudest way possible (you name the vaginal euphemism, plus they even go for the pre-exhausted art-“opening” joke).
Then a totally incongruous and entirely implausible “romance” gets mixed in, via idiotic nude model Audrey (Sophia
Myles). Much like Wedding Crashers last summer, the overall imbalance made me feel sick: Okay, you’re coarse – ha-ha-
ha; I’ll laugh on cue to pass the time. But don’t try to sell me “sensitive” in the last couple of reels, because I ain’t buying.
Roger Ebert is probably buying, though. He certainly knows on which side his bread is buttered. Ebert’s silly pet What’s-
His-Face, too. And that kid, Scott Foundas, he’ll certainly understand when a pivotal elder character stresses the
importance of fellatio in boosting one’s career (have fun with your new employers, Scott!)
That elder here is Jim Broadbent, one of Art School’s only real highlights (among other Brits strangely pretending to be
Americans), playing a deranged, drunk curmudgeon named Jimmy who shouts to Jerome about the virtues of “sucking
cock and licking ass” in order to have any sort of career in the art world (which, clearly, he didn’t). Most of the
characters here -- including Steve Buscemi, like Malkovich, playing himself (but with more zest: puzzlingly shouting
about Brownshirts and declaring himself a genius) -- are either types or are drawn only with the sketchy vagueness of a
comic writer, but Broadbent holds court quite masterfully -- right up to his character gaining his come-uppance via a
discarded cigarette ridiculously announced to Jerome by a random passer-by who clearly would know even less about
the matter than any arson-specialist would be able to discover. A good performance trapped within bad writing.
If the pointlessly-rude thing is your bag, however, you may also enjoy the hijinx of Joel Moore as Jerome’s relentlessly
vulgar and cynical “friend,” and Katherine Moennig as the amusingly bitter lesbian former-lover of Audrey. Remember
“Jay” from the Askewniverse? Same spirit, different bodies. Oh, and there is an actual funny bit involving a ghastly
“successful” artist addressing a school assembly and praising the merits of being a total asshole. Shades of Donnie
Darko in reverse, but nowhere near as good.
Y’know, I went to one of the toughest film-schools in the country (with some of the most sociopathic roommates), and
apart from Art Center in Pasadena (which is rumored to have a relatively high suicide rate), film school makes art school
look like a cakewalk. I’m still recovering. (Note to those who think they do not need schooling to know, and make, good
cinéma: Yes You Do.) Especially coming from this perspective, something about Jerome’s “quest” here feels very tacky
and contrived, even moreso when compared to a successful, genuinely funny peer-pressure farce such as Christopher
Guest’s film-school-and-beyond comic-romance, The Big Picture.
These guys, though, Zwigoff and Clowes, they seem to think they’re above the game without ever actually playing it. I’ll
be generous and raise their grade to an ‘F+’ due to Broadbent being so remarkably pathetic, however in all other ways
their thesis here is dull-dull-dull, and best summed up by one of their own characters, a girl who, tellingly, initially refuses
to appear in Vince’s lousy student movie. For Clowes and Zwigoff, feigning rebellion while kowtowing to mainstream
expectations (They may as well be Shane Black), her words may have special resonance: “Why do you want to
regurgitate all this Hollywood crap for the thousandth time? Don’t you have anything original to say? Because this is
totally worthless.”
Art School Confidential
Entertainment Value: 3/13
Style: 2/13
Philosophical Insight: 1/13
-Gregory, 11 May, 2006
Art School Confidential aims low, sinks lower.
BY GREGORY
It would appear that the makers of Art School Confidential were going for irony or satire or something in making their
mean-spirited and depressing little movie, and as such I’m giving them a big fat ‘F.’ Why? “Hey man, don’t you get
alternative culture?” Well, yeah, actually, but this movie isn’t really of that ilk at all. While it purports to be (somebody
save us from this adjective and its hypocritical purveyors) “edgy” and somehow bold regarding youth, the creative
process and modern urban mayhem, the movie is really -- at its tiny little heart -- a very typical Hollywood sad-sack
rehash, and not even a good one of those. If you enjoy murmuring the word “lame” repeatedly to yourself in the dark,
have at it.
Granted, this movie boasts the “alt” pedigree of its director Terry Zwigoff and comic-book writer Daniel Clowes, of the
overrated Ghost World (which essentially gave the world Scarlett Johansson; gee, thanks), and fans of that (and
Zwigoff’s Bad Santa; I didn’t even bother) are likely to flock to this. Yep, I’ll bet you right now that thousands of girls
with black fingernails all over Europe and Japan are twitching with excitement over the arrival of this latest entry in the
geek-love sweepstakes. Yawn. And here I thought the whole idea of an “alternative” film was to surprise the audience.
Art School Confidential -- unlike, say, Heathers, which really did assault the youth movie paradigm with surprising
bravado nearly twenty years ago -- plays its gags and (barf) “meaningful moments” strictly on the safe and clichéd side.
Zwigoff and Clowes desperately smudge nasty “outsider” chic over a connect-the-dots mainstream plot, resulting in an
embarrassing and unsatisfying canvas unfit even for hanging.
The protagonist is a suburban nobody named Jerome (Max Minghella, a really terrible actor whose mouth closely
resembles a butthole and who eventually attempts to cover this by donning those stupid, trendy “rectangle” glasses),
whose primary goal in life is to paint like Picasso so he can have sex with a lot of women. Charming. Not. As with too
many movies, the main character is a crashing bore, serving no purpose other than to make all supporting characters
seem more interesting than they really are. Jerome mopes his way into a rather crummy fictional art-school, where his
fellow students include Vince the talent-free wannabe filmmaker (the ever-dependable Ethan Suplee), Eno the totally
useless “aesthete” (Jeremy Guskin, craftily rising above the material) and Jonah the dubious and undeserving Aryan who
gets all the glory (Matt Keeslar).
On the faculty we get producer John Malkovich, taking a break from buying property all over Europe to play himself yet
again (does the man ever actually act, or does he intend to keep doing that lazy “sorta gay” thing that the ladies love, all
the way to his grave? -- because Johnny Depp is already a lot better at it). Malkovich plays Professor Sandiford, and I
will admit that he gave me chills because his vague overtures toward Jerome reminded me very much of the high school
drama teacher who hit on me and once gave me a note telling me that he was the “taskmaster” who could extract from
me my “hidden talents.” (He sucked as a director too, and I quit the theatre for several years thereafter.) This creep-
factor Malkovich gets right -- but he’s still merely playing himself, ho-hum. Inexplicably, Anjelica Huston also shows up,
briefly attempting to add warmth to an enterprise bent on proving how icy it can be. Her moments are snuffed out in
seconds, however it is interesting to see how one of her front teeth sticks out further than the other.
What happens? Well, since the opening shot puts us in the POV of Jerome (as a little boy) being punched out by a bully,
we’re pretty much stuck with his POV for the whole movie. Thus we receive, in no particular order, a mediocre girls-
are-crazy sequence, a very unfunny gay subplot, a “murder mystery” (which almost makes the third act interesting; key
word: almost); lots of montages of kids making crappy art and insulting one another’s crappy art, and a bit of (again)
almost-“edgy” family dramedy which seems very much like outtakes from some or other already-weary Todd Solondz
movie. Mainly I noticed that, rather than being witty, the script generally has every character say every single line in the
rudest way possible (you name the vaginal euphemism, plus they even go for the pre-exhausted art-“opening” joke).
Then a totally incongruous and entirely implausible “romance” gets mixed in, via idiotic nude model Audrey (Sophia
Myles). Much like Wedding Crashers last summer, the overall imbalance made me feel sick: Okay, you’re coarse – ha-ha-
ha; I’ll laugh on cue to pass the time. But don’t try to sell me “sensitive” in the last couple of reels, because I ain’t buying.
Roger Ebert is probably buying, though. He certainly knows on which side his bread is buttered. Ebert’s silly pet What’s-
His-Face, too. And that kid, Scott Foundas, he’ll certainly understand when a pivotal elder character stresses the
importance of fellatio in boosting one’s career (have fun with your new employers, Scott!)
That elder here is Jim Broadbent, one of Art School’s only real highlights (among other Brits strangely pretending to be
Americans), playing a deranged, drunk curmudgeon named Jimmy who shouts to Jerome about the virtues of “sucking
cock and licking ass” in order to have any sort of career in the art world (which, clearly, he didn’t). Most of the
characters here -- including Steve Buscemi, like Malkovich, playing himself (but with more zest: puzzlingly shouting
about Brownshirts and declaring himself a genius) -- are either types or are drawn only with the sketchy vagueness of a
comic writer, but Broadbent holds court quite masterfully -- right up to his character gaining his come-uppance via a
discarded cigarette ridiculously announced to Jerome by a random passer-by who clearly would know even less about
the matter than any arson-specialist would be able to discover. A good performance trapped within bad writing.
If the pointlessly-rude thing is your bag, however, you may also enjoy the hijinx of Joel Moore as Jerome’s relentlessly
vulgar and cynical “friend,” and Katherine Moennig as the amusingly bitter lesbian former-lover of Audrey. Remember
“Jay” from the Askewniverse? Same spirit, different bodies. Oh, and there is an actual funny bit involving a ghastly
“successful” artist addressing a school assembly and praising the merits of being a total asshole. Shades of Donnie
Darko in reverse, but nowhere near as good.
Y’know, I went to one of the toughest film-schools in the country (with some of the most sociopathic roommates), and
apart from Art Center in Pasadena (which is rumored to have a relatively high suicide rate), film school makes art school
look like a cakewalk. I’m still recovering. (Note to those who think they do not need schooling to know, and make, good
cinéma: Yes You Do.) Especially coming from this perspective, something about Jerome’s “quest” here feels very tacky
and contrived, even moreso when compared to a successful, genuinely funny peer-pressure farce such as Christopher
Guest’s film-school-and-beyond comic-romance, The Big Picture.
These guys, though, Zwigoff and Clowes, they seem to think they’re above the game without ever actually playing it. I’ll
be generous and raise their grade to an ‘F+’ due to Broadbent being so remarkably pathetic, however in all other ways
their thesis here is dull-dull-dull, and best summed up by one of their own characters, a girl who, tellingly, initially refuses
to appear in Vince’s lousy student movie. For Clowes and Zwigoff, feigning rebellion while kowtowing to mainstream
expectations (They may as well be Shane Black), her words may have special resonance: “Why do you want to
regurgitate all this Hollywood crap for the thousandth time? Don’t you have anything original to say? Because this is
totally worthless.”
Art School Confidential
Entertainment Value: 3/13
Style: 2/13
Philosophical Insight: 1/13
-Gregory, 11 May, 2006
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