Art kills. Simply put, that is the literal message of Dan Gilroy’s Velvet Buzzsaw (2019). Best known for writing and directing Nightcrawler (2014), which tackled the seedy and morally dubious practice of sensational reportage, Gilroy returns to Los Angeles, this time to satirize the world of fine art. And, like a painter with pigments, Gilroy mixes genres with gusto, blending laughs with screams in an attempt to entertain. But despite his efforts, Velvet Buzzsaw is too timid to make those laughs and screams full-throated and nerve-rattling. If I have to use a topical metaphor, it purports to be a Jackson Pollock, but lacks the energy of his controlled, chaotic compositions, instead opting for the cold, sterile aesthetic of a Damien Hirst while achieving none of the intellectual stimulation.
Perhaps that previous sentence is an example of how would-be critics conflate the content of a story with the shape it assumes, how they strive to position the object of their criticism within the larger web of their knowledge. It also shows how critics love to be noticed. This seems to be the main concern of Velvet Buzzsaw’s protagonist. Gilroy assembles an ensemble cast, but the primary character is Morf Vandewalt (Jake Gyllenhaal), a flamboyant bisexual and strutting caricature. Similar to Tabitha Dickinson in Alejandro Gonzalez Iñarritu’s Birdman (2014), he is harsh, unapologetic, and revels in his status as an arbiter of taste—and yet, he yearns for a challenge. (In a short beginning scene, he slouches in a chair, naked, punching out a brochure for an exhibit called Go-Pro Kindergarten.) As vain as a French aristocrat, Morf seeks to buttress his own ego by discovering art so monumental, so mesmerizing, that others will have no choice but to turn to him for guidance. When the chance arises to exploit an obscure man’s sudden demise and introduce his work into the industry, he seizes it. Surrounded by snooty gallerists and ambitious assistants, Morf becomes another victim of Vetril Deese, a painter whose subjects come to life and slaughter any who sell or hide them, implying that those who hoard art are…well, whores of a kind.
Only the other artists, Damrish (Daveed Diggs) and Piers (John Malkovich), seem to recognize the malevolence in Deese’s disturbing creations, and thus avoid his ambiguous rage by forsaking formal exhibitions for more open venues. Damrish returns to his roots as a street artist and Piers vacations on a beach in Miami. While these two recognize the danger in Deese’s oeuvre, those who sell it to support their lavish lifestyles, like Morf, are blind to the supernatural. All they do is shrug and conduct business as usual. “All art is dangerous, Morf,” says Rhodora (Rene Russo), an oblivious gallery owner. What once was a powerful metaphor is sucked of all meaning and becomes a pale platitude. But in Gilroy’s hands, it then turns into a painfully literal piece of foreshadowing that makes you want to close your eyes in disbelief. Beyond its initial premise, the film becomes a gory carnival, each set piece vying to outdo its predecessor in displaying ways for the despicable to die. Imagine if Torquemada had decided to booby-trap the Met; that’s about the best Velvet Buzzsaw has to offer.
Held together by an impressive cast and crew, Velvet Buzzsaw is nonetheless confused about what it wants to say. Gilroy chooses to focus on the characters and their reactions to Deese’s art, highlighting their superficiality and myopia. In a surprisingly effective sequence, the frame of the film occupies the exact space of a painting, and Morf comes close to it, slipping his spectacles onto his nose, admiring the technique with which Deese has rendered the subject, which is us. It’s as if we are placed inside the painting; Gilroy turns us into helpless prey and positions us in front of predators.
Though it breaks the fourth wall, the sequence is quiet enough to slip under our radar, suggesting that art is a means to entrap and preserve human impulses. But even as the film unleashes these inner compulsions, Velvet Buzzsaw spirals into ambiguity, hinting at the shallow idea that art—however violent, however monstrous (Deese uses blood to create his tints)—must be seen. Since the first victim the paintings claim is a remorseful Deese himself, the idea is clear from the beginning, and does not surprise. It frustrates. If art needs to be seen, is it because its purpose can only be defined by its buyers, its patrons? Or does it have inherent value that few can recognize and none can cover up, try as they might? Who is more important in the long run: Medici or Michelangelo? Questions like these need thoughtful responses. Then again, Velvet Buzzsaw has nothing but contempt for subtlety. (When Morf seduces Josephina, a receptionist, his hand enters her vagina with the roar of an airplane ascending.)
“What’s the point of art if nobody sees it?” is one of the few lines that, on the surface, attempts to pose a serious question. (One could ask the same of cinema.) But Gilroy does not bother with it. He photographs a world in which nothing is intrinsically valuable. Everything, including a person, needs outside approval. Unlike Ruben Östlund’s The Square (2017), a more tonally consistent and cleaner parody of a similar topic, Gilroy’s Velvet Buzzsaw does not dive into the pretensions of its characters and humanize the absurdity of their behavior; it merely waits to eviscerate them. Enjoy Velvet Buzzsaw for its polished presentation and cool execution, but wish that it was more dirty and daring like the paintings it exalts.
Author Biography
Abhinav Tiku is a writer and an aspiring filmmaker. He graduated from Swarthmore
College in May 2018, and plans to attend USC’s School of Cinematic Arts in August.
Currently working on several projects, he travels frequently between North America
and Asia.
Film Details
Velvet Buzzsaw (2019)
USA
Director Dan Gilroy
Runtime 113 minutes
