Pollock is a rather straightforward biographical tale of the life of Pollock as portrayed by Ed Harris, who also directed the picture. Pollock ascribed to the laws of Picasso, as did his equally talented wife Lee Krasner (Marcia Gay Harden), even as he desperately fought to forge his own identity. His is the typical story of the struggling artist: fighting poverty and seeking fame while translating madness into art. The film comes full circle but falls a bit thin and offers little insight into Pollock's artistic process.
Clement Greenberg (Jeffrey Tambor), an abstract expressionist and art critic, serves as an interesting nemesis to Pollock. He critiques Pollock's paintings with the panache one would expect from a struggling painter, but his criticism of Pollock seems to be on key: Pollock's style, a cross between Picasso's Cubist Period and Blue Period, will wear out it's welcome if Pollock fails to find his own voice. Pollock, a sensitive yet emotionally unstable soul, doesn't take highly to criticism of any kind and usually takes his anger out on the people around him.
A better name for this picture might have been The Misadventures of Jackson Pollock: From Guggenheim Prophet to Long Island Drunk, as the film is nothing but a series of scenarios that finds Pollock making a fool of himself at every turn. His behavior is, for the most part, loathsome and the audience is provided with little opportunity to sympathize for the devil because Harris doesn't give us much to like in the man. Although it is clear that Pollock aspires to paint, there is little subtext in the film to show why Pollock has become the unstable, modernist rebel that took that art world by storm.
Also baffling is why Harris chooses to treat the film as a quasi art history lesson. One scene in the film finds Pollock experimenting on a canvas as Lee walks into the room only to start commenting on Pollock's work with terminology best fitting a college expressionist professor. Her brand of double-speak seems shrill and gratuitous, best fitting an art critic and not a woman whose husband is all too familiar with the glossology of the painting process.
Marcia Gay Harden is, in many respects, the heart and soul of the picture. She's a fine actress who has never gotten the kinds of roles that her talent deserves. Her character in Pollock is perhaps the only three-dimensional character. Although Lee is a woman who adamantly defends her place in the art world she puts her career on hold in order to act as a manager to Pollock. She takes him in, forces him to paint and tries to control his bouts with liquor. She selflessly defends her right not to have children but still nurtures her relationship with Pollock even as he slowly chops away at the foundation, flirting and sleeping away with an endless string of women.
Anyone familiar with Pollock's life eagerly waits for Harris to capture the full glory of Pollock's drip period. Equally reviled and praised during its time, his drip paintings are astounding works that feel like the coded blueprints of Pollock's internal, emotional climate. It's almost blasphemous to see Harris dubiously portray the discovery of Pollock's famous process in a scene where he accidentally splashes paint on a floor while working on a
nondrip painting.
Still, the moments where Harris portrays Pollock's drip process are the best moments in the film, if only on a visual level. The truth of the painting process is still shockingly absent. Pollock seems to find an identity during his drip period but for some reason his life continues to go to seed. I can relate to the moments of a man staring at a blank slate, searching for inspiration within the mind and soul, and loving the spectacular results when an impassioned brush meets the slate. Pollock's worthiness as a man and as an artist lies in the hopeful beauty of the finished art and they seem to promise transcendental hope. But there is a contradiction on the screen as Harris, the director, paints the transitional elements between his scenes so cloudy that his characters motivations seem nothing less than random and misinformed.
One horrible scene in the film finds Harris trying to elicit some kind of suspense by making us wonder if he can ride all the way home without a case of beer falling to the ground. See Pollock paint, see Pollock pee into Peggy Guggenheim's fireplace. See Pollock paint, see Pollock overturn tables full of food. This seesaw scenario escalates for the entire duration of the film and it adds up to very little. It's as if Harris, in an otherwise admirable performance, is more concerned with playing the more dramatic moments of the painter's life than the quieter, more informative moments.
We get a sense that this man hides his emotions behind a false display of bravado but we never, for one moment, get a sense as to why he embraces painting so much. I would have rather seen moments that explored Pollock's inspiration, motivations and the rationale behind his return to drunkenness than a series of incidents more fitting the life of the town bum. Certainly I don't expect something wholly blissful but everything portrayed on the screen seems incidental at the end, as if Harris is trying to translate snapshots of Pollock's life to the screen without focusing on the meatier connective issue.
Clement Greenberg (Jeffrey Tambor), an abstract expressionist and art critic, serves as an interesting nemesis to Pollock. He critiques Pollock's paintings with the panache one would expect from a struggling painter, but his criticism of Pollock seems to be on key: Pollock's style, a cross between Picasso's Cubist Period and Blue Period, will wear out it's welcome if Pollock fails to find his own voice. Pollock, a sensitive yet emotionally unstable soul, doesn't take highly to criticism of any kind and usually takes his anger out on the people around him.
A better name for this picture might have been The Misadventures of Jackson Pollock: From Guggenheim Prophet to Long Island Drunk, as the film is nothing but a series of scenarios that finds Pollock making a fool of himself at every turn. His behavior is, for the most part, loathsome and the audience is provided with little opportunity to sympathize for the devil because Harris doesn't give us much to like in the man. Although it is clear that Pollock aspires to paint, there is little subtext in the film to show why Pollock has become the unstable, modernist rebel that took that art world by storm.
Also baffling is why Harris chooses to treat the film as a quasi art history lesson. One scene in the film finds Pollock experimenting on a canvas as Lee walks into the room only to start commenting on Pollock's work with terminology best fitting a college expressionist professor. Her brand of double-speak seems shrill and gratuitous, best fitting an art critic and not a woman whose husband is all too familiar with the glossology of the painting process.
Marcia Gay Harden is, in many respects, the heart and soul of the picture. She's a fine actress who has never gotten the kinds of roles that her talent deserves. Her character in Pollock is perhaps the only three-dimensional character. Although Lee is a woman who adamantly defends her place in the art world she puts her career on hold in order to act as a manager to Pollock. She takes him in, forces him to paint and tries to control his bouts with liquor. She selflessly defends her right not to have children but still nurtures her relationship with Pollock even as he slowly chops away at the foundation, flirting and sleeping away with an endless string of women.
Anyone familiar with Pollock's life eagerly waits for Harris to capture the full glory of Pollock's drip period. Equally reviled and praised during its time, his drip paintings are astounding works that feel like the coded blueprints of Pollock's internal, emotional climate. It's almost blasphemous to see Harris dubiously portray the discovery of Pollock's famous process in a scene where he accidentally splashes paint on a floor while working on a
nondrip painting.
Still, the moments where Harris portrays Pollock's drip process are the best moments in the film, if only on a visual level. The truth of the painting process is still shockingly absent. Pollock seems to find an identity during his drip period but for some reason his life continues to go to seed. I can relate to the moments of a man staring at a blank slate, searching for inspiration within the mind and soul, and loving the spectacular results when an impassioned brush meets the slate. Pollock's worthiness as a man and as an artist lies in the hopeful beauty of the finished art and they seem to promise transcendental hope. But there is a contradiction on the screen as Harris, the director, paints the transitional elements between his scenes so cloudy that his characters motivations seem nothing less than random and misinformed.
One horrible scene in the film finds Harris trying to elicit some kind of suspense by making us wonder if he can ride all the way home without a case of beer falling to the ground. See Pollock paint, see Pollock pee into Peggy Guggenheim's fireplace. See Pollock paint, see Pollock overturn tables full of food. This seesaw scenario escalates for the entire duration of the film and it adds up to very little. It's as if Harris, in an otherwise admirable performance, is more concerned with playing the more dramatic moments of the painter's life than the quieter, more informative moments.
We get a sense that this man hides his emotions behind a false display of bravado but we never, for one moment, get a sense as to why he embraces painting so much. I would have rather seen moments that explored Pollock's inspiration, motivations and the rationale behind his return to drunkenness than a series of incidents more fitting the life of the town bum. Certainly I don't expect something wholly blissful but everything portrayed on the screen seems incidental at the end, as if Harris is trying to translate snapshots of Pollock's life to the screen without focusing on the meatier connective issue.