Amid a slur of controversy, aptly launched by a string of indie directors enthralled by Harmony Korine's previous movie, Kids, the newly declared genius director was encouraged to deliver yet another account of life in white trash America, set in a fictional town hit by a tornado. Rather than following a classic plot line, Korine paints loose episodes that were strung up to form an kaleidoscopic picture of the hopeless ennui that he claims has taken hold of the underdog classes in the US. But what all too obviously sets out to convey a shocking representation of the underrepresented in an apocalyptic society is by no means more than the pathetic yelp of a premature tween, deeply in love with Kurt Cobain and, mainly, himself. While Kids may have had a raw and unaltered intensity about it the emphasis being on the word "may" this follow-up is way too constructed to claim the virtues of innocence, ranging from the clumsily composed stills to the half-scripted dialogues and acting, which pay tribute to Korine's exalted brainwaves rather than a reality, however constructed or abstracted. Inebriated by his supposed artistry, Korine shows considerable contempt for his subjects, to judge f.i. from a scene where he stars himself, pretending to expose his inner bleedings to a black gay midget (no less) while trying to convince the man to have sex with him. By accumulating embarrassing and flawlessly boring scenes, our whiz kid ends up with a classic freak show, a both unreflected and utterly pretentious piece of fake cinéma d'auteur which owes credit to his great mentor Gus van Sant, who himself is often mistaken for an untypical (implying: great) filmmaker. It is interesting to note that, apart from the Sundance circuit, Korine found widespread acceptance in the contemporary art world, part for his use of video in film and part for the alleged critical stance of his films. In both cases, the art hipsters have failed to notice that noteworthy experimental film is usually characterised by a rare quality reflected purpose, that is. Korine is typical US artsy fluff, and anyone with intellectual expectations and curiosity will leave it to the MoMA curators of this world to figure out why anyone is supposed to bother with a brain midget's poetry album of mainstream American teenage mal de vivre.
Review of Gummo
