F for FakeLies are always more interesting than the truth, but we feel more comfortable thinking otherwise. This is not a criticism, but an expert opinion. And what qualifies an "expert", opinion or otherwise...that dirty four-letter word: "fact". Subversion, ladies and gentlemen, is the show, and our compère for tonight's performance is none other than that grand illusionist...wait for it (we always do)...Orson Welles. And you'll forgive my smirking pen if I weave behind the curtain of the great wizard of "Ors", and pay homage to the "general of disingenuousness". For in a movie about fakery, how can I resist?
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Does a film need to be so rigidly defined? Does it need to fall neatly into a frame, and lose that Joie de vivre. Just between you and me, borrowing those French phrases does wonders for establishing the voice of a charlatan. No, did I say "charlatan"? I think we'll all feel more comfortable with "magician"...I'll leave the quotes though, all the same. And so begins F for Fake, with a magic act. Of course we all know that there is no such thing as magic in our rational minds, in command of our rational worlds. A key is not symbolic of anything, nor is it that the key is something we conceal, that we hold as that elusive je ne sais...aw, let's just say "I don't know what"...even I can hear the wizard groaning. It is a symbol--one might say for "trust"...trust, our trust that in a documentary, we only get the truth, that we buy into an idea, a movie that presents itself with an understanding of what to expect, even before we've seen it. And you might ask yourself, "why, I enjoy a surprise as much as anyone else," and you'd be right. The truth is...hmm...let's avoid that phrase for now...we enjoy the unknown, but all entertainment, all of acting and performance, is an illusion. So, too, is magic, a performance where what we see is not what is, or vice versa.
I would be lying to you if I told you that there is no Elmyr de Hory or Clifford Irving...and it wouldn't even be a very good lie, considering that the crux of F for Fake is the equivalent of a jazzy riff on an already existing documentary by François Reichenbach, about the great art forger Elmyr, and his biographer-slash-forger, Clifford Irving. Real people living lives as far from real as the camera deigns to show. It is said by a well-known filmmaker that "editing is the art of a film"--I'm paraphrasing here, but the quotes do give that air of authenticity, don't they? F for Fake borrows this stage, reiterating the tale that Elmyr has become infamous as a forger, as an "actor", because of the existence of an "art market", a circus for wares, authenticity the sole domain of the so-called "experts", those who claim to know far more than they do, because they, too, are actors. (I'm ready for my close up, Mr. Welles.) The question is asked: If there were no "experts", would there be art forgers? For what profit is it to a man if he gains the world but loses his Modigliani? And then there is "Oja Kodar" (quotes, again), who forges...ahem...her own path into the story, the lovely muse amusing men, her presence a statuesque distraction for us, and for our filmmaker, who brazenly cast his very mistress in the role. "Caught in the act, or acting," as the case may be. F for Fake waxes poetic periodically, a peek into the artifice of the artist, a meditation, a verse on life and death, on real and the illusion, and puts a knowing smile on every seat in the house...ha, ha, "a smile on every seat"...that's funny, but is it art? With regards to F for Fake, yes Mr. Welles, yes...it is art; and you can trust me...I'm an expert.
Recommended for: Fans of a freewheeling take on a documentary, a film that abandons preconceived conventions about what it "should" or "shouldn't" be, the true signature of an artist.
I would be lying to you if I told you that there is no Elmyr de Hory or Clifford Irving...and it wouldn't even be a very good lie, considering that the crux of F for Fake is the equivalent of a jazzy riff on an already existing documentary by François Reichenbach, about the great art forger Elmyr, and his biographer-slash-forger, Clifford Irving. Real people living lives as far from real as the camera deigns to show. It is said by a well-known filmmaker that "editing is the art of a film"--I'm paraphrasing here, but the quotes do give that air of authenticity, don't they? F for Fake borrows this stage, reiterating the tale that Elmyr has become infamous as a forger, as an "actor", because of the existence of an "art market", a circus for wares, authenticity the sole domain of the so-called "experts", those who claim to know far more than they do, because they, too, are actors. (I'm ready for my close up, Mr. Welles.) The question is asked: If there were no "experts", would there be art forgers? For what profit is it to a man if he gains the world but loses his Modigliani? And then there is "Oja Kodar" (quotes, again), who forges...ahem...her own path into the story, the lovely muse amusing men, her presence a statuesque distraction for us, and for our filmmaker, who brazenly cast his very mistress in the role. "Caught in the act, or acting," as the case may be. F for Fake waxes poetic periodically, a peek into the artifice of the artist, a meditation, a verse on life and death, on real and the illusion, and puts a knowing smile on every seat in the house...ha, ha, "a smile on every seat"...that's funny, but is it art? With regards to F for Fake, yes Mr. Welles, yes...it is art; and you can trust me...I'm an expert.
Recommended for: Fans of a freewheeling take on a documentary, a film that abandons preconceived conventions about what it "should" or "shouldn't" be, the true signature of an artist.