I thought I would review the new film on Van Gogh, directed by Julian Schnabel, famed painter and filmmaker. This isn’t really a film review, however. I know nothing about film editing, screenplays, photography, acting and the like. This is more an account of the things in the film that annoyed me, first as an easel painter, and second as someone who is troubled by the way dangerous, strong-willed thinkers throughout history have been, at times, made safe and palatable by presenting them as mentally off in some serious way. Take Charlie Clements, for example. He was tossed in the looney bin because as a physician, a Captain, and pilot, his sudden refusal to fly missions in Vietnam was evidence to certain responsible types that he was obviously unbalanced. But let me start with the lower order annoyance, Schnabel’s easel-painting transgressions. When I was a kid in the 50s, I was obsessed with baseball and would react in horror when, on the big silver screen, my heroes were played by actors who could barely throw a ball. It just ruined the whole thing. Well, there was a lot of that in this film, too. Are the practices of easel painting really gone with the wind?

1.  Vincent’s Easel

In the image above on the left, we see Vincent unfolding a contemporary French easel that you can buy today. We know that this type of easel was developed by Roger Jullian during World War II. We know from self-portraits, Vincent used a tripod-type easel indoors (right image). And we know from photos that even 15 years after Vincent’s death, Cézanne and other plein-air types were out in the field with flimsy tripods that look like three sticks tied together. To be fair, there is one scene showing Vincent using a tripod easel but why the inattention to authenticity? Okay, thumbs down on easels.

2. Sun On The Canvas

Here’s another. Vincent is painting away with full sun striking his canvas (left image). I would wager that you can’t find a photo of a major 19^th century artist painting this way. If one does this, when the painting is brought indoors, the painting will look much too dark in the much darker indoor light. Note Sorolla in the image on the right. He’s doing what they all did, properly positioning his painting against the light, so much so that he is compelled to look back over his shoulder to paint from the angle he desires. This is basic stuff, c’mon!

3. A Frenetic Painter Holding the Brush Improperly

Given that it is obligatory to demonstrate that Vincent has a few wires crossed, when he is shown painting he is painting frenetically. Nutty painters never paint with tenderness. If that were not enough, he is pawing at the canvas (image above) as a dog would paw at a closed door. Why painters must be shown holding a brush as though they all suffered from severe arthritis is beyond me.[1]Try holding the brush as you would a pencil. The flexible wrist works wonders.

4. The Underpainting

As Vincent is pawing madly, he is doing so directly onto an open canvas (left image). Okay, Schnabel rose to fame painting plates and may not know about the virtue of a full color underpainting, but if we look at a real painting by Vincent (right image) we see that his painterly strokes have been placed over and onto an underpainting.

Not having an advisor on the set to explain these practices suggest that either 1) none exist today, or 2) Schnabel does not understand well the period in which Vincent lived. I think number 2 has more explanatory power. Better to go with clichés, which brings me to the tiresome and useful trope: Vincent is really crazy.

The Obligatory Lone Nut Theory

First, let me say, that the two primary facts that prove to modern audiences that Vincent is mad – the cutting off of his ear and his suicide – have been challenged by researchers, but I don’t want to wade into that swamp. In this film, Vincent is shown rubbing soil on his face, parading around in a straightjacket, and so on. Frankly, from what I’ve read, Cézanne was even nuttier and, as far as psychopaths are concerned, Italian Futurists and Dali make Vincent look like Gandhi, who was also mythologized, but in the other direction.

Here’s the problem and the threat: Vincent’s professed purpose in life is to show “what’s in the heart of the lowest of the low.” He paints sincerely and independently, his beliefs are clear, his convictions resolute. In other words, Vincent can’t be bought. And whom does this type of artist threaten? The gazillion of potato eaters? No. The type of artist for whom Van Gogh could be an icon – innovative, disobedient, one who has contempt for self-promotion and commercial values – threatens the people who were, both in the 1880s and today, rapidly erecting systems of private control, through private galleries and private agents, over artists’ life chances every bit as thorough as the state Salon system that just had been overthrown decades earlier by artists who refused to play the game. Who are these people? Well, according to the sane Cézanne, they are the people who want to “get their hooks into you,” the “dirty bourgeoisie.” Oops, can’t tell that story. So Schnabel takes the story in another direction.

In one of the final scenes, a priest asks questions of Vincent in order to determine whether or not to release Vincent from an asylum. Vincent admits that there doesn’t seem to be a market for his paintings and then adds, “Maybe God made me a painter for people who aren’t born yet.” This is the crux of the story that Schnabel wishes to tell: it is the story of the avant-garde artist, not understood by “the people” of his day but, in time, “the people” who don’t get art to begin with eventually catch up. It’s a cliché that justifies hierarchy and serves the interest not only of art system elites but also all artists whose work looks “horrible” too (think Schnable), but whose careers might be saved (and investments protected) by means of the success that scandal, manufactured or otherwise, could one day bring.

To drive home the theme that “the people” are the problem, not just in the world of art but across history generally, Schnabel has Vincent pointing out that it wasn’t Pilate who killed Jesus, it was “the people” who pressed Pilate to arrange for the crucifixion. But then Schnabel makes a misstep. Vincent says that he, just like Jesus, could easily incriminate himself in the eyes of the priest, thus preventing his release if he continues to tell the priest how he thinks. “I too have to be careful with what I say to you.” This is the point where Schnabel went with Vincent the Nut Case: safe, domesticated, the Starry Night pet that even children so adore. He could have told the more dangerous, truthful story: Vincent, in solidarity with the oppressed, his focus on becoming over and above career, was the painter who, because he was able to escape a realm of commercial disenchantment, was able to slip into a realm where wonder is revitalized. But suggesting that Vincent was certifiably and heroically sane, defeated by the insanity of the emerging disenchanted commercial order, just might encourage disobedience and independence today. Problematic. However, it is the story that more than a few late-19^th century artists were telling about their own experiences at the time and that needs retelling today.

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[1]Go here to see some photos of great artists holding the brush properly (https://bit.ly/2Fr4udZ).