Waiting for Hockney

The premise of this film may at first incite visions of geeky, maladjusted fourteen year olds who worship distant, plasticized versions of their idols in cryptic email signature files and anonymous fan pages.

It's hard to imagine when the film begins that the seemingly bright, normal-sounding protagonist is anything like the stereotype suggests, and this is the charm of the movie. Despite what you think about the cooks and creeps who haunt the red carpet dividers and obsess over their favored idol's natural hair color and taste in shoes, Maryland artist Billy Pappas is somehow none of these things all while displaying an even more extreme obsession that manifests itself almost hap-hazardly onto the belief that a meeting with a top artist will produce the fame and respect for his art that he fears will not materialize any other way.




Now for the explanation.

If you were ever one of those kids in art class (or any class actually) who could sit there for hours to fill up a page in a sketchbook with maddening intricacies and flourishes, and be damn happy doing it, even, if you like your pencils sharpened to a deadly point, then you understand the innate need for completion without compromise that forms the crux of Pappas' all-consuming drive to create the "best" work of fine drawing illustration a human being could possibly manage.

It's a double tragedy that Pappas is in fact so very good as an artist that he does not compromise, inventing arm slings and re-purposing industrial grade magnifying lenses to learn how to create at a level of such exquisite detail that the human eye will be unable to see the point where an image breaks down into its fibers and grains.

What he creates is actually a philosophical study in the nature of human perception, and by association, the value of reality itself. Pappas' writes intelligently of his understanding in what he is doing, and his fan letters are not rambling or sentimental, but are in fact eloquently engrossing, enough so that he does eventually gain an invitation to display his masterpiece to his idol.

For this reason it is ironic that he must work eight years to master the perfection of illustration beyond the limits of human sight only to be told by a paint splashing abstract pop culture that Pappas' discovery has no meaning or relevance in any of the popular art circles he envisions. That he himself has lost perspective in the art world as he has gained perspective as an artist.



The lesson is part study in the nature of obsessive compulsion in artistic genius, and partly a revealing reflection on the egotistical and ruthless nature of the modern art world, where hilarious and touching family quips between Pappas and his family form a warm contrast to the intimidation and duplicity he faces as he climbs through the ranks of pompous and belittling Hockney associates to meet his idol.

The film is wildly engrossing, the real live players meaningful and brimming with sub-plots, and the respect for the subject delicately and diplomatically handled.

If Pappas does eventually turn to acting, as he shines so brightly and openly on camera, he will already find he has many fans from his adventures in art studies.