Bizarro boy
BEUYS, documentary, not rated, in German and English with subtitles, Center for Contemporary Arts, 2.5 chiles
German sculptor and performance artist Joseph Beuys (1921-1986) was as challenging in his personality as he was in his art. One would be hard pressed to separate the man from his work, judging by Andres Veiel’s outof-the-ordinary but ultimately confounding documentary. Beuys’ work is the kind of art that might cause one to question the very nature of aesthetics. If a trail of sleds snaking out the back of a Volkswagen bus could be art, then anything could. But Beuys himself, who did in fact create such a piece, would have questioned that assertion. “For many people, art means the freedom of randomness,” he states in archival footage in the film. “But what’s the point of art if nothing comes of it?” Beuys sought to expand art to encompass more than painting or sculpture and other traditional mediums. He was a provocateur. Eliciting a response was in the nature of the kind of works he did, but he also bristled at the question of whether it was the purpose of art to do so, stating such thinking was too theoretical. Rather, he sought to democratize art as an activity in which everyone must engage. He regarded the viewer as a participant, and it seems he would rather have called all people artists than call himself one.
For all of its engaging ideas and a structure that seems to flow more intuitively than the typical biography and its chronological structure, Beuys is often too enigmatic to offer much insight or analysis of its subject. The most glaring omission is any critical examination of his role as a member of the Hitler Youth and, later, as a rear-gunner in the Luftwaffe during World War II, and how these experiences may have shaped or impacted his humanist and political ideals, if at all. The most engaging moments shown are those from his many public debates, when he challenged critics who sought to place his work in some kind of pre-established context. But his ire, at these points in the film, is matched by his clear delight with the fight. He comes off almost as though he’s playing a role, maintaining a persona.
Beuys does provide an intimate portrait of the artist engaged in his craft as he created his best-known works, such as I Like America and America Likes Me (1974), in which he was transported to a New York gallery by ambulance from the airport and spent the next few days taming a cautious live coyote. In How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare from 1965, his face was swathed in gold-leaf and honey while he murmured explanations for a series of drawings to a dead rabbit he lovingly cradled. But the film does little to gauge the extent or reason for his influence. Much can be interpreted about the artworks shown, but the dialogue — his own as well as that of interview subjects — does not always relate to what’s onscreen except in the most abstract sense. Much is left unsaid, ultimately leaving the viewer in the position, it seems, of the dead hare.