perhaps that’s Proserpio’s ultimate achievement here. He gets us to think about what it is we do, what it is we love, and what it is that motivates us, all in the microcosm of one humble Banksy work. It’s fair to say, this documentary may have more lasting impact than some of the short-lived street art it’s talking about.
perhaps that’s Proserpio’s ultimate achievement here. He gets us to think about what it is we do, what it is we love, and what it is that motivates us, all in the microcosm of one humble Banksy work. It’s fair to say, this documentary may have more lasting impact than some of the short-lived street art it’s talking about.
In concert with celebrating Hambleton’s achievements, the film looks unflinchingly at the insanity and degradation which is the artist’s very messed up life. As the details unfold, we find some of the usual suspects behind self-destructive geniuses. More surprising are the nuances of this troubled man’s path, the almost pure motivations which repulsed him away from success, intermingling with the frailty of a human being succumbing to an endless parade of indulgence and personal neglect.
Lovely milieus are crafted which do everything from mock a funeral to provide meditative contemplations of buildings as living things. Always, always in the service of framing the manifesto. More than once we go from hives to drones to queens and broods, our insect instincts trying to gain meaning from a larger culture and history.
