I don't know who the joke's on, really. I don't even know if there is a joke. - Steve Lazarides
Ok. Where do I begin on this one?
Within the first 15 seconds of the film, we are notified that this "A Banksy Film." And as it progresses, we are introduced to the pseudonymous Banksy - a mysterious, secretive, faceless, voiceless British street artist who blurs the line between anarchist and genius. He lurks around under the cover of night, stenciling pictures of giant rats on building walls and spray-painting pictures of an unseen utopia beyond the Israeli West Bank barrier. He's a provocateur as much as a liberator, an agent of change as much as an effect of vanity. In other words, he's an artist. So when he meets the film's eccentric but amiable French cameraman, Thierry Guetta, Banksy can't help but turn the camera around on this fascinating Frenchman.
In some regards, Exit exudes the same ambiguous veracity as 2010's other mockumentary lightning rod, Catfish. Both films initially present a seemingly innocuous story using the documentary vérité style. But soon enough, the truthfulness behind the film slowly gives way to something not quite right, something deeply disturbing, and something truly revolutionary. Both films seamlessly blend the authenticity of documentaries with the prowess of fictional narratives, creating a hybrid performance-art piece that not only conjures a powerful story, but also mirrors something deeply wrong with our modern culture. In Catfish, it was technology's erosion of meaningful interpersonal relationships. Here, it's something like a twisted hall of mirrors, reflecting upon itself ad infinitum, mocking its own existence even as it reveals the egotism and narcissism of true art.
At the risk of ruining this film, I will warn that the remainder of my discussion will contain some spoilers.
At the behest of Banksy, Thierry tries his own hand at street art. And much to everyone's surprise, he begins a prolific portfolio of work, most of which are blatant knockoffs of 20th-century pop culture and a vast majority of which aren't even originally made (at one point, Thierry is seen dribbling specks of paint on replicated prints, billing them as "one-of-a-kind"). But branding himself with Banksy's internationally renowned namesake - and building mystique under the pseudonym Mr. Brainwash - Thierry soon finds himself selling his art to the public at outrageous prices. Interviews with the ecstatically gullible art collectors give way to a perplexed Banksy, who seems both proud and humiliated by his Frankensteinian role in creating this new "legitimate" street artist.
There seems to be a few explanations to this film: Thierry, the character, never existed at all; he's really just a camera-loving Frenchman with no talent. Or Thierry, the man, was in cahoots with Banksy the whole time; he's a willing accomplice guided by Banksy behind the scenes. Or Thierry, the vessel, was actually Banksy himself; he's nothing more than a vehicle for Banksy's mockery of the art world. All of these options seem moot because they all highlight the futility of art's success - whether defined as financial viability or cultural importance. And I'm not sure which of these options is the most disturbing; but it seems that it really doesn't matter. The fidelity of the story is not truth; it's performance. And as any good art, the film manages to ask real questions: What makes art valuable? Can true art coexist with financial success? How do we judge good art or bad art? And who gets to judge?
But it seems to me the more interesting question is how we as a media driven culture react to art, regardless of authenticity. If art collectors line up around the block to buy Thierry's pieces on perceived values, are they worthy of scorn? Or mockery? If Thierry's art is all a joke, does that automatically negate it as "art?" One could extrapolate this mindset to any genre - why do we value the opinions of critics? Do their opinions matter more? Or should they? While watching, I couldn't help but think about humanity's ability to influence one another; our transference of both vital knowledge and unnecessary bias is astounding. If you were to show a child a picture of the Mona Lisa for the first time, without any previous representations, would he see it as a world-famous masterpiece? A beacon of human creativity? Somehow, I highly doubt it. Indeed, art in itself is a joke, a cruel parody of expectations. It's a con on the pretentious and a hoax on the gullible. Art, like truth I suspect, only lies in the eye of the beholder.
At one point in the film, Banksy laments the ephemeral nature of street art. So when he sees Thierry's enthusiasm for capturing everything on film, it's not difficult to see why Banksy would be attracted to him. They need one another. One man seeks to capture a world of intrigue and excitement, the other seeks to capture himself forever. And by the end of this film, it seems that, for one fleeting moment, Banksy has forgone spray-paint in favor of celluloid, transcending his own momentary existence and embedding himself permanently in the world's cinematic history. And all it took was a film about creating something bad to highlight something good. And how no one can tell the difference, assuming there is a difference at all. It's an amazing creation, I must admit, and a joke that's hilarious and at the same time, not funny at all.
