January 16, 2005

In The Realms of the Unreal

I went into Manhattan yesterday (despite problems with the F) to see Jessica Yu's documentary about outsider artist Henry Darger, In The Realms of the Unreal. It's currently held over at the Film Forum on Houston. I don't know how much longer it will be showing there, but if you like things that are both beautiful and sad, you should go see it. Go! Go Now!

The task of making a documentary about Henry Darger, who died in 1973, presents quite a number of challenges to any filmmaker, first and foremost is that there are only three known photographs of the man. A close second is that the few people that came into close contact with him have varying and conflicting memories of him; further questioning reveals that they really did not know him very well at all. After all, it wasn't until after his confinement to an old age home and close to his death that the discovery of all of his paintings, novels and autobiographies was made. No one had any idea that the reclusive janitor had spent his entire life since the age of 19 working obsessively to create a 15,000 page novel, its sequel, an autobiography and many paintings, some 10 to 12 feet in length.

The documentary is driven by narration, interviews with neighbors and landlords, and readings from his works. The visuals are compelling animations created from his work. As mentioned before, there is no archival footage of Henry Darger, only three photos. His story therefore must be pieced together through his autobiography, rememberances, letters and his work.

The showing I went to concluded with a question and answer session with Brooke Anderson, a curator at the American Folk Art Museum where many of Henry Darger's works are on permanent display. She offered some insights into the artist, although the time alotted seemed woefully short for the volume of questions such a interesting subject generated.

The intended message of this film, which I intimated from a few reviews, is a triumph of artistic and individual spirit. However, I found much more sadness there in a man that was tormented by events in his past and fought to communicate them through his art. His words from his death bed, upon being told that his artwork had been discovered, were, "Well, it's too late now."