Tommy Wiseau makes strange movies. Let me rephrase. Tommy Wiseau directs strange movies. What’s the difference? It’s a question that The Disaster Artist sets out to answer. “Based on” the making of The Room – the 2003 “Citizen Kane of bad movies” – it examines the by turns, inexplicable, abusive, and questionably-sexy story of its production. But it’s also a film about reception: how it makes art as much as the madness that created it. Wrapping this all together is a movie that, in itself, is just as charmingly cringe-inducing and perverse as its source-material.
Artist follows the exploits of the hapless Greg Sestero (Dave Franco), a would-be actor who winds up in the orbit of Tommy (James Franco). Failing their way through Hollywood, Tommy happens upon the idea of self-producing a movie, buoyed by an apparently-bottomless bank account. From this, the increasingly-unbelievable story unfolds. The movie coasts in this first act; it’s only so long before Wiseau’s misdirected flare start to wear thin. Firmer, and funnier ground comes with the filming itself; even if it’s the simple presence of the crew reflecting the eventual audience in their looks of yes, this is really happening.
“Wiseau isn’t much of a person at all- more a heavily-accented cosmic presence”
Not that Wiseau is ever really anything more than an alienating weirdo in the first place. James Franco delivers a masterclass of affectation, just-about cobbling a character from verbal and physical tics, and ably-supported by a who’s-who of cameos. The crew deliver marvellous exasperation with Wiseau’s disastrous artistry, Seth Rogen bringing the deadpan moral-righteousness, while Zac Efron and Josh Hutcherson give brief-but-bizarre turns as the apparent-anybodys who would get on set. Artist thrives in this set-up- Wiseau’s madness only means anything in the context of those alternately laughing at and idolising him, the crew standing as some sort of groaning Greek chorus. The frequent cameos are somewhat to the film’s disfavour, however; few characters are really afforded time to breathe, the antics relegating talented players like Hannibal Buress and Nathan Fielder to bit-parts.
Perhaps the movie has its heart in Sestero and Wiseau’s relationship. Dave Franco finds admirable balance in a character that teeters between earnest and enabling. It’s a shame, then, that the writing aims for a somewhat-hackneyed sentimentality between the two that feels overwrought- as if going through the motions of friends that could. What’s more, the two resolve their differences at a speed which feels contrived. The friendship certainly has a strange and charming chemistry, with the two Francos able to neatly bounce off each other. This can only sustain the movie for so long, though; the meat is really in that aforementioned chorus, be it the reluctant film-staff or the heckling audience.
Still, the script rarely fails to be funny, from Wiseau’s inexplicable mannerisms, to the cast and crew’s ceaseless confusion. The third act works as pure catharsis: the eventual reaction to the film provides a wonderful counterpoint to any of Tommy’s remaining delusions of grandeur or control. When the engine of the thing rests on the baffling melee of production and reception, Artist finds itself.
“The third act works as pure catharsis”
Tommy Wiseau is not his film, Artist argues. The Room is as much defined by those who watch it and their take on the madcap proceedings, than they are the whims of a would-be Welles. Wiseau may have had more success directing a straight comedy- but this would not have been The Room. Movies are made in the relationship of creative and crew, and everyone else. Without one of these elements, the end product is limp- Wiseau’s madness provides the directionless force; while the audience delivers the work an ever-shifting meaning.
The Disaster Artist seems to suggest that Wiseau isn’t much of a person at all- more a heavily-accented cosmic presence. Intent doesn’t enter it to it, the disastrous art simply existing to meet with the world. One can almost imagine the day when Tommy Wiseau must have stood astride the Pacific Ocean, Venus-like, from whence he came into the world. With a squint and smile, he bears his chest, gives a quaint laugh, and whispers: “Oh, hai.”
