Owen Wilson plays a Bob Ross-inspired painter in this dated, mildly amusing parody of male privilege.
In “Paint,” an aging TV star with punchline hair and a storied libido lords it over his superfans, so wrapped in the cocoon of celebrity that he fails to recognize his rapidly waning significance.
If that outline sounds uncomfortably familiar, then rest easy: “Paint” is not a political satire. What it is, exactly, is more difficult to pin down: A bland romantic comedy that feels strangely contemptuous of female desire; a portrait of a landscape artist that infrequently ventures outdoors; a dispiriting merger of small-town mind-set and giant-sized delusion.
“They all fall for Carl,” one woman marvels, though why they do is one of this movie’s enduring mysteries. She’s referring to Carl Nargle (a perpetually mellow Owen Wilson), Vermont’s premier public-television painter. Even leaving aside his embroidered-denim outfits and a ’do that looks like an explosion in a couch-stuffing factory, Carl is no prize. His personality has all the depth of a blank canvas, his voice is an A.S.M.R. purr and his paintings — endless variations on a local peak and its environs — garage-sale relics.
Yet Carl, from flooffy head to bell-bottom hems, is the epitome of soft power and hardened ego. When his show is on the air, his audience — revealed in a repeated sequence of lazily uninspired shots — is invariably agog. A roomful of rapt retirees; two mesmerized men at a bar; a line of breathless female colleagues in cottage-core knitwear. So sexually starved are these women that they will do almost anything for a bounce on the sofa bed in the back of Carl’s customized van. One, a professed vegan, even allows Carl to feed her lamb larded in cheese fondue, with predictably unpalatable results.
Written and directed by Brit McAdams, “Paint” is a comedically inert parody of male privilege that’s all sight gags and very little substance. Wrapped in a fuzzy blanket of easy-listening oldies — John Denver, Kris Kristofferson, Gordon Lightfoot — the screenplay asks us to believe that Carl is so out of touch he has no idea what an Uber is or how to use his cellphone. And that the warm, talented woman he loved and left (Michaela Watkins) has hung around for two decades hoping for a second chance to rinse his brushes.
As a result, “Paint” feels not just dated, but oddly sad. Inspired by the popular public-television host Bob Ross (who died in 1995), the movie seems caught in a time warp, its attitudes as antiquated as Carl’s wardrobe. Only the estimable Stephen Root, playing Carl’s station chief, and the vivacious Broadway performer Ciara Renée as Ambrosia, Carl’s younger, more talented rival, manage to nudge scenes from a saunter to a brisk walk. When Ambrosia, with her cheeky paintings of hovering spaceships and bleeding rocks, makes moves on Carl’s time slot and even his true love, I lamented his — and the movie’s — lack of a sharper edge and more lacerating tongue. He should have been furious; yet, like the film’s unconvincing flashbacks to his much younger self, he looks essentially unchanged.
Paint
Rated PG-13 for a bit of toking and dirty joking. Running time: 1 hour 36 minutes. In theaters.
Source: Movies - nytimes.com
