A minor flap in the art world provides a basis for some intriguing questions in “My Kid Could Paint That,” a documentary with a guilty conscience.
This is the story of what happened when the parents of 4-year-old Marla Olmstead decided to hang her paintings in a neighborhood coffeehouse in Binghamton, N.Y. Within a few months, the kid had become a celebrity, and her paintings were being acclaimed by critics and sold for thousands of dollars apiece.
Filmmaker Amir Bar-Lev quite rightly smelled a good story, and he follows Marla and especially her parents, Mark and Laura, around. As the movie demonstrates, Bar-Lev becomes friends with the family — a friendship that is tested after “60 Minutes” does a story about Marla, strongly hinting that an adult hand might have finished her paintings.
Now Mark and Laura want the documentary to redeem them, but Bar-Lev admits to the camera (but not, at first, to the Olmsteads) that he has serious doubts about whether Marla really did all of the painting. So a movie that had delved into entertaining questions about the nature of art (including some witty commentary by New York Times critic Michael Kimmelman) now becomes a suspenseful study of personal doubt and even betrayal.
Suspenseful, but not exactly pleasant. There is something a little creepy about “My Kid Could Paint That,” like watching a car crash in slow motion.
Even from the beginning, we can see the way Mark Olmstead is more enthusiastic about Marla’s success than Laura is. Laura’s discomfort about the effect of all this on Marla is made worse by the fact that we are watching a movie that will undoubtedly bring more misery to the poor kid, at least some day.
Some of the art issues stick around, however. For instance, you can’t help wondering: If Marla’s art really is sensitive and beautiful, then what difference does it make if her father helped her complete the canvases? Isn’t it the same painting? Or are the art buyers purchasing the romantic idea of a genius prodigy, rather than the painting itself?
Those questions lead to much larger issues than Marla’s story, but they are eclipsed here by the tabloid angle. And that angle is less enlightening than just sad.
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