Bobby Fischer Against the World

BOBBY FISCHER AGAINST THE WORLD                  B-                   

USA  Great Britain  Iceland  (93 mi)  2010  d:  Liz Garbus             Official site

  

Coming up, the latest news on the Watergate investigation. But first, Bobby Fischer.

 —CBS TV News intro, 1972

The director appears to have been inspired in making the film with the death of Bobby Fischer in 2008, who re-appeared tragically after the events of  9/11 spewing venom against the United States, still smarting from the bitterness against the nation that exiled him only a decade earlier for playing an international chess match in a nation (Yugoslavia) that in 1992 was undergoing a Civil War, violating a United Nations embargo at the time, where the United States Treasury Department under the elder President Bush announced it would arrest him if he returned to America, subject to ten years in prison and a $200,000 fine, making him a fugitive from justice for playing chess.  What’s agonizingly clear is that Bobby Fischer was not a well man near the end of his life, where the obsessive drive that compelled him to become to world’s greatest chess player also caused him to behave erratically afterwards, developing paranoid symptoms about various world conspiracies, including a rabid anti-Semitic steak that was troubling, basically driving away anyone who came near, perceiving himself as a castaway adrift in the universe with no place to call home.  Without chess as the driving force in his life, he became less focused on the real world, allowing himself to become a strict loner and an outcast fading into obscurity.  The film never delves into the acute cause of Fischer’s affliction, with an IQ of 180, most likely symptoms of Asperger’s syndrome, not at all uncommon for mathematically minded people and particularly evident with those that suffer from severe emotional neglect early in their lives, where autism, for instance, is six times more likely in children from orphanages.  Many of the earlier segments of his life appear hastily filled in afterwards and left incomplete, but Fischer was left alone a great deal in his youth as his mother was working several jobs. 

Perhaps one stroke of genius in this film is an opening segment that shows Fischer’s rapid rise to prominence in the chess world becoming the youngest American chess champion at the age of 15, scored to the funky electric guitar swagger from SHAFT (1971) that gives this a feeling of a triumphant victory march as Fischer knocks off all the Russian contenders on his way to qualifying for the finals of the World Chess Championship in 1972, a sport dominated by Russians since the end of World War II, who consider this their national sport subsidized by the State, receiving plenty of money and support along the way where the leading chess players are treated to the comforts of the highest standard of living available in the nation, where players have staffs of coaches to assist them in their preparations.  In America, especially for a young Jewish kid raised by a single mom in Brooklyn, he was basically all on his own, largely self-taught, but the picture of cool as he steamrolls his way through all the American competition as well as the best the Russians could throw at him until he reaches the finals with the Russian Champion, Boris Spassky, who he had never played before.  The two nations treated this like an Olympic event, as if it reflects upon their national pride, where the interest raised by the stunning, heretofore unheard of brilliance of the young contender Bobby Fischer was unheard of, as he awakened the world’s interest to a game few actually understood, where the use of military tactics in a board game during the height of the Cold War sparked an immediate nationalistic identification with the outcome, especially where the use of mental alertness to stave off any and all possible strategies is the key to success. 

To this day, Fischer is a legendary figure whose reputation has attained mythical status around the world, much like a living super hero, as he single handedly defied all odds to accomplish what no one else in the world had ever achieved all on their own.  According to Russian champion Garry Kasparov in The Bobby Fischer Defense, "Fischer played every game to the death, as if it were his last.  It was this fighting spirit that his contemporaries recall most about him as a chess player."  Even when rising to the occasion, Fischer was continually fighting his own personal demons as well, where he’d always find little distractions that might cause him to overreact to such an extent that he’d simply leave the match altogether, something he had done plenty of times before, but never at this level.  Yet it was nearly impossible to get these two chess combatants to actually sit down and play, where Fischer actually forfeited the second game by not showing up at all.  This kind of hyper-sensitivity to the smallest distractions of any kind is the sort of thing that kept escalating in his life long after the important matches were over.  This film is reminiscent of the Bobby Fischer of the classical piano, seen in Peter Raymont and Michèle Hozer’s GENIUS WITHIN: THE INNER LIFE OF GLENN GOULD (2010), where pianist Gould suffered from many of the same paranoid maladies, becoming overly controlling, retreating from the world and practicing his artistry in complete isolation, but where he similarly took the world by storm in a two week concert tour of Russia in the mid 50’s which was still recovering from the repressive effects of Stalin.  In each instance, they both became beloved figures instantly, largely because they expressed so much passion in the way they played, where their brash individuality and brilliant technique were unparalleled, exactly what led the world to Fischer’s own uncompromising genius in the 1970’s.  The Gould film was actually a more lovingly crafted portrait, as he was a man who found love and joy in his life alongside his art, leading a more balanced life, while Fischer was plagued by inner demons his entire life, who through sheer will power during his twenties overcame their effects with simply astonishing results, but without the game to take his mind off his eccentricities, where paranoia about potential moves on the board is actually an acquired chess skill, the illness simply devoured his rational thought, leaving him beleaguered, continually annoyed with others, unhappy and alone.

Con Artist

Andy Warhol, Mark Kostabi and Jean Michel Basquiat at Mary Boone Gallery, NYC 1986.  

Mark Kostabi meets Pope Benedict XVI in Velletri, Italy at the inauguration of his bronze sculpture of Pope John Paul II, September 22, 2007

CON ARTIST                       C                    

USA  (84 mi)  2010  d:  Michael Sládek

This is another example of anyone can point a camera on a given subject and make a film, but it’s something altogether different to create something of any worth or significance.  Quasi-artist Mark Kostabi was briefly in vogue back in the 80’s and 90’s as an irreverent, self-mocking artist who became something of a vulgar and giant-sized painter by committee as well as a performance artist, always scrounging up publicity for himself, insulting his contemporaries, calling modern art a sham, which earned him a lot of money at the time by reproducing large quantities of mass produced artworks, when a film like this might have held some resonance.  But since his time has passed and few people take him seriously any more, refusing to be bamboozled by his self-serving schtick, a documentary that doesn’t delve into his more pertinent biographical past but completely focuses on his irrelevance in the present just feels like a waste of time, as we learn absolutely nothing earnest about this man.  The subject is obviously more interested in seeing himself projected onscreen, where he is allowed the carte blanche freedom to press the audience’s buttons, as if that somehow means that he still matters.  The obvious question that comes to mind is wondering whether the filmmaker is actually in charge of his own film, or the guy performing the tricks in front of the camera?   I’m not sure this question is ever answered, which leads to an incomplete and superficial portrait of a man who loves and needs to be the center of attention.

Early on we learn that he has rarely ever been seen painting, but instead considers himself a conceptual artist who offers ideas and has his associates do the painting, which he then signs as his original work and takes the money.  It is quickly pointed out that he’s more of a shrewd businessman, as he’s able to secure large sums of money for these paintings, largely living on his reputation in the past when he was the youngest artist at age 24 in 1984 to be included in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, right alongside Andy Warhol and Jeff Koons, known for their satirical social commentary on the banal and the mundane.  Kostabi even designed the album covers for Guns 'N' Roses (Use Your Illusion) and The Ramones (¡Adios Amigos!).  Today, however, he’s no longer welcome at these prestigious museums as he’s soiled his own name, calling himself a con artist who has swindled the art world, bragging openly until the art world started to take him seriously, dropping him with a loud thud, turning him into a game show host that throws dollars at people who can come up with the best titles for his own untitled works in Title This.  While the show itself offers little else other than a platform for its host, it’s probably seen by less people than the kitchen network.  When he’s introduced to a group of Yale art students as a contemporary artist, but offers nothing on the subject of art, and instead ends up talking about his public access TV game show, they sit in utter astonishment, as if they've been punk'd.

Some viewers may find it easy to laugh at this clownish portrait, and admittedly there are quite a few amusing moments, such as a neighbor recalling Kostabi’s childhood family, describing them as “strange,” where it wasn’t surprising for his father to go outside at 2 or 3 am and play the accordion, singing at the top of his lungs, also featuring a pepped up soundtrack, especially over the end credits which can be cranked up to the max.  But the only scenes that truly matter are when he’s not hamming it up in front of the camera, when he comes face to face with the fact that he’s really pretty pathetic, having such little self esteem that he constantly has to reassure himself by being the center of attention, like a spoiled and indulgent little brat who never had to grow up.  It is pointed out that he’s incapable of showing empathy toward others, suggesting he may have a form of Asperger’s Syndrome, and instead lives in his own little world where he remains the center of the universe.  In this sense, this is the saddest of portraits, but in the very next breath he throws that thought aside and continues to pursue his illusions, as if that’s the only place where he feels truly welcome.  He is surrounded by an entourage of people who serve his needs, who are likely paid handsomely to tell him what he wants to hear, but the sad truth is he’s something of a fraud, both as an artist and as a human being, where no one likes to kick a man when he’s down, but that’s what this film feels like, handing Kostabi the rope to hang himself with—hardly novel or scintillating filmmaking, which never rises above the unprincipled ethics of the subject at hand.  In the end, it’s an incomplete talking heads picture where Kostabi always has the last word, but we’re left without a clue how this man once took the art world by storm, performed jazz solos onstage with Ornette Coleman, and was even offered a commission by the Pope.