The title of HBO's "Painting With John" is a bit of a misnomer. Yes, there is paint. And there's John: John Lurie, the multi-hyphenate creator and performer who transitioned into the visual arts of music and acting years ago, after, he says, contracting Lyme disease.
But with"? In the six-episode series, which begins Friday, you'll watch Lurie paint. You'll hear him ruminate about painting and his former life, and whatever else crosses his mind. If you want to paint too, well , that's your decision. But don't flatter yourself. "Bob Ross was wrong," says Lurie, looking at a watercolor in the first episode. "Everybody can't paint."
Stars: John Lurie, Nesrin Wolf, Ann Mary Gludd James
Bob Ross this is not. This is not a relaxing, quarantine-friendly tutorial on self-expression as self-care. (“None of the trees in my paintings are happy,” he says in another reference to the public television art instructor. “They are all miserable.”)
“Painting With John” is another kind of creation entirely: a hypnotic, meandering, surreal television ride into the gnarled jungle of Lurie's mind that explores life as an art form in its own right.
The series, written and directed by Lurie and soundtracked by his music, begins with an overhead shot of the vegetation surrounding his home on a Caribbean island. The viewer navigates above the green canopy, getting closer and closer, too close, until the camera drone Lurie is piloting crashes into a tree.
The opening is a metaphor for the series, which is part tutorial and part autobiographical video essay. You'll learn a few things about Lurie and the creative process from him, and you may gain some perspective on the beauty of creation, but it won't be a direct flight or smooth ride.
"Painting" is something of a spiritual successor to "Fishing With John," Lurie's 1991 bizarre outdoor spectacle (now available through Criterion Collection). There, novice fisher Lurie took to the water with friends from the world of film and music like Jim Jarmusch and Tom Waits, while a deadpan narrator made absurd remarks. (“How deep is the ocean? No one knows for sure.”) More vibes were caught than fish.
“Painting” doesn't have the same parodic tone as “Fishing”, perhaps because, three decades later, it can't. In 1991, a year after "Twin Peaks" premiered, it could still seem like a staggering subversion that something as surreal and improbable as a downtown hipster's fishing guide could get on the air.
In the age of streaming, everyone has a show, that would seem entirely plausible. Just last year, HBO aired "How To With John Wilson," a DIY comic. guide that turned out to be a fun but profound reflection on the longing for connection. Nowadays, a program like “Painting” can be, probably should be, without blinking an eye at what it is.
And who Lurie is, after all, has also changed. In the 1980s and 1990s, as the founder of the art-jazz band The Lounge Lizards and star of indie films like Jarmusch's "Stranger Than Paradise," he was an avatar of downtown New York cool, with a noir charisma. with a long face and a trademark fedora.
Now, years after moving into his island home, he's a grizzled type of art, stalking the grounds with a staff of Gandalf and a worn-out intensity that he possesses and mocks. “My polite smile scares people,” he says as he debates how to open the program, then smiles to show it. “Painting” doesn't have the ironic detachment of “Fishing”, but it can still laugh at itself.
There's an obvious story arc that “Painting” could have followed: the artist experiences celebrity, is derailed by illness, finds a new purpose in seclusion and a more meditative art form. The series follows that arc, but in reverse. In the last episode alone, Lurie talks at length about having to stop acting, realizing that painting "could be what music was."
Instead, he tackles the subject in circles, with a series of shaggy dog stories and reminiscences. He remembers growing up with his brother, Evan, who became his bandmate in the Lounge Lizards. He remembers how difficult fame could be for his friend Anthony Bourdain. He chases a bird that has flown into his house.
He tells stories about the people he met in his new home, recounts personal theories (he doesn't trust anyone without laughing out loud) and gets a little lost in memories of him. "We went to see that James Franco movie 'Planet of the Apes' where he has to cut off his arm to escape," he says, then stops. "Maybe I'm mixing two movies."
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