A moderately charming documentary investigates the odd stroke of luck one old lady came across when haphazardly buying this dirt cheap painting in a thrift store which turned out to have serious potential in belonging to famed drip-artist Pollock. The main subject of this small work, a 73 year old truck-driving Teri Horton, could have been a subject unto herself. Appearing greedy and ignorant despite her likability and down-to-earth qualities, her character had such potential when squared off against the art world elite, though the promise the premise seems to be banking on hardly seems to deliver. While a few humorous scenes help flesh out this gaping cultural rift between a grandmother who wanted to use her canvased splatter as a dartboard and the pompous scholarly critics who scoff at her every thought, most of the time is dedicated to the actual process she went through in seeking some sort of vindication, no matter physical or mental in her growing obsession.
Examining the process Horton undertook to try and prove Pollock authenticity is mildly interesting, entirely moreso for painters, and still accessible enough for the layman to fully appreciate, but concentrating on this unusual circumstance negates the primary appeal Who the F%ck Is Jackson Pollack had going for it and deceives viewers into thinking it will be more culture clash then quirky research just from the title alone. Being a documentary, it is disappointing to not see more pleasantly uncomfortable humor being captured from this project given it's circumstances and marketing practically demand it.
It may severely underplay an utterly unique and inherent comedic potential, but through this woman's arduous sense of entitlement, becomes delightful enough as we witness interesting forensic details unfold to see her (us) stick it out. There remains quite a few supporting interviewees who give memorable statements and footage to clue in this specific brand of hilarity (slightly-less-then-psychotic art critic Thomas Hoving and methodical, weirdly romantic paint analyst Peter Paul Biro show personalities more freakishly agreeable then many an offbeat-styled script could accomplish). It is a shame then that these fragmented, oddball personalities could not have been documented in actual exchanges to expose and entertain with stilted awkwardness. Remains a light, though partially educational character study of this stubborn woman, and does not betray newsworthy roots in overcompensating facts for perspectives.
Examining the process Horton undertook to try and prove Pollock authenticity is mildly interesting, entirely moreso for painters, and still accessible enough for the layman to fully appreciate, but concentrating on this unusual circumstance negates the primary appeal Who the F%ck Is Jackson Pollack had going for it and deceives viewers into thinking it will be more culture clash then quirky research just from the title alone. Being a documentary, it is disappointing to not see more pleasantly uncomfortable humor being captured from this project given it's circumstances and marketing practically demand it.
It may severely underplay an utterly unique and inherent comedic potential, but through this woman's arduous sense of entitlement, becomes delightful enough as we witness interesting forensic details unfold to see her (us) stick it out. There remains quite a few supporting interviewees who give memorable statements and footage to clue in this specific brand of hilarity (slightly-less-then-psychotic art critic Thomas Hoving and methodical, weirdly romantic paint analyst Peter Paul Biro show personalities more freakishly agreeable then many an offbeat-styled script could accomplish). It is a shame then that these fragmented, oddball personalities could not have been documented in actual exchanges to expose and entertain with stilted awkwardness. Remains a light, though partially educational character study of this stubborn woman, and does not betray newsworthy roots in overcompensating facts for perspectives.