LFF 2020: The Painter and the Thief
LFF 2020Towards the end of The Painter and the Thief, a documentary by Norwegian director Benjamin Ree, a central metaphor for self-destruction is brought up; “it’s like you have a little kid inside you, and you need to care for it – instead, you let it play in traffic”. The response, rather fittingly for this beguiling piece of work, is strange and laced with danger; “I did play in traffic”.
These words come from the mouth of Barbora Kysilkova, a struggling Czech painter residing in Oslo. Some time prior, two of her paintings are stolen from a local gallery, kickstarting the chain of events that form the basis of this film. The heist, taking place in broad daylight, is captured on surveillance footage, leading to the arrest of both culprits. On the surface, what looks to be a true-crime investigation slowly morphs into something different altogether; even with the apprehending of the criminals, the artworks – valued at €20,000 – have completely vanished.
Though not quite headline figures, it’s a large enough sum to render Barbora’s life a misery, with her chance at sustained income being snatched away – except it doesn’t. Rather than let the debacle consume her, she vows to channel her energy into her work; as she says, “what is art without suffering?” As she takes her seat in the trial, she approaches the accused, Karl Bertil-Nordland, and suggests they collaborate on her latest project.
Karl, a former social worker now addicted to heroin, is initially skeptical, sensing he’s primed to be on the receiving end of some retribution but is taken aback when the portrait is complete. This heartbreakingly tender moment marks the beginning of a fruitful friendship, in which the pair enrich each other’s lives. For Barbora, she can focus on her work and feel good about her charitable actions, whilst Karl finally has an external force for good in his efforts to get clean.
Naturally, with an oddball pairing such as this, there’s a few bumps along the road; Karl, after years of neglect and trauma, understandably views change with a degree of trepidation, whilst Barbora faces questions about whether she’s exploiting her muse or even being complicit in the self-destruction. Her boyfriend Øystein, a calming influence after an abusive relationship, begins to question if the partnership is all that healthy for either party, throwing more doubt into the mix.
With all this intrigue and psychodrama, the film begins to take on the form of an organised narrative rather than a spontaneous time-capsule; Karl might be modelling for Barbora, but as time progresses, both feel like they’re posing for Ree. Even though the director is reclusive in scenes, his presence is felt via the manipulation of structure, with perspectives continuously switching and the timeline being shifted. Not only does the initial theft linger in the ether, but there’s always a looming sense that secrets are about to be unearthed.
Unfortunately, these affectations detract from the core of The Painter and the Thief, leaving the audience feeling like crucial bits of information are either being withheld or wilfully manipulated. For all the worthwhile debates on co-dependency and transactional relationships, the project feels more performed as it progresses, raising the question of why this wasn’t conceived as a narrative film in the first place. Ree, with the help of a brooding score and crisp cinematography, clearly wants to mine tension from these people’s lives, but verges on the exploitative the further it goes. After a really promising start, one can’t help but feel like they’ve been robbed of something special.