The first, or maybe second, thing to say about “The Artist,” a six-part comedy written and directed by Aram Rappaport, is that it streams from the network, the free, ad-supported streaming service Rappaport created for the release of his previous series, “Green Veil.” The first three episodes premiere Thursday; the final three are due to take place on Christmas Day.
The second, or maybe the first, thing to say about it is that it pulls a tram of enormous talent, including Mandy Patinkin. Janet McTeerDanny Huston, Hank Azaria, Patti LuPone, Zachary Quinto – which is something to take seriously, although that may not be the best way to take it.
Set in 1906, populated by ahistorical versions of historical figures, the series takes place largely in and around the Rhode Island “country home” of Norman Henry (Patinkin), who is described on the title page as an “eccentric robber baron” and apparently what we would today call a venture capitalist. (And one who is apparently in need of capital.) Norman begins the episode dead, carried out on the carpet and set on fire like a Viking, before we flash back in time to meet his wife Marian (McTeer), who narrates from her journal and advises the “reader” that it is not until the last page that “you may be well equipped enough to tell fact from fiction, hero from villain.” I've only seen the first three episodes, so I have no idea other than where the story misrepresents its actual characters. But this is just poetic license and, of course, completely acceptable.
The staff are living in tents on the front lawn for no apparent reason other than the house not having a “working kitchen.” They are called inside by bells attached to cords coming out of the windows, with the inscriptions “Maid”, “Ballerina”, “Boxer”, “Doctor”. Ballerina Lilith (Ana Mulvoy Ten) is Henry's protégé of sorts; she believes that he will give her a Coppelia dance at home in Paris, stupid. (Their scenes together are creepy.) Sometimes we see her naked (albeit tastefully coiffed) in a metal bathtub. Her dance teacher, Marius (David Pittu), is sarcastic, bitter and insulting. The boxer is Marian's sparring partner, who works out her aggression in the ring. She told us that she hated her husband and he hated her (even though he openly professed his love).
Danny Huston plays Edgar Degas, the artist mentioned in the series title.
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And then there's the artist of the same name (Houston), who was eventually identified as Edgar Degas, a real-life French impressionist who didn't actually literally stumble around Rhode Island in 1906 and certainly didn't accept a commission to paint French poodles. (So much French!) You can freely associate the ballerina in the play with those he famously painted, and her nude in the bath with his masterpiece pastels of women bathing. But other than poor eyesight, a hint of anti-Semitism, and Huston muttering in French, there is no significant similarity to the real article. Here he seems half crazy or half sober. He's very concerned about getting paid, and I don't blame him.
The news of the day is that another man from history, Thomas Edison (Azaria), comes to the house looking for an investor for his new invention, the Kinetophone, a peep show with sound similar to a turn-of-the-century virtual reality headset. (This happened, but it wasn't a success.) This triggers a long flashback in which we learn that Marian and Edison knew each other in college, and that he betrayed her. Next up are Evelyn Nesbit (Ever Anderson) and her mother (Jill Hennessy), who have fled New York after Evelyn's unstable husband, Harry K. Thaw (Clark Gregg), shot and killed architect Stanford White at White's rooftop restaurant at Madison Square Garden. It happened.
It's a loud show, with a lot of screaming and brief violence that borders on farcical in its suddenness, as well as less brief violence that is not at all funny. There is an excess of gratuitous profanity here; The F-word and the less familiar C-word fly around like bats at dusk, cluttering up sentences and containing a variety of crude sexual and anatomical curses. Almost everyone is restrained and ready to explode. Early in the series, while setting the table for the future, Marian states, “This is not history in the conventional sense of the word”; it is a “cautionary tale” but “not a story of murder. It is a story of rebirth,” presumably her own. There is a feminist twist to this narrative: men are patronizing and possessive, women, taken advantage of in many ways, find ways to accommodate, manipulate, or fight them while preserving themselves.
One can understand why Rappaport might have had trouble placing this episode elsewhere, or chosen to avoid the notes above. Aesthetically and textually, it is a kind of absurdist comedy that emerged in the late 1960s and early 70s, something like the works Robert Downey Sr. or William Kleinor perhaps the thesis of an ambitious film student, given the large budget and access to talent; the lack or perhaps avoidance of sophistication makes it seem very old-fashioned. I wouldn't call it bad or, for that matter, good, but I think it's a perfect execution of the creator's intent, and there's something in it. And there are three final episodes that will feature Lupone and Quinto, their as-yet-unknown characters that could move the needle one way or the other. Either way, it's not something you see every day.
