Brett Whiteley is, of course, a very significant Australian artist, and absolutely entitled to have a documentary made about his work. But the fundamental choice to have the majority of it done in his own words is a bit awkward, as ... well, he's a painter, not a talker, and a lot of the words (using a mix of archival interviews and recreated speakers) tends towards being utter pretentious bilge. It does tend to put the kybosh on really enjoying this when the subject of the documentary won't stop talking bollocks at you.
It's not an utter write-off, though. His ex-wife and muse, Wendy, is represented through new interviews and old footage and has a lot to say that is pretty interesting about both being tied up with a troubled man and about her own explorations through the 60s and 70s. And the artwork is fascinating in its own right, dense and intense and as complex as ever. But this is a case of a doco that is never quite as fascinating as its subject is.
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