F for Fake ★★★½

A gigantic shitpost, the likes of which the absurdist, postmodern bloggers I follow on Tumblr could never dream of creating. Orson Welles, you facetious scamp. This is what you get when a born artist achieves everything he has set out to achieve, and as a result is only left restless and without further purpose in the wake of his glory.

There are so many levels of irony and fuckery here that I won't even bother navigating them. To try is to fail. To understand is not the point - we must understand that we must not understand. I fear to point out that this in itself is another layer of irony, another joke the film is playing on me, but alas, I may be caught in an endless loop, and my mind will collapse in on itself. Alas, that is also another joke the film is playing on me. Oh dear.

Whatever meaning or intent you take from this, I will take your word for it. This entire film is a nihilistic joke to me, a deconstruction of narrativity in all of its forms, but it might be something more to you, and that would be entirely valid. There is commentary to be taken, but part of that commentary is also the fact that commentary is meaningless anyway. The cherry on top is the fact that we only know this because the commentary has told us so.

Above everything else, Welles respects us enough to allow us to make up our own minds about all of this nonsense. In the wake of such crushing existentialism, will you fight or will you flee? It is your decision. If that means anything. (It probably doesn't.)

The thing I appreciate the most about this is that it provides me with a bit of context on another film. I have always hated Banksy's pretentious, self-aggrandising mockumentary Exit Through the Gift Shop, but now I know that film wasn't even his original idea. Not to say "what is even real bro lol" was an original idea anyway, but there are definitely specific shades of it he "borrowed" from this.

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