The film does a fair job of tracing Johnson's mostly failed career as an artist, which suffered from his relentless insularity. If you didn't "get" Ray Johnson, Ray Johnson did nothing to help you along, and probably did more to make sure you continued not to get him. Though he was a contemporary of Andy Warhol, Chuck Close, Roy Lichtenstein, and Christo (most of whom participated in this film), and was acquainted with all of them, Ray Johnson went to great lengths to maintain an "outsider" stature even while well-connected within the innermost circles of the New York art world. This makes Johnson seem a cut above the aforementioned Famous Artists, as though willful obscurity equals true integrity. Yet as the fim progresses, you get a sense that Johnson was torn between the smug satisfaction that he was above everyone's head and the frustration that he wasn't recognized with the popularity and critical acceptance of his contemporaries. Bunny weaves interviews with those who knew Johnson, most of whom struggle to pin down any concrete facts about him, but all of whom describe with eloquence the overall mystery of Johnson's life and art. What emerges is a wispy shape that never takes full form, even when you're watching footage of Johnson himself, interacting with a video biographer in his later years. Johnson's suicide in 1995 was executed as his art was: symbolized to such an extensively personal degree that it was hard for people to even figure out for sure whether it was a suicide or a performance. You get the notion that Johnson was probably quite proud of the way he ended his life, yet as with all subversion, the underlying hostility points to themes much more pedestrian than artistic: such as, Ray Johnson was miserable. Ray Johnson was sad. Ray Johnson was disappointed with how things turned out. Just like most of us. I was left with a hollow feeling after watching How to Draw a Bunny. Some of this stemmed from the film's lack of tangible content, which gave it a floundering feeling, for lack of something real to hold on to. Part of it was the soundtrack (I love Max Roach, but having him perform drum solos through literally the entire film was increasingly painful as the movie wore on). But ultimately, I think I felt most let down by Ray Johnson himself, first for being a pretentious asshole, and then for being too cowardly to stop being that asshole when the alternative would have meant asking for help. "Artist first, human second" is an attractive ideal, but while it allows for great art to be produced, it doesn't allow much room for a great life to be left behind. In the case of Ray Johnson, it's arguable whether he really achieved greatness in either sphere.
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