2: Esteemed Critic Robert Carle Debunks the Genius of Eugene Park

The films of Eugene Park are, I’ll maintain, uniformly unintelligent; any meaning we derive from them is accidental. Indeed, contrary to my colleagues at The Village Voice, I don’t believe Mr. Park is an “idiot savant”; rather, he is, quite simply, an idiot.

Before I delve into criticism, I’d like to first substantiate this claim with one indisputable piece of evidence: an IQ test. When Mr. Park was 22, a journalist requested that he undergo a simple cognitive Q&A, and resolve once and for the debate over his latent genius, or lack thereof. The results were, I’m happy to say, conclusive: the director scored a 92 — just above “dullard.”

Nevertheless, many protested the narrowness of this examination — its seeming obliviousness to “creative intelligence” — and touted the “ingenuity” of Park’s films as counterevidence. Accordingly, I’d like address what Park’s films actually entail, and what they really reveal about the increasingly lionized “auteur.”

Mr. Park’s latest short film, “Bye Kitty,” exemplifies his abundant unintelligence. For the first minute, viewers are treated to an image of a cat grooming itself on an anonymous porch. The lighting is careless; the camerawork, needlessly harried (apparently Mr. Park is unfamiliar with tripods). Next, we cut to a black screen, upon which is superimposed this alarming prophecy: IN TWO DAYS THIS CAT WILL DIE. For the final three minutes of the film, we find ourselves, once again, observing the cat grooming itself, in the same poorly realized mis-en-scene.

The sheer obtuseness of this film should be readily apparent; instead, it received glowing reviews in several estimable publications, including The Village Voice and Slant. One blogger even had the audacity to proclaim it, “A short masterwork on par with [Luis Buñel’s] ‘Un Chien Andalou.’” To hear Mr. Park’s disciples tell it, the movie is a potent rumination on the transitory nature of life, and the myriad unremarkable moments that render it beautiful and sublime — or something to that effect.

Allow me, then, to offer a competing interpretation: Mr. Park, without an idea in his head, wandered about his neighborhood until he spotted something remotely filmable: a cat on a porch. He fixed his camera on the animal for an arbitrary length of time, retreated to his house, and uploaded the footage. Two days later, his neighbor informed him that said cat had passed away. In an attempt at eulogy, the director pasted an obituary into the existing film and declared, “Job well done.”

Indeed, all of Mr. Park’s works are somewhat transparent in their obliviousness: the director simply sees something he wants to film (a drawbridge, road kill) and films it, occasionally supplementing the movie with incongruent text. At best, Mr. Park is poetic in his simpleton sensibilities; mostly, however, he is tiresome. Nonetheless, some people, it seems, find value in the most unworthy of artists.

A still from Eugene Park's latest affront to cinema, "Bye Kitty."

1: Puff Piece

Interviews with directors used to be painless: a phone call to the agent; a time; a place. Reporters and filmmakers were compatriots in a perfectly reciprocal agreement: money for the journalist, publicity for the subject.

Things are difficult now; unnecessarily so. When I called Ellen, Eugene Park’s (The New York Times: “A visionary of limitless depth …”) publicist, I was connected to Park’s bodyguard, a tired sounding gentlemen who cautioned me on the innumerable dangers of interviewing the director in the current climate.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m okay.”

Finally I reached Park’s agent. He was young, and spoke in clipped half-sentences. I told him I was an intern at a film magazine.

“And you want an interview,” he said.

“An interview, yes.”

“With Eugene.”

“Unless you’ve got anyone better.”

I shouldn’t make jokes, not in these situations.

“Eugene’s been under a lot stress.”

“I read about it. This interview will be short; a puff piece.”

“A puff piece.”

“A vapid, depthless piece, sort of like a press release. It makes the subject look good at the expense of substance.”

The agent grunted.

“Well let me see now,” he said.

I waited, thwacking my pencil against my kneecap. It was evening, and raining; the sky was green and spoiled like a tea leaf. In a minute the agent was back on the line.

“At 11:30 Eugene takes a 20 minute break.”

“Wonderful. That works.”

“He stretches and does calisthenics with his wife.”

“Perfect.”

“He doesn’t like reporters, but maybe if this is, as you say, a puff…”

“A puff piece.”

“If it’s what you say it is he’ll tolerate certain softball questions.”

“And I’ll expect nothing more than pre-packaged answers. An interview is all I want.”

“They don’t have very high standards at your film magazine?”

“It’s run by alcoholics.”

“Alcoholics. I like this. Toby, the security team will be expecting you at 11:25 at his Brooklyn residence. The address is…”

He told me the address.

“You’ll need some form of identification. A driver’s licence or a passport.”

“Got it.”

“Remember: Softball questions.”

“Got it.”

I hung up; smirked; sat back in my swivel and lapsed into a daze, a dozen dramatic interviews unspooling in my mind’s eye, all either terminated in a gunfight or a brawl on the director’s Persian rug. After all, this was a trying year for Park. His former agent was found strangled in a bathtub in Chicago before a screening, face contorted in mild distaste. His Bentley had been set fire while he was in a Rite-Aid. His critical champions had received death threats. Most recently — and this made national news — his apartment had been ransacked, and his laptop, containing the storyboard for his latest short film, had been bludgeoned to a crisp.