The Disaster Artist (2017)
Directed by James Franco
An aspiring actor in Hollywood meets an enigmatic stranger by the name of Tommy Wiseau, the meeting leads the actor down a path nobody could have predicted; creating the worst movie ever made.
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What critics compared The Disaster Artist to
Tim Burton’s Ed Wood is the obvious reference point, but The Disaster Artist is able to carve out its own unique niche.
What Franco and friends were going for here is another “Ed Wood,” but “Disaster Artist” isn’t about sweet but untalented people living in a collective delusional dream.
But the central relationship is undernourished; it’s no Ed Wood, a film that infused its crazy crusade with regret and surrogate paternal affection.
There’s a surface resemblance to Ed Wood, but Tim Burton’s gee-whiz, Horatio Alger tone and affection for Wood’s sincerity is a world away from Franco’s Wiseau, with his nowhere accent, abiding paranoia, and creepy possessiveness.
The Disaster Artist at times mixes two subtly different types of behind-the-scenes subgenres: a tale of indie-film calamity (think Living in Oblivion) and a tale of delusional but adorable, can-do scrappiness (think Ed Wood or Bowfinger).
The Disaster Artist comes off a lot like Ed Wood or even American Splendor where it feels like there’s always multiple layers to what Franco is doing, especially when it starts with testimonials by well-known actors who are fans of The Room.
Apatow’s cameo as an “asshole producer” in The Disaster Artist is undeniably clever.