Basquiat: Rebirth Art

In Schnabel’s subsequent work, he would continue to focus on the themes explored in Basquiat. Poet and novelist Reinaldo Arenas’s incarceration in Cuba and his suffering and eventual death of AIDS in the United States in Before Night Falls (2000); writer Jean-Dominique Bauby’s entrapment with his imagination in a body paralyzed by a stroke in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007); Vincent van Gogh’s tragic last days in At Eternity’s Gate (2018)—Schnabel’s main characters all confront a similar conflict: a physical as well as an allegorical sense of internment and isolation. And they all are subjected to living in a world that doesn’t fully understand them. This insight into the mindset of artists could come only from the perspective of a fellow artist, and, in the case of Basquiat, one who knew him well. Schnabel creates portraits of his subjects, but we also understand the necessary role he plays in achieving this by inserting his singular voice into the creation—for his movies are also portraits of himself. Here we have an artist making movies about artists who are consumed by art itself.

The freedom of creativity is what all Schnabel’s heroes strive for, and the director leads by example—demonstrating, in the way he puts his first film together, that he will experiment freely with the form. Basquiat is accessible while remaining nonconformist and playful. Schnabel uses an editing technique called the Kuleshov effect (the interaction of two sequential shots) to draw a compelling internal life for Basquiat. A clip of a surfer alongside shots of Basquiat staring at the skyline of Manhattan speaks of the artist’s imagination and need for expression. Later, after a heartbreaking racist encounter at a posh restaurant, Basquiat excuses himself to the bathroom. Schnabel cuts to a shot of the surfer crashing into a big wave—and we experience what Basquiat is feeling. I found it disappointing that the New York Times review of the first release said, “The film’s central figure remains a cipher, the subject of a colorful scrapbook rather than a revealing portrait.” The inner world of Basquiat is indeed revealed to us; we see what he feels. Schnabel relies on images rather than words, and disavows traditional narrative conventions. In the new iteration of the film, the formalist editing techniques appear more fully integrated and less flashy. In a passage in which Schnabel uses jump cuts that recall Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless, Basquiat—lying on a bed against the wall of an apartment—is seen in cubist fashion. His days are numbered. Time is fleeting, and, yes, watching that sequence takes my breath away.

What the color version did was regale us with the expressiveness of the paintings. Whether we are watching Basquiat working on his canvases or viewing artwork that is hung in galleries or casually set up in his apartment, the paintings in color demand our attention. I might boldly even go so far as to state that they are too attractive, distracting. “The black-and-white version compresses the paintings into the fabric of the story,” Schnabel tells me, “and brings an extreme focus to the sadness and the poignancy of the trials of Jean-Michel’s time in the art world, without the art getting in the way. We don’t have to judge it.” There’s a spellbinding moment in the new edition: in Andy Warhol’s studio, as dialogue between Andy and Jean-Michel unfolds, a triptych of a young Schnabel by the king of pop art can be seen in the background. It’s extraordinary to see this depiction of the director—who is in the same moment capturing a cinematic portrait of his subjects—as it reverberates through time. The detail reminds me of the startling inclusion of the painter Diego Velázquez in his own 1656 painting Las meninas.

The title character in Basquiat was Jeffrey Wright’s first leading role, and given the actor’s protean qualities, it is a shame that—although he’s had great success—he hasn’t had more opportunities to be at the center of a movie like he is here. In 2024, he was nominated for a Best Actor Oscar for his role in American Fiction, and in a conversation I had with Wright, he spoke about Jean-Michel and the later role as bookends to his career, and about how connected he felt to both. The black-and-white version of Basquiat highlights Wright’s acting: he is magnetic and fully committed, with a detailed physicality of mannerisms and tics that is not showy but amalgamated and critical to understanding the young artist. And the character’s deep hurt is clear—it is in Wright’s soulful eyes and every step he takes. Schnabel has proved to be terrific with actors. In addition to Wright’s towering performance, he has directed many other great turns—including a heartbreaking Javier Bardem in Before Night Falls and an electrifying Willem Dafoe in At Eternity’s Gate. The large ensemble in Basquiat includes memorable performances by Dennis Hopper and Benicio Del Toro, among others.

At the end of the credits for this version of the film, Schnabel shows us the sequence of Basquiat painting in his studio again, but this time, it is in color. It’s the loveliest of intrusions. We get to see the young man alone, painting his truth in the full spectrum of the visible world. And all of a sudden, the past and the present converge, as do reality and illusion.

I’ve always loved this film; now it’s even richer.