Paranoid Pictures
87 min., dir. by Banksy, with Shepard Fairey and Rhys Ifans

There’s a British expression, “taking the piss,” used when you’re mocking someone or willfully screwing with them. On the Internet, it’s known as “trolling.” And for the past six or seven years, street artist Banksy has been famous for taking the piss out of politicians, advertisers, authority, et al, with especially wicked relish reserved for the art world.

With his directorial debut, the mythic provocateur seems to have trained his sights on much of his audience, as well. The film claims to be a documentary about the rise of street art in the past decade, but if you believe that, chances are the joke’s on you. Exit Through the Gift Shop is partly a clip reel of some very good, very brave graffitists at work, and partly a snarky practical joke on the trendy hipsters that embrace art without understanding it. It would be more accurate to call this a cinematic “essay,” one that’s much like the artist’s own work: ballsy, sarcastic, perhaps a little too glib for its own good, but undeniably incisive and good for a laugh.

The story goes like this: Thierry Guetta is a mutton-chopped Frenchman with an OCD-like need to videotape everything. Birthdays, sullen LA celebs, time spent in the bathroom — everything. Through a cousin, he gained entrance to the street art world, taping bombing runs with notable figures like Shepard Fairey (famous for his worldwide “OBEY” stickers) and Banksy, who is practically a V for Vendetta-style superhero at this point in his career: both notorious and anonymous. Guetta shot whole cartons full of footage under the auspices of making a documentary about street art, tossing them all into storage without a clue as to how to make a film.

Needless to say, Guetta’s cinematic compulsion provides a nifty excuse for the filmmakers to show off taggers and stencil artists at work, scaling roofs and often trying (comically) to avoid arrest. At least part of the film’s inspiration probably sprang from someone slipping on a gutter for the umpteenth time, thinking aloud, “People really don’t know what we go through for all this.”

But the meat of the film comes after Guetta tries to piece together a documentary. After viewing the incoherent mess, Banksy realizes Guetta might not actually be a filmmaker, but rather “a person with mental problems and a video camera.” He picks up the reins from there, and the last third of the film is about Guetta’s overnight rise from Banksy wannabe to pop-art rock star “Mr. Brainwash.” Apologies to Mr. Guetta if his spectacular 2008 LA show is meant to be taken with a straight face. Burning with evangelical zeal, he claims to have found his calling, turning out derivative, Warholesque prints of unlikely celebs (Leonard Nimoy, Larry King) in Marilyn Monroe wigs and makeup. What actually comes to mind are phrases about fools and their money, and considering Guetta had the whole of LA’s art scene at his feet, it seems to be a profitable industry indeed.

The question is how much of “Exit” can be trusted. Anyone familiar with Banksy’s work will recognize a sly humor at work here, equally misanthropic and puckish. When he’s on screen, Banksy delivers dry bon mots like those that drip off the walls he tags. He’s clearly having fun here, even when taking a serious stance through his work (like installing an inflatable mouse in Disneyland wearing an orange, Gitmo-inspired uniform).

The film is clearly an extended raspberry directed at everyone who tries to turn art into a fashion accessory, and there’s plenty evidence that it’s deserved. But all the hype, whether fueled by a marketplace of money or art scene cool, has undoubtedly boosted Banksy’s bank account. When the film opened in San Diego, the theater was packed with sweater vests, pork-pie hats, and pink-dyed hair. There was genuine excitement in the air over “the Banksy movie,” an electrifying hum that the artist has derided, manipulated, and taken advantage of for years now. That buzz might draw out the more vapid side of the art world, as well as lazy journalists and shameless commercialism. But it seems like Banksy relies on that capitalist ecosystem to fund his anti-consumerist statements, and one has to wonder whether laughing at it all is what lets him sleep at night.

Of course, if he spent evenings in bed rather than creeping through the streets on either side of the Atlantic, we’d all be worse off for it.