Exit Through the Gift Shop

The name Banksy is synonymous with mystery, anarchy, street art and much more. He is a man – or several men if conspiracists are to be believed – who might seem an unlikely auteur of a fêted, Oscar-nominated documentary. But as is his wont, the artist keeps surprising us. Exit Through the Gift Shop is a brilliant, baffling and amusing look at the world of street art and art: entirely in keeping with everything we have come to expect from the figure known as Banksy.

The main man appears intermittently throughout, firstly introducing the action clad entirely in black, with his face obscured and his voice scrambled. Around him is a run-down urban studio, his Bristol twang still in evidence. The viewer is then introduced to Thierry Guetta, a forty-something French emigré living in L.A. who owns a successful vintage clothing business. Guetta describes how he became obsessed with the idea of documenting everything that happened and haphazardly stumbled upon the world of graffiti after a meeting with his cousin, French street artist: Invader.

Immersing himself deeper in the street-art world on both sides of the Atlantic, meeting and collaborating with the likes of Shepard Fairey and Monsieur André, Thierry decides to make a documentary about street art. It is only then that he becomes interested in meeting the Keyser Söze of street art: Banksy. Without wishing to give too much away, the pair meet up on one of Banksy’s Californian sojourns and Thierry wins his trust. Later, Banksy takes over the direction of Guetta’s film and advises him to make some art of his own. The quixotic and likeable Frenchman then sets about re-mortgaging his house and creating a street-art persona: Mr Brainwash (MBW).

It is here that the documentary really takes a left-turn towards implausibility as the film climaxes in Thierry putting on a massive show in L.A. and selling hundreds of thousands of dollars of his art. The sneaking suspicion exists that the whole persona of Thierry as Mr. Brainwash has been meticulously orchestrated by the master prankster-puppeteers Banksy and Shepard Fairey. Is the whole film a herculean joke at the pecuniary art world’s expense? Such questions really don’t matter that much given how well-made, enlightening and downright enjoyable the documentary actually is. It certainly would be entertaining to see what would happen at the Oscars were the Bristol nonentity to win.

Even if Banksy’s bewilderment at the amount people will pay for art and willing participation in that capitalist system do raise some unanswered questions about his ethics, I urge people to go and see it. Fan of Banksy or not, and given the rumours and intimations of a hoax, the Mail on Sunday-labelled middle-class suburbanite may well be having the last laugh.