When a body meets a body …
A Bucket of Blood (1995) is best considered as a nasty little snipe at the art scene. We follow the lives of several artists and critics of various sorts, all tied together by a painfully inarticulate busboy, Walter Paisley, at the bar at which they congregate. One night, he produces a sculpture of a cat, a dying cat, that captivates many of the patrons, while repelling others. We’re off and running – sometimes literally – as the art scene gets smeared with clay or plaster and continually taking it in the shorts.
It’s fun, if you’re an artist repelled by wannabe artists and critics. For those, like me, who are not familiar with the scene, it’s more an exploration of the desperate need to be accepted and begin the climb up the ladder of prestige and wealth.
Well, at least as much as busboy Walter is liable to see. Walter’s methods are, at best, outrè, even as their results inspire his fellow artists to greater, painful heights, or to plumb greater depths of bitterness.
This is a Roger Corman production, meaning it’s almost certainly low-budget and done in a hurry, yet, for all that, there is a hint of pathos in the mad clutch for prestige in such a sorry lot. So, too, in Hell, methinks.
