Britt McAdams' directorial debut "Paint," a joyless 96 (thank you) minutes, is an ill-conceived sendup of Public Broadcasting's artist-in-residence, Bob Ross. It's worth saying, the main character in this paint-by-numbers comedy, Carl Nargle (funny), isn't actually Ross. He is Owen Wilson, by way of Art Garfunkel. Yet like Ross, he paints how-to landscapes on public access television, in Vermont where the locals are holdover oddballs from "Newhart." And like Ross, he has a folksy, on-air style, wears denim a lot, sports a Toni Home Perm, and speaks softly (more seductive than instructive). To everyone's surprise, except his, of course, he is a popular success, especially with women, who seem drawn to him (no pun). In one over-played gag, his artwork makes women orgasm; needless to say, he's discovered the joy of painting. Such is, more or less, the premise here: not much else to hang a smock on, just one joke, and McAdams' screenplay beats the devil out of it.
True to form, Wilson returns to his comic roots to bring off his trademarked persona, the same he's honed over the years on television and in movies, and in movies based on television. A natural clown, he selects from a grab bag of expressions, ticks, and quirks. His schtick, one might say, is a limited palette, like a typical Ross landscape: familiar, yet naive. He's also somewhat attractive--from a distance--and can be humorous if given the opportunity, which this movie fails to do, resorting only to the tried and true, as when Carl scrambles to steal newspapers with bad reviews, a bit that's been done before (I think Berle did it).
Carl is typical of Wilson's cast of characters: a self-deluded, man child, fumbling his way through life, could be certifiable, yet laughable, affable--a joke, really. Bob Ross was something of a joke, too, perhaps, but, while the joke was about him, unlike Carl, it was never on him.
