My Kid Could Paint That (2007)

Marla Olmstead "at work".

Jumping straight into my My Kid Could Paint That analysis: While director Amir Bar-Lev sat face to face with little "prodigy" Marla Olmstead's parents, Laura and Mike, to unequivocally requested to film her creating one of her masterpieces, the look on Mark's face was a fatigued one — Laura face was already handing Bar-Lev excuses even before her mouth opened. What followed was all the evidence needed to bring the whole "prodigy" debate into perspective. After much debate (more off camera, to be sure) and permission in hand, cameras were concealed which showed little Marla displaying absolutely none of the endurance, deliberation, or reflection necessary to paint these canvases — some which commanded many thousands of dollars from devotees online as well as at several gallery events.

There is zero doubt in my mind. More believable is that Mike Olmstead, an accomplished hyper-realist painter in his own right, either drew inspiration from Marla's ham-handed floundering for his own creations. Or, went as far as to assist or "finished" what Marla has begun and quickly became bored with, as evidenced by the video of her almost immediately abandoning most canvases she began. I could also entertain the idea that Mark's own painting style (in terms of sophistication and restraint) is such that he might consider "Marla's" abstract expressionism as a joke, and these finished paintings are simply a giant middle finger to the art community which fails to embrace his own. This latter theory would no doubt exist on the fringes of this film's debate. I any case, again, I see little or no evidence that would lead me to believe Marla has anything at all to do with these paintings. Oh, and the comparisons to Jackson Pollock (who's work I honestly find boring) and Picasso are so far removed from reason to be laughable. But again that's me talking.


The documentary itself is very well put together and furnishes a couple of revelation points where sentiment is pulled to and fro, a la Errol Morris' The Thin Blue Line, containing similar ebbs and flows that lend to intrigue. And at a swift 80-some minutes, it's a perfect afternoon watch while enjoying a nice lunch. Just no toast points this time please.