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he collector's DVD version of the already-released Frazetta documentary deepens the intimate portrait of the VHS documentary in its portrait of the artist who, more than any other, defined the visual appeal of the entire sword-and-sorcery genre.
The movie itself covers the basics of his story, with warmth that frequently crosses over into adulation: how a journeyman comic-strip artist, ghosting artwork for Al Capp, eventually made a name for himself with his iconic portraits of Conan the Barbarian. It's rich with testimonials from friends, family and the artists who were influenced by him, if a little too generous with attempts to rank his work alongside names like Michelangelo and Leonardo (a pretense that rightly embarrasses some of the people glimpsed in the DVD extras).
The DVD includes a commentary track, making-of footage and an art gallery. But most germane among the extras may be the glimpses of Frazetta actually working, as in lengthy footage of the man himself obliging the filmmakers with a pencil sketch. He uses his left hand, as his right has been rendered next to useless by a stroke. As he sets down to work, he is startled by a loud noise from the director: "What the hell was that?" The director explains that he was starting the take with a clap. "Jesus Christ," Frazetta mutters. Asked what he intends to draw, he grumbles that he doesn't know what the hell he's doing yet. He allows as how he woke up stiff this morning and normally wouldn't be drawing today.
But the picture starts to take form as the vague outline of a panther. Details start to come out. The creature develops power, life, personality, a three-dimensional existence on the page. There are a few attempts to engage Frazetta in conversation, as when he's asked whether he ever considered teaching other artists, and answers that it wouldn't be much good to teach other artists to draw just like him. The pencil flies. Frazetta's thumb blots the lead to form shading. The panther, just a throwaway piece of work for him, feels real. And then comes the best part: his famous signature.
An enriched portrait of a giant
Other DVD outtakes include extended sequences of Frazetta hanging out with his friends, who gently rib each other with mock, often borderline-profane, abuse that many men use to offset genuine affection. If some of it is of minimal interest to those who approach the DVD only to find out more about Frazetta's art—such as home movies of his kids playing hockey on a frozen pond, while the family's black-and-white cat pads calmly by—it is all human, and all illustrative of his nature as a man.
The "Stories" section offers some ripe anecdotes, some of which are only distantly related to Frazetta and his work. One of the best comes from animator Ralph Bakshi, who tells of a phone call he received from producer Dino De Laurentiis following the release of Bakshi's version of Lord of the Rings. The famed moviemaker wanted Bakshi to direct an upcoming live-action Flash Gordon. Bakshi considered the offer a dream come true, and asked what kind of money was involved. De Laurentiis said, "Three million." Bakshi, who had just made the animated Rings for $8 million, thought this an insultingly low budget for a live-action film and slammed down the phone. Years later—after the movie came out and tanked—De Laurentiis spotted Bakshi in a Hollywood restaurant and asked him, "Why did you hang up the phone on me?" It turns out that $3 million was not the proposed budget, but the offered director's fee. Aghast at his own dumbness, Bakshi moans and groans at the lost opportunity, while Frazetta rolls his eyes in shared dismay. The sense here is of people who genuinely enjoy each other's company and revel in their creative impulses while expending a minimum of ugly ego.
Frazetta's daughter Heidi remembers a sad incident from childhood when she had her portrait done by an artist in a mall. It turned out pretty well, and everybody praised it, until Heidi's mom, meaning well, mentioned who her husband was. The lady artist was so overwhelmed with feelings of inferiority that she got upset, packed up her supplies and went home. Heidi understandably still feels bad about this, stressing that artists are not in competition.
Another telling anecdote involves the "Princess of Mars" painting, a personal favorite of the artist, who reluctantly sold it and then, missing it, painted another one almost identical to the original.
The art galleries include samples of Frazetta's oil paintings, pencil-and-ink work and comic-book pages, among others. The comic-book pages are particularly frustrating, as the natural temptation to read them is stymied by the dimensions of the average television set. One of the paintings depicts a pastoral forest glen, far brighter and lighter than what we usually think of when we picture Frazetta's work, and with no apparent fantasy element until a close-up reveals the pointy-eared sprite in the corner.
The award for most pointless DVD extra of the year goes to an outtake of screenwriter John Milius, whose comments on Frazetta are interrupted by a violent sneeze. An off-screen voice says, "That's going in the extras." Milius, probably imagining it a joke, wipes the tip of his nose. "Yeah." Freeze-frame. Why? —Adam-Troy
Also in this issue: Sin City and Hercules: The Legendary Journeys Season-Five DVD
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