A NEW film debuted online this week. Just 16 minutes long, it's billed as an intimate portrait of artists Jake and Dinos Chapman, "filmed as they've never been filmed before", by their dog, Kylie.
This might be a film whose genius only other pets appreciate. Watching it with mine – a brace of Bengals I've known since December – I noticed the little critics were transfixed by webcam-wearing Kylie's auteurism, especially her fixation with acres
of flooring, table legs, and up-the-nostrils shots of studio assistants waggling treats.
It is customary, when viewing Modern Art, to sputter: "My kid could do that!" In that spirit, I threw down the catnip-covered gauntlet: "Care to storyboard a 16-minute intimate portrait of yours truly?" I inquired, already dreaming of my Oscars frock.
"We couldn't do any worse! There's no narrative arc, no characterisation, and no high-speed chase," sneered Minsky. (If you think that's weak, you should have heard the name she arrived with.)
Daisy sniffed. "Kylie is a dog. 'Nuff said."
They repaired to their eyrie atop a plush-covered activity centre, where numerous feline art projects have been hatched. I put my ear to the door.
"She's not very lively; that's going to be a huge problem," complained Minsky.
"She's not even here half the time. Always out the door muttering about earning money for cat food. Whatever that is."
"Her diary might suggest a storyline," mused Minsky, evincing her enthusiasm for mischievousness.
"There was such a row the last time," said Daisy, who's quite a stickler for rules.
"If you wouldn't chew the corners when you turn the pages she'd never know. Also, you need to put the pen back where you found it. She's anal. You've seen how she gets after the cleaner has been and rearranged all her toys."
"But the paper's so tasty."
"I prefer that crunchy stuff she puts out."
"Do you think that's cat food?"
"Not a chance. I've licked myself and I've licked you and it doesn't taste like either of us."
"I vote for a swimming sequence," said Daisy, whose passion for aquatics rivals Esther Williams's.
"And a high-speed chase," added Minsky, obviously obsessed with the static tedium of Kylie's opus. "Some adrenaline-pumping footage of the two of us kicking our plastic mouse up and down the hall is sure to bring them to the edges of their seats."
"Yeah!" Daisy agreed. "Don't take this the wrong way; I am fond of her. We're lucky to have found someone so perfectly squishy and willing to lie still beneath us for ages and ages. But cinematically speaking, all her endless reading and movie-watching – talk about dull! Whereas we are not only exquisite God-like creatures, but endlessly fascinating, what with mouse chasing and meowing through the window at birds and late night zorches around the flat…"
"You're so right," Minsky agreed. "The trick will be convincing her she's the star when secretly, the documentary's entirely about us."
"Nothing easier. Haven't you noticed what happens when I stretch out across her chest, throw my arms up around her face, narrow my eyes and purr for Scotland?" bragged Daisy. "Putty in my paws."
"Kylie Shmylie," muttered Minsky, moments before surrendering to sleep.
"Too right," yawned Daisy, closing her eyes.
Soon to be a minor motion picture?
