Botero Glorifies the Columbian Artist but Never Goes in Depth on the Merit of His Work

Botero starts out pleasantly enough, but over the course of its 90 minutes it becomes saccharine and oversaturated with praise. It has passion in spades, but that passion also prevents it from adopting a more critical stance where appropriate.   

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Botero, directed by Don Millar, begins and ends with praise. Among living artists, we’re told, Fernando Botero has “the greatest international appeal and the greatest number of people attending his exhibitions.” 

In the opening scene, dramatic music accompanies various shots of his work being readied for an exhibition. In one clip, a crane carefully lowers one of his famous (and very heavy) sculptures to the ground. Scenes of applause, camera flashes, and ceremonial ribbon cutting also make up the high-energy opening.    

In the following scene, we see Botero and his adult children enjoying a meal at a fashionable restaurant. It’s all smiles and warm laughs, as Botero relates stories of his childhood and early years as a penniless artist. They’ve surely heard these stories before, but hey, it’s a documentary—and if the slightly stilted conversation about the past is an effective way to impart some of Botero’s biography to viewers, so be it.   

After these first two scenes, however, one would perhaps think the film would settle into a slightly more nuanced and objective tone. It never happens. 

Instead, virtually the entire film is replete with praise and kind words about Fernando Botero and his incredible art. The compliments emanate from everywhere: his adult children and grandchildren, gallery owners and museum curators, art professors and art critics. After a while, it’s a bit much. 

The artist who would go on to win scores of adoring fans was born in Medellín, Columbia, in 1932. In recent years, the metropolis has received praise for its remarkable transformation into a safe and innovative “smart city,” but it was once deemed the most violent city in the world. In a particularly blood-soaked period, known as La Violencia, murder and mayhem were part of everyday life.

In Medellín, Botero’s family was poor, a situation that wasn’t made any easier with the premature death of his father. His mother had a talent for sewing, however, and thanks to this gift the family managed to get by. 

As Botero got older and discovered a passion for art, he put his skills to good use. He earned pocket money selling watercolors of bullfights. He worked as the illustrator for a newspaper, El Colombiano. Over time, he managed to scrounge up enough money to travel to Europe. In more ways than one, it was a life changing experience.  

When he visited Madrid, he had the privilege to view works by Goya and Velázquez, among other of his favorites. It was also during this time that he happened to see a book featuring the paintings of the Renaissance master, Piero della Francesca. At the time, Botero had no idea who the artist was. But he was enamored: “I saw this and thought, this is the most extraordinary thing I’ve seen in my life. I was like hypnotized by that painting.”

It affected him so deeply that he decided to extend his travels to Florence, where he continued to take in the works of the Old Masters. During his sojourn overseas he also worked on his own art. It was only when he ran out of money that he returned to Columbia.  

Back in his native country, more magical experiences were to follow. While drawing one day, he inadvertently made the hole of a mandolin smaller than it should have been. This minor mistake turned into a pure eureka moment. “It was as if the mandolin had exploded,” Botero recounts. “It grew in monumentality. It grew in every possible way.” Fernando Botero had found his style.  

In 1960, he moved to New York. His initial time there proved difficult: he lived in a dingy and cramped apartment; his marriage fell apart; the styles then in vogue—particularly pop art and abstract expressionism—were not Botero’s style. At one exhibition of his work, the reviews were harsh.  

But Botero, who by all accounts exemplified a devout work ethic, pressed on. He sold enough paintings to pay the bills while he continued working in his unique style. In time, that decision would pay off immensely. 

During a chance encounter with Dorothy Miller, a curator at the Museum of Modern Art, Botero’s Mona Lisa, Age Twelve caught her eye. The museum ended up purchasing it, and his work would subsequently be shown at MoMA many times over the years. 

Along with Botero’s paintings of inflated people and objects, he also produced sculptures of full-figured women, men, and animals. A horrific event took place in 1995, in Medellín, when terrorists placed a bomb underneath his Pajaro de Paz (Bird of Peace). Over twenty people were killed. In a deft decision, Botero eventually created a duplicate and positioned it next to the bombed out one. It makes for a powerful display in San Antonio Park, where the violent act occurred.    

Given just how prolific Botero was, it’s fitting that we see plenty of his work throughout the film. In one scene, two of his adult children eagerly explore some of their father’s early works. “He was constantly experimenting with different approaches to painting,” his daughter remarks. 

Of course, Botero eventually hit on a style that is instantly recognizable and that has since been coined “Boterismo.” It was a style that Botero stuck to no matter the content of his paintings. Even in his depictions of notorious drug dealer Pablo Escobar—who’s seen in one painting laying bullet-ridden on a rooftop—the figure remains in Botero’s characteristic style.  

The same is true for Botero’s dozens of paintings of the detainees at Abu Ghraib, which are now housed at the University of California Berkeley. In their horrific scenes of torture and terror, the prisoners are not emaciated figures; they are bloodied and beaten, to be sure, but they remain in Botero’s characteristics style. 

What are we to make of this? 

In the film’s lone scene of criticism, the art critic Rosalind Krauss gives her two cents about Botero: “I think his work is terrible; I think his work is the Pillsbury Doughboy.” She goes on to say, “I think it’s really speaking down to the viewer. The idea that comic book characters would appeal to the viewer, and convince the viewer; but I’m a viewer that’s not convinced or amused.”

Unfortunately, we never hear a rebuttal to this. Instead of taking a small portion of the film to substantively address criticism, it simply side steps it. In the scene directly following the one with Krauss, for example, Botero’s son remarks: “He appreciates that his work is controversial. The public overwhelmingly loves his art.”

That may be so, but in a documentary about an artist and his life’s work, it’d sure be nice to hear more than one perspective, let alone one that’s so heavily pushed upon the viewer.     

In the end, Botero is worth watching, but the film’s near glorification of the artist can sometimes be off-putting. It seems unable, or at least unwilling, to approach its subject with any kind of distanced or objective perspective. (Go figure that the director of the film is a friend of Botero’s.) 

It also begs the question: If Fernando Botero is such an incredible artist—and is admired all over the globe, no less—why the need to produce an hour-and-a-half documentary that eschews virtually all criticism?