Cutie and the Boxer

In the wake of Lou Reed’s death, we have all been pondering the Bohemian art scene that grew up in downtown New York during the late 1960s. Some members of that community prospered and became celebrities. Many more drifted back to the straight life.

This touching documentary deals with a couple who didn't manage either escape. Ushio Shinohara, a Dadaist sculptor and action painter, arrived in New York from Japan in the last year of the swinging decade. Over the following years, he achieved a modicum of fame – you may recognise his giant cardboard motorbikes – but, an alcoholic for much of that time, he remained poor and shabby.

This counts as a significant sadness for him. But it looks like a minor catastrophe for his (the cliche is unavoidable here) long-suffering wife, Noriko. While Ushion boozed and ranted, she strived to patch holes in the roof and keep their son in shoes. Noriko makes her own commentary on the situation in a series of cheeky ink-washed drawings – a sort of giant graphic novel – relating abuse, neglect and indolence.

Zachary Heinzerling’s film backs her up as it quietly undermines the romantic hogwash that flows through so much commentary on artistic Bohemia. The work that both artists produce remains striking, but it is not all certain that any painting or sculpture could justify the sacrifices Noriko has made. Their son, also an artist, looks to have his own problems with drink. She long ago fell out with her family.

Yet, for all its miseries, Cutie and the Boxer – interweaving archive footage with contemporary discontents – ends up arguing strongly for the power of love. When Ushio travels to Japan for a few days, Noriko is simultaneously liberated and cast adrift. Life's a nasty business, but it beats the alternative.