LA Originals’ 2020 Full Documentary

Hip-hop photographer Estevan Oriol digs into his archives and calls old friends to give him the scoop on his collaboration with tattoo legend Mister Cartoon.

LA Originals’ 2020 Full Documentary

Self-portraits are respected, if not openly encouraged in virtually all art forms. Except cinema. There, when filmmakers turn the camera on themselves, it can seem indulgent, even downright gratuitous. It's a tricky line to walk, sharing without showing off, revealing ideas that no one else could while maintaining enough distance for the audience to identify. When all goes well, the audience gets something seismic, something revolutionary like "Exit Through the Gift Shop," Banksy's bombastic dismantling of his own mystique. "LA Originals" is the opposite, a feature-length reel in service of its creators' still semi-underground reputation.

LA Originals’ 2020 Full Documentary

In this Netflix original, which was supposed to premiere at last month's coronavirus-cancelled SXSW Film Festival, photographer Estevan Oriol assembles a monumental tribute to the downtown Los Angeles scene that he and his best friend/associate Mister Cartoon (tattoo legend Mark Machado ) have become unlikely influencers of. You know their work: Oriol shot the famous "L.A. Fingers," as well as Snoop Dogg's "Ego Trippin" album cover, while Cartoon's intricate designs for 50 Cent's back and Eminem's arms have made him a top name in celebrity tattoos.

Snoop Dogg "Ego Trippin" album cover

Snoop Dogg's Ego Trippin album cover

50 Cent Back Tatto

50 Cent's back Tatto

Eminem's Arms Tatto

Eminem Arms Tatto

Not necessarily household names, but well on their way, these two Chicano artists absolutely deserve to be the focus of a documentary on how these outsiders have shaped the mainstream. But when said homage comes from the subject's own hand, it feels more like self-glorification - a flashy ad for the duo's S.A. Studios, full of testimonials from Snoop Dogg, George Lopez, the late Kobe Bryant and more. Their enthusiastic endorsements all sound like variations on this gem from Def Jam CEO Paul Rosenberg: "There's so much going on with these guys. They're super ambitious, super creative. Super fun to be around. Super a-holes sometimes.

Imagine 90 minutes of Oriol and Cartoon friends (a who's who of more hip-hop, sports and Latino stars than you can cram into a "Fast & Furious" movie) dropping such ego-boosting "ideas." punctuated with examples of their work - candid black-and-white shots of street culture and celebrities, as well as intricate tattoos printed on famous chests, backs and sleeves - and you have a pretty good idea of "LA Originals." At one point, you can hear Cartoon relay this line to Eminem to repeat, "Cartoon is the greatest tattoo artist to ever live." Impressive, but not very objective.

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If you've ever gotten a tattoo and regretted it (if not the ink itself, then the $50,000 price tag Mister Cartoon would charge for Eminem's tastes), "LA Originals" will make you feel better about your choices. But the film is also for kids, those looking for role models. It's a history lesson on how two self-made success stories were born out of downtown LA - at the intersection of street art, lowrider custom car culture, hard drugs and gang life - to become stars in their own right, packaged like a Christmas card for former clients and super-fans, set to an epic soundtrack of the acts Oriol photographed over the course of his career.

It's not a rigorous self-reflection, and the conflict that another director might have amplified for dramatic effect feels far in the rearview mirror (for example, Oriol introduces his drug use and announces that he's getting clean within a minute, and his interactions with law enforcement are fuzzy at best). Yet, if Oriol hadn't taken the initiative to tell their story, who else was going to? As he announces to the camera at the beginning, he has years of footage - incredible behind-the-scenes access to bands like Cypress Hill and Blink-182 - and is uniquely positioned to connect the dots between all the iterations of their careers, from Cartoon's beginnings on the street of murals (back when he signed his work "Flame") to the custom Cortez sneakers he designed for Nike once the corporate culture wanted to coopt them.

In a way, it seems both inevitable and strange that Oriol and Cartoon have come together to become such a perfect partnership. As one of the most prominent tattoo artists in the business (his talent is undeniable, but notable celebrities have given him credit), Mister Cartoon improvises works of art that become permanent once they touch the skin of a rap star. Meanwhile, with his improvisational shooting style, Oriol observes fleeting moments and immortalizes them on film, resulting in grainy, documentary-style portraits of tough guys (under the needle, on stage) and voluptuous girls (underdressed, posing on cars) instantly recognizable by their shallow depth of field and fish-eye effects.

Both work with a kind of intuition of the moment, creating work that lasts. And while Oriol never goes so far as to assert it on camera, whether it's photographing or tattooing someone, these guys are essentially claiming their territory, the way graffiti artists tag the walls. A star like Ryan Phillippe may feel like he's part of an exclusive "fraternity" of guys with pinta (prison-style) Cartoon tattoos, but he's also the poser who paid to look like he's serving a 10-year sentence.

It takes nearly an hour for "LA Originals" to get past the self-promotion and understand the significance of their success - what it means that these two talents were true to themselves and the culture they loved - embracing rap music before it went mainstream, tattoos before every spring sported them and gang signs before such iconography made its way onto Starbucks cups and H&M T-shirts. They've printed themselves directly on the establishment, as have street-shaped gallery names like Shepard Fairey and David Choe (talking heads here) and hip-hop legends (many of whom also appear). But they're also some of the most visible contemporary Chicano artists Los Angeles has to offer, and better a self-serving documentary than nothing at all.