A typical paen of self-adoration that results when a film is made by artists, about artists, for artists. The title character's neurotically self-absorbed and abrasive behaviour is glorifed due to the fact that she's an artist and, being part of that group's self proclaimeded elite status, her actions are romanticized rather than receiving the contempt that such behaviour usually warrants. While this film is beautifully shot, it's more of a theoretical (or more accurately, mythological) ideal of the struggling artist held back by the lack of vision of those around them, rather than an attempt at accurrate biography. Among other things, the artist accused of raping her was actually around the same age as her father, but in the film he's a more agreeably youthful middle-aged man with somewhat attractive looks. Apparently artists, especially those who made this film, are like politicians in that they prefer what's useful to what's true.