I Am Martin Parr

Parr is that kind of English gentleman who, if you see him on the beach with a camera, you don’t think “oh, what an artist,” but rather “oh, that guy’s photographing me and my tan.” He’s a man who has turned the ordinary — kids eating fish and chips, vacationers escaping the sun, quirky stalls — into art, social satire, and a merciless mirror of our obsession with consumption.

I Am Martin Parr lasts just over an hour: an English road trip through beaches, national celebrations, crowds of all kinds, vividly colored shots, and a few black-and-white pauses. Parr walks, observes, photographs, revisits the places of his past work (like The Last Resort in New Brighton) to see how much they’ve changed (spoiler: yes, a bit gentrified).

There are interviews and commentaries — friends, other photographers, his wife Susie — that help lift the curtain on whyhe takes certain photos, not just what he takes. But don’t expect a tell-all confessional: Parr remains partly the quiet man behind the camera, not too keen on philosophizing, preferring to let the images speak for themselves (even though the message comes across loud and clear).

With photography, I like to create fiction out of reality. I do it by taking society’s prejudices and giving them a little twist.

His photos are like those deceptively innocent sweets that fill your mouth before you even notice — saturated colors, ordinary scenes loaded with kitsch details, irony, and humanity. They confront you with your own obsession with ugly-beauty, with the summer chaos, with the postcard that makes you laugh but also makes you think.
 It’s not a frontal attack on consumerism, not a moral sermon — more of a “look around, you’re part of the circus too.” Parr walks right through it, photographing tourists who crave distance but are trapped in the anxiety of the perfect “Instagrammable” shot.

Obsession as a creative engine: the documentary doesn’t hide that Parr is obsessed — obsessed with color, with light, with absurd detail, with the paradoxical moment everyone else overlooks. And within that obsession lies something deeply human, almost comforting, especially when you realize that photography is also a kind of therapy (for him, and maybe for the viewer too).

Watching I Am Martin Parr feels like stepping into a boutique of soul souvenirs: every photograph is a magnet — it pulls you in, amuses you, makes you feel lost among plastic cups, suntan lotion, crumpled towels, embarrassed smiles caught in the flash. The documentary is the perfect product for anyone who wants to reflect on the “here and now” of consumerism: it doesn’t preach, it doesn’t moralize, but it puts you right in front of the mirror — in your swimsuit, with sunscreen dripping, and the camera ready.

A fun, sharp, satirical, intelligent documentary — a kitsch celebration of the everyday, of piles of trash behind the buffet, of untold stories behind forced smiles. Yet, in his obsession, Parr reminds us that we’re all a little obsessed: with holidays, with color, with reflection, with what we consume to convince ourselves we’re special.