One of the most thought-provoking scenes, brief enough to go unnoticed, comes when Johnston, compelled by the discovery of his music by a younger generation (Kurt Cobain single-handedly brought Johnston to mainstream culture by wearing a "Hi How Are You" t-shirt for weeks), appears in a rare live performance. Backstage we see Johnston receive a famous fan, Matt Groening, creator of "The Simpsons." As Johnston gushes about his love for "The Simpsons," oblivious to Groening's obvious discomfort, the worried looks of
everyone else in the room echo those of the movie audience. "I should do some music for you" Johnston says eagerly; Groening agrees in the placating tone familiar to anyone who has encountered a mentally ill person, and rushes for the door with such relief that Johnston's childlike cheer (which significantly made it into the trailer) becomes tragic.

Johnston's career cannot be discussed in normal artistic terms. Daniel Johnston is not van Gogh braving his depression to create masterpieces, or Dostoevsky finding transcendence in his fits; because of his illness Johnston is unable to develop the technique that would raise his "art" beyond the level of manic hypergraphia or compulsive tics. Rather than showing us artistic courage or troubled genius, The Devil and Daniel Johnston raises questions of exploitation and common human decency. I was reminded of Wesley Willis, the schizophrenic singer who died three years ago. A homeless man tormented by voices, Willis was adopted by a Chicago rock band who brought him fame by setting his furious rants (about everything from Casper the Friendly Ghost to getting thrown out of church) to music. Though many accused Willis' band and fans of perpetuating a freak show, as with Daniel Johnston the charges are hard to swallow; while parading a mentally unstable black man to a club full of white kids may be considered exploitative, the musicians gave Willis a home and kept him fed, clothed, and most importantly, medicated and out of trouble. Similar charges against Johnston's parents—for supposedly provoking his Satan-obsessed, clinical obsession with their fundamentalist faith, or for perpetuating his artistic stagnancy by keeping him home and medicated—all fall flat. Johnston's parents, after all, have endured not only embarrassment and worry but what can only be considered homicidal delusions. In one of the film's most moving scenes his father breaks down during a harrowing story about how Daniel, in a delusional state after ducking his medication, overpowered him and tried to crash their small private plane. The patience and love displayed by his parents mark them as the most admirable people in the film. Watching The Devil and Daniel Johnston, then, is a complicated moral experience. We are aware of participating in the lionization of a man for whom the desire for fame is a symptom, as are his drawing and songwriting. Cynics will say the desire for fame is always a symptom, and perhaps it is: what completely sane person would endure the invasion of public curiosity? It takes only a short logical leap to use The Devil and Daniel Johnston as an exhibit for condemning the cult of celebrity. It is only in contrast with extremes, after all, that normalcy appears. In examining the performance of Daniel Johnston, a performance born out of haywire brain chemistry, we may question even "normal" performance; when we pay to watch a singer-songwriter in confessional mode, or to watch a documentary of a fellow human being's mental dissolution, what separates us from the unwashed throngs who gawk at the bearded lady and the Siamese twins?

The real theme of The Devil and Daniel Johnston is not the thin line between madness and genius. It is the thin line between the theater and the freak show, between admiration and plain, dehumanizing degradation.