The twin clowns of the aesthetic universe, the fashion world and the art world are nearly impossible to satirize because they so frequently cross over into self-parody, plagued by a reasonable perception that they center on snobby exclusivity and runaway pretension. Taking off from the premise that no one would buy a Van Gogh painting if he hadn't cut off his ear, writer-director P.J. Posner's featherweight satire The Next Big Thing picks the most obvious gag about the New York art scene and repeats it over and over again. As the title implies, Posner sees the wine-swishing gallery owners and museum curators as arbitrary tastemakers who are more easily seduced by hype and mystique than artistic merit, which they wouldn't recognize if it painted "Guernica" right in front of them. John Waters covered the same territory in his underrated 1998 comedy Pecker, but without Waters' colorful mix of outrageousness and affection, Posner can't stir up the rancor to score even a few glancing blows at an easy target. Cast against type as a sweet-natured everyman, Whit Stillman regular Chris Eigeman (Barcelona, The Last Days Of Disco) plays a starving artist who has been rejected by all the galleries in the city, mainly because his milquetoast background nullifies his considerable talent. But after smooth-talking petty thief Jamie Harris steals a painting from Eigeman's Queens loft and watches it sell for big money under the fictitious persona "Geoff Buonardi" (a name inspired by a Chef Boyardee spaghetti can), the two go into business together and take the art world by storm. As the reclusive "Buonardi" grabs headlines, Eigeman contends with opportunists eager to capitalize on his phantom popularity, including a private detective (Mike Starr), a tawdry art collector (Janet Zarish), and his duplicitous ex-girlfriend (Marin Hinkle). But he finds a true champion in Connie Britton, an art critic who sees the soulful artist behind the hype. The Next Big Thing politely sends up art culture and terminology—in one scene, a Whitney Museum committee bandies about words like "transrealism" and "non-objectivist"—but it lacks the conviction to follow through on its own cynicism. Part of the problem is that Posner wants to make both a satire and a romantic comedy, so he winds up diluting the bitter tone with deadly earnestness and sentiment. The most effective satires are bloodless and unsparing, even of their ostensible heroes, but The Next Big Thing becomes too ingratiating and kind, losing its teeth in the process.