Modigliani (2004)
Wow, somebody besides Modigliani was smoking hashish when making this thing. It's incoherent, it takes fictional liberties that border on infantile (never mind trying to create an interesting story), and the acting and writing (basics, yes?) are strained and patched together. Stephen Holden is right, this is a movie about how not to make a movie about a famous artist.
Andy Garcia? I can see how people find him handsome, and Modigliani was a lady's man, for sure, so that much works. But he isn't an actor with either subtlety or fire, mostly just self-consciousness. His girlfriend, Jeanne, who was supposed to be 19 when the artist met her, is played with surprising unevenness by the usually talented Elsa Zylberstein, who was almost twice that age, 36. (She does have a naturally long face, which fits the elongated look of the artist's many portraits.) And then there is an even worse fit, the man playing the short fiery Spaniard named Picasso, an Iranian-British comedian name Omid Djalili. He neither looks nor acts like Picasso, who was filmed and photographed so much we know quite exactly what he was like.
So what is it about this film that makes sense? Nothing. There is snow in one direction and not in the the other. There is the foolish brandishing of guns, glasses smashed to the floor, hallucinations that play cheap cinematic games, an invented rivalry between Picasso and Modigliani as if they were the only two artists of note in town (this is Paris, 1917, remember). Oh, and speaking of that, where's the war? You know, World War I. Ha.
So, Modigliani impregnates this young Catholic student, Jeanne, and shows raging compassion and neglect in almost the same scene. He loves poverty and seems to never really paint--except when he gives up halfway through and destroys the thing in a fit. (This is only partly true--he drew and painted like mad, but not destructively.) The light is often nice, his T.B. is neatly invisible until the dramatic final bow, and Paris never looked so tawdry and small. It's a shame, because it could at least have been brimming with atmosphere. Or, taking it another direction, the movie could have leapt into complete fantasy like Derek Jarman's "Caravaggio" or the inventive (and more accurate) "Goya in Bordeaux."
I wouldn't recommend this to anyone. Anyone, not with all the better artist films out there. As a final note, even if you like everything I didn't, you'll have to keep track of the many side characters (artists who come and go like Max Jacobs, Diego Rivera, and Utrillo), and the put up with a pastiched together simultaneous scene of several of these painters all making their works for the competition, feverishly painting as club music plays in the soundtrack as if it were a high school football tournament.
Good luck. The death mask at the end? That's for real. And the final tragic suicide, as well. The truth of Modigliani is far more intense than this frivolous thing.
Wow, somebody besides Modigliani was smoking hashish when making this thing. It's incoherent, it takes fictional liberties that border on infantile (never mind trying to create an interesting story), and the acting and writing (basics, yes?) are strained and patched together. Stephen Holden is right, this is a movie about how not to make a movie about a famous artist.
Andy Garcia? I can see how people find him handsome, and Modigliani was a lady's man, for sure, so that much works. But he isn't an actor with either subtlety or fire, mostly just self-consciousness. His girlfriend, Jeanne, who was supposed to be 19 when the artist met her, is played with surprising unevenness by the usually talented Elsa Zylberstein, who was almost twice that age, 36. (She does have a naturally long face, which fits the elongated look of the artist's many portraits.) And then there is an even worse fit, the man playing the short fiery Spaniard named Picasso, an Iranian-British comedian name Omid Djalili. He neither looks nor acts like Picasso, who was filmed and photographed so much we know quite exactly what he was like.
So what is it about this film that makes sense? Nothing. There is snow in one direction and not in the the other. There is the foolish brandishing of guns, glasses smashed to the floor, hallucinations that play cheap cinematic games, an invented rivalry between Picasso and Modigliani as if they were the only two artists of note in town (this is Paris, 1917, remember). Oh, and speaking of that, where's the war? You know, World War I. Ha.
So, Modigliani impregnates this young Catholic student, Jeanne, and shows raging compassion and neglect in almost the same scene. He loves poverty and seems to never really paint--except when he gives up halfway through and destroys the thing in a fit. (This is only partly true--he drew and painted like mad, but not destructively.) The light is often nice, his T.B. is neatly invisible until the dramatic final bow, and Paris never looked so tawdry and small. It's a shame, because it could at least have been brimming with atmosphere. Or, taking it another direction, the movie could have leapt into complete fantasy like Derek Jarman's "Caravaggio" or the inventive (and more accurate) "Goya in Bordeaux."
I wouldn't recommend this to anyone. Anyone, not with all the better artist films out there. As a final note, even if you like everything I didn't, you'll have to keep track of the many side characters (artists who come and go like Max Jacobs, Diego Rivera, and Utrillo), and the put up with a pastiched together simultaneous scene of several of these painters all making their works for the competition, feverishly painting as club music plays in the soundtrack as if it were a high school football tournament.
Good luck. The death mask at the end? That's for real. And the final tragic suicide, as well. The truth of Modigliani is far more intense than this frivolous thing.