Marcel Proust (1871-1922) is on his deathbed. Looking at photographs brings memories of his childhood, his youth, his lovers, and the way the Great War put an end to a stratum of society. ... See full summary »
In an ethereal, high-ceilinged room, women stand, waiting. Perhaps it's Purgatory and they're dead. In the room, two young women, one an actress and the other a psychologist, watch the last... See full summary »
In 1976, Jack Unterweger was convicted for the murder of Margaret Schaefer and sentenced to life in prison. While imprisoned, he committed himself to reading and writing, eventually earning... See full summary »
Take a walk into the weird world of filmmaker Raul Ruiz as he takes us to Paris for a twisted ride. A man which shares four names and four personalities (which is the real one?) is the link... See full summary »
Sir Paul, a distinguished author, blinded in a horrific accident, advertises for an amanuensis, an assistant to help him with his writing. He employs the amiable Jane Ryder to be his eyes ... See full summary »
A meditation on civilization. July, 2001: friends wave as a cruise ship departs Lisbon for Mediterranean ports and the Indian Ocean. On board and on day trips in Marseilles, Pompeii, Athens... See full summary »
Manoel de Oliveira
Filipa de Almeida,
The journey of Michael Padovic, an American professor who arrives with his wife, Helene, at a Portuguese convent where he expects to find the documents needed to prove his theory: ... See full summary »
Manoel de Oliveira
Luís Miguel Cintra
Come to the Village of the Dogs, it's easy to find. Just follow the avenue of crutches and the prosthetic legs hanging from the trees. It's where the Virgin Mary keeps appearing in the sky.... See full summary »
In a bar in Santiago, two old men talk over their past. This is a strange discussion. In fact, they talk of themselves as if they were dead. We don't know what is true or false, what is dream or reality.
A character study and a meditation on art in a time of opulence and syphilis. Gustave Klimt (1862-1918) lies in hospital, dying. In reveries, he recalls the early 1900s: it's fin de siècle Vienna. At the World Exposition in Paris, Klimt meets Georges Méliès, who does a moving picture for him, and Klimt falls under the spell of a woman who may be Lea de Castro. We see Klimt in his studio; we meet his mother and sister, who suffer from mental illness. We watch Klimt the libertine. On his deathbed and as a younger man, he imagines things as well: encounters with ministers and waiters and with women who are willing participants in his pleasures. Is this the source of art? Written by
The only thing that kept me in my seat after 20-30 minutes of watching 'Klimt' was that I was too near the middle of the row to leave without making a fuss. However, a quick look around me revealed more dozers, whisperers, shufflers and people with either stupefied or plain bored faces than I have ever seen.
Why? In a few words, this film is pretentiousness trying to play sophistication, clog-footed hamminess trying to play world weariness, gaucheness trying to play 'shocking', quirky 'cleverness' trying to play depth. John Malkovich's role was about as three-dimensional as a flake of peeled varnish. Was Klimt really a dead-eyed deadpan wimp who finished every sentence by showing 'bunny teeth', and who felt the need to overcompensate for being pathetic through occasional bouts of utterly hammy laughable violence (on streets ankle deep in salt) and endless humorless sexual encounters? (Perhaps the only understanding the producer showed of the audience is their profound disinclination to have to witness someone as fundamentally unsexy engaged in such.) Don't expect to get any insights into Klimt past what you could read on Wikipedia. About the only thing that warrants the use of the artist's name as the title is the occasional appearance of gold leaf, egg whites, lips and black lace. Apart from that it may as well be called 'Let's Go Loony with a Bland Old F**kwit'.
The delivery was stilted, the acting was twee, and some of the devices used, e.g. spinning the camera round and round the subject to create a dizzying background vortex, were way too conscious - not to mention simply annoying. There were many scenes where you really felt as if your sensibilities (not in the prudish sense, just as in what passes score and what doesn't) as well as intelligence were being roundly assaulted in a totally crass and meaningless way. Two examples that come to mind are the ranting, dribbling raver and Klimt's ludicrously distressed mother and "Ooh, mom's at it - s'pose I'd better join in too" sister. It was like watching a town hall production by people who don't get out enough.
Shame on everyone involved in this movie. I have never been more disappointed at the cinema. It lacked any humanity; it was wooden and unconvincing. It is pernicious as a credible plea for censorship. I gave it a 2 instead of a 1 because, if nothing else, to a certain extent you have to admire gall.
So do not waste your money on this film ... and whatever you do - DO NOT TAKE A DATE!
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