Paganini

Having appeared briefly in A SONG TO REMEMBER (1945), the Hollywood film about Frederic Chopin, I thought of watching this radical take on the life of Niccolo' Paganini (his own mainstream biopic came courtesy of the British THE MAGIC BOW {1946}, starring Stewart Granger). Anyway, this notorious film proved not only Kinski's sole directorial effort but his swan-song. By this time, he had proved so difficult that nobody wanted to employ him – the film's producer, Augusto Caminito, was apparently one of the few who could reason with him and, in fact, apart from helming the little-seen GRANDI CACCIATORI (1988; co-starring Harvey Keitel), he would replace Mario Caiano after the latter threw in the towel and abandoned VAMPIRE IN VENICE (1988)! Those two films were nothing to write home about, but they feel like real cinema, whereas this is an incoherent mess of a softcore home movie! Apparently, Kinski identified with violinist Paganini (who here is repeatedly described as a crippled monster yet women shamelessly lust for him!) because of their parallel lives – both being misunderstood geniuses with a voracious sexual appetite (of course, the fact that Kinski saw himself like that speaks volumes about the size of his ego)...to the point that the film is generally referred to as KINSKI PAGANINI!

Incidentally, the version I watched (where Kinski delivers his own lines in soft-spoken but heavily-accented Italian, despite being ostensibly a local!) ran just 81 minutes, which is how it was released theatrically (edited from a reportedly 12-hour TV mini-series!). Why the film was given a manic, haphazard pace (there is no plot to speak of here, as if we were only intended to catch a cursory glimpse of Paganini's backstory, which basically resolves itself in a succession of carriage-rides anyway!) when it could have been extended to, say, 2 hours with a proper beginning, middle and end, is beyond me – but, then, it would probably not have been worthy of attention, except that, as it stands now and the way I see it, it only elicits contempt! I know of Kinski's reputation (the Italian "Stracult" TV program even showed scenes of him going apeshit during the shooting of this very film, its subsequent press conference and other Italian movies he worked on) but this had never interfered with my appreciation of his undeniable acting talent. Here, however, by assuming complete control (after his frequent director Werner Herzog turned him down flat, which soured their relationship even more than it already was!), one can only place the film's shortcomings at his door. For the record, a recent German DVD edition unearthed a "Director's Cut" of PAGANINI running 95 minutes, which suggests that Kinski always knew he would end up with merely the skeleton of the original version – indeed, on the afore-mentioned program, Kinski is seen wildly operating the camera himself, and no amount of post-production tweaking can adjust a shot that is badly-framed, out-of-focus or underexposed…but, as I said, more judicious editing – rather than relying solely on instinct – could have improved the overall quality or, at least, allowed the viewer to care about what he was being asked to watch!

Needless to say, the film ends up giving Art-house cinema a bad name, not just because of its ungainly approach but mainly because it cannibalizes other film-makers without ever hoping to match their dexterity: apart from the fragmented structure a' la Nicolas Roeg (down to Paganini's son rushing to and aching over him in slow-motion at the moment of the violinist's death, in a reverse situation to the one at the start of DON'T LOOK NOW {1973}) and its being shot by utilizing only natural light (in clear imitation of Stanley Kubrick's BARRY LYNDON {1975}), we also get an irrelevant horse-mating scene (to go along with shots of Dalila Di Lazzaro pleasuring herself whilst thinking of Maestro Paganini!) lifted outright from Walerian Borowczyk's similarly smutty but far more considerable – and rewarding – THE BEAST (1975)! Incidentally, the film co-stars two of Kinski's family members: his last wife, Debora Caprioglio (billed Kinski), and his son Nikolai Kinski. While the former is not given much to do (especially since she has to share Paganini with so many other adulating women, including Italian starlet Eva Grimaldi as Napoleon Bonaparte' sister, who carries on with Paganini in full military regalia!), the boy is quite good – indeed, the film only connects on an emotional level during his scenes with Daddy (and it was undeniably poignant to watch the older Kinski dote so unreservedly over his offspring, keeping in mind also that he would die within 2 years!). Also turning up briefly in the film are Feodor Chaliapin as an elderly authority figure hellbent on expelling Paganini from the country for his licentiousness, and celebrated mime Marcel Marceau incarnating the musician in a staged parody of his exploits.

However, the star/writer/director's egomania, high opinion of himself (at one point, Paganini – and, by extension, Kinski – is literally described as being able to give himself a hard-on through the playing of his musical instrument!) and his lack of experience behind the camera sabotages at every turn the film's aspirations as an objective look at the mind-set of a creative but evidently troubled personality. The fact that Paganini's predilection for underage girls, which obviously landed him in trouble with the Law, elicits the ire of the people can only be shared by the audience, who are thus forced to participate in the masturbatory fantasies of an ageing and deranged narcissist who has pretty much hit rock-bottom on all conceivable levels! In the end, I should mention that Paganini's music is heard practically incessantly throughout but, rather than evoking the accomplishment of the work itself, one is left with ears reeling squeamishly from the strident notes!

An obsessive, neurotic, schizoid masterpiece that is so far ahead of its time that its time is still ahead. It is a Rorschach test that will reveal the level of your soul. Yes, a dark evil film but a cinematically productive one, reading from Kinski's intuition about how his forms can read for us. The film, for decades, like a mad person, has been confined to an insane asylum, and considered a danger to society. It was like an unspoken secret not to see it.

I always liked it but I have been psyched out over the years from the orthodoxy insisting on its lack of merits. It has been enraging people for decades and I assumed in the restoration it would find a new life, only to find it is enraging the modern critics as well. A bad time to re-discover Kinski's Paganini (the only director other than Fellini who should have his name in the title of the movie). In our sterile climate of unprecedented conformity and rigid views of art, this reception is a mark for the film, not against it.

For all of Herzog's bad mouthing of Kinski, this film has had a grander restoration and release than his own output. Remember it was only together they made their enduring masterpieces; so badmouthing Kinski's B-movies maybe we can do the same for Herzog's nature channel documentaries or Hollywood Nicolas Cage Michael Shannon embarrassments.

I am being defensive of this movie because it warrants it, and I sense he didn't want it to impede on their works together, as if that was in danger of happening.

The cinematography brings a kind of gorgeous ancient European feeling. The editing is crass, obscene, appalling of course, it is Paganini. When have we ever had an edit like this? It is utterly mad, but it works as the most frightening tone poem ever on film, akin to even the weirdest underground Japanese cinema.

You almost don't want people to get it, and to continue to live in a state of blissful oblivion. And yet through its runtime it is a nonstop poem of madness, sex, only missing drugs; (as Dali said, and it might as well have been Kinski, "I do not take drugs, I am drugs".)

It is not for pretentious people. I can illustrate that I have watched Ken Russell's composer biopics recently, and while they are far from vanilla, in fact they are often quite daring, Paganini exposes them all as practically Disney fare.

And yet, we shouldn't take this all so literally either. I have always had a question of how mad Klaus Kinski actually was. I can tell you that you cannot make hundreds of films without having a firm grasp of reality, in fact, you must to survive in that business. He showed up on time, he made the films, he went home. The behind the scenes documentary of Fitzcarraldo shows him throwing a temper tantrum, yes, but it also shows him doing scene after scene with the utmost professionalism. The behind the scenes of Cobra Verde shows no tantrum at all.

So the depiction of this man is that he was a wild animal, a mad man, that does not gel for film business professionalism or the work the two created.

Point is, it is key to see this all as an artistic point of view. Kinski was not a De Sade figure, but it was how he played it. The film expresses both his inner dragon, but more, how he wanted to be seen.

What stands out here is that it's told without a hint of irony, like the followers of Herzog's bourgeoisie 'weird cinema' sensationalism. This is perhaps why it provoked them so greatly, he is showing the real thing.

Any bit of humor we can laugh at, such as the audience of women going crazy for him, is actually not as one would think, there for cinematic spectacle, but to express surreal excess, the contagious euphoria of being on stage. The film's goal is to capture is in this same trance.

The restoration finally brings the film to life for the first time ever. I am not sure if Vinegar Syndrome perceived its artistic virtues or did it to highlight it as a disastrous spectacle, but whatever is the reason, it's there to infuriate people for the rest of time. Kinski went farther than almost anyone, like Paganini he was not playing to the audiences, but to the fates.

I watched Paganini for the first time, then ran to watch bits of Fitzcarraldo again. I just realized why: It was the armchair cineaste's equivalent of taking a shower to rinse the muck off after watching Paganini.

I needed to watch Fitzcarraldo to remind myself that, yes, Kinski was a great actor. And he was.

I never thought I'd actually find a genuine-article case of this, but in Paganini you have Kinski finally using film--and his fans--as a full-tilt surrogate for his fading fantasy that he's the rooster in the barnyard.

It really is shameless. People thought that Woody Allen used film like this way long after he shoulda. Well, guess what? Allen is a piker.

If you're curious to see a great film star at his lowest ebb in this particular regard, watch Paganini.

Now, people in these comments extol the natural lighting, Kinski's raw magnetism, the unstudied editing, the artful inattention to technique in general, genuinely moving scenes of familial love, etc., etc. Yes, all those things are arguably there. I'm not just being conciliatory for rhetorical effect. But there comes a time when you have to admit the evidence of what you're seeing before your very eyes, and the conclusion is inescapable: Kinski is jerking off at our expense. He's not just exercising an eccentric degree of artistic license. He's lost in unfiltered, unsublimated sexual self-aggrandizement.

Note: I thought it would be more in line with the spirit of the film if I capitalised every instance of KLAUS KINSKI's name being used throughout this review

I have no doubt that this is the most narcissistic film ever to see the inside of a cinema. Even the very title KINSKI Paganini shows a total lack of restraint.

It begins with an audience of pretty women frigging themselves senseless as KINSKI lashes at his violin. The whole movie is pretty much a montage of women losing complete control of their senses at the mere thought of KINS--- I mean Paganini. Even eleven year old girls wish they could, for but one second, experience the full thrust of his virility. He even sends sea-animals into a dizzy frenzy of lust- and horses, too. You see two horses going at it early on in the film and I'm sure both of them were secretly thinking of KINSKI. At least that's what he probably wanted us to think.

Just like with Dennis Hopper's The Last Movie, whatever plot may have been present whilst shooting was completely torn to shreds in the editing suite. What remains is a lot of strangely pretty shots of KINSKI power-walking through a lush 19th Century Europe or cavorting with buxom underrage actresses inside ornate manor houses. It's mostly shot in a cinéma vérité style. If it weren't for the fact that he's on screen for almost every second of the movie, I wouldn't be surprised if it was KINSKI himself manning the camera. The only time you see shots of anyone else is when a beautiful woman is rubbing herself lustfully, her thoughts occupied by the eponymous scowling Nosferatu with sweaty jet-black hair and a bald patch.

Ah, but KINSKI has a more sensitive side, too. Just like that memorable scene in My Best Fiend where he gently plays with a butterfly that's become strangely enamoured of him, we see him care for his exceptionally pretty young son. Although even this relationship seems oddly lusty.

The camera-work, well-staged as most of it is, has far too many close- ups. You almost never see any wide shots showing off the beautiful locations. There's absolutely no doubt in my mind at all this is because KINSKI wanted KINSKI to fill up the frame as much as possible. According to his ol' sparring partner Herzy, KINSKI threw a tantrum for not having the opening shot to Aguirre be a close-up of him walking down that misty mountain, instead of the hundreds of people and cattle that we actually saw. Well, he finally got his way.

In all likelihood, you'll absolutely loathe this movie. And you'll probably be right to. But there is a strange energy coursing throughout- that of a man at the end of his tether, foreseeing his death, and spending all his remaining lifeblood on this one final work.

I believe KLAUS KINSKI may have been an incredibly rare genetic throwback to some transitional Cro-Magnon race. He shows no signs of the tempering of thousands of years of social evolution. He's like some purely physical being. You can tell that by the time this movie was shot, he didn't so much burn the candle at both ends as throw it into the fire and cackle maniacally as it melted. He died two years after this was released. It was the last film he shot in a career that spanned over 130 movies. I can't think of a more fitting way to go out.

If you came here as a Paganini fan rather than a KINSKI fan (as if anyone could be a bigger fan of KINSKI than KINSKI himself), you can always just imagine this is a sexy 80-minute music video to some of Paganini's works. The interpretations by Salvatore Accardo are wonderfully performed.

Klaus Kinski defined himself in his memories as the reincarnation of Paganini, his obsession for the violin genius made him writes,direct,edit and of course stars along with his wife and son ,this biopic that also was his cinematographic testament ,being the last movie he ever made before his death, and without any doubt the one that better defines his own personality....

Based in his own persona and experiences Kinski creates a portrait of Paganini through a succession of images that borders the pornographic, accompanied by the music of the genius, creating moment of pure ecstasy in which music and sex come together as part of the same thing.

The film shows a man trapped in himself, who is only able to see the world through his own art.

Kinski and Paganini becomes the same person in a desperate journey in the search of love, where they will be saved by most pure love that exist, the love of their own blood.