Do people still sit for portraits? I suppose they must; after all, people still paint. I’m not talking art class here; I’m not talking about one person in a room full of two serious art students and twenty-eight others who just like having an excuse to check out a naked person. I’m talking about somebody commissioning a painting such that what follows will be one person sitting for hours at a time while another person paints. How often does that happen this century?
Swiss artist Alberto Giacometti (Geoffrey Rush) wasn’t terribly good at finishing things. The perfectionist in him saw imperfection in every piece of art he made. Can’t say as I blame him; I found imperfection in every piece of his art, too. Every Giacometti sculpture in the film made Easter Island look Da Vinci-esque by comparison. Every painting was a study in negative space. For every portrait, he painted the frame of a person and then a detailed head in the colors of black and less-black. Batman would love this guy.
In Paris of 1964, Giacometti developed a minor bromance with journalist James Lord (Armie Hammer). The painter asked him over to sit for a portrait. It would only take “an hour or two.” By day four, it was clear to everybody that Giacometti would never finish the portrait to his liking, yet James felt obliged to continue sitting patiently day-after-day while the chain-smoking notable made random brush strokes. For hours and hours this would go on until Giacometti would announce “FUCK!” in frustration, then grey out the entire face and start over.
As an audience, we’re supposed to find this all so droll. There’s an adjustment for artistic temperament we are obliged to understand. The artist examines his subject of Armie Hammer and calls him
a “brute.” This assessment is later upgraded to “degenerate.” Dude, I know there aren’t a whole lot of mirrors in your hovel, but … glass houses, knowwhatI’msayin’? Because Giacometti is an artistic genius, we excuse the fact that he’s awful to his wife (Sylvie Testud) and generous to his live-in prostitute (Clémence Poésy). We excuse the fact that Alberto looks –and almost certainly smells—like a used clothes hamper. And we excuse the fact that he has railroaded James’ life because he has no sense of deadline or fellowship.
Final Portrait is pretty much one joke repeated again and again. Writer/director Stanley Tucci must have been enthralled with the idea of a famous artist who couldn’t ever put a stamp on a finished product. There really isn’t anything more to this film. Artists, or those sympathetic to such, may find kindred torment from the relentless pursuit of perfection. I get that part. Heck, I want everything I write to be brilliant. But it isn’t. And I have deadlines. I cannot spend years rewriting my Final Portrait review as ever more insightful ever more intriguing ever more hilarious. What’s of further importance, however, is nobody wants me to do that, either. So, we’re all in agreement. Congratulations, Alberto, on your glorious ability to indulge your gift at the expense of the lives of everyone you touch. I encourage my own readers to finish this and go do something personally meaningful.
Today, the poem/lyrics are not my own, but taken from a relevant story. Hope you enjoy:
ONCE IN CHINA, A MAN GAVE AN ARTIST MONEY
TO MAKE A PAINTING OF A FISH.
THE MAN WAITED SEVERAL YEARS
AN WHENEVER HE SAW THE ARTIST
HE ASKED FOR THE PAINTING.
AFTER WAITING SEVERAL MORE YEARS
THE MAN GREW ANGRY. HE WENT TO THE ARTIST’S HOUSE
AND DEMANDED THE PAINTING.
THE ARTIST TOOK A PIECE OF PAPER
DIPPED HER BRUSH IN PAINT
AND WITH EASE DASHED OFF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PAINTING OF A FISH.
THE MAN WAS ASTONISHED.
“IF IT WAS SO SIMPLE,” HE SAID, “WHY DIDN’T YOU DO IT SOONER?”
IN REPLY THE ARTIST SLID OPEN A DOOR.
THOUSANDS OF PAINTINGS OF FISH FELL OUT.Remy Charlip, Arm in Arm
Rated R, 90 Minutes
Director: Stanley Tucci
Writer: Stanley Tucci
Genre: Sisyphus
Type of being most likely to enjoy this film: Insane perfectionists
Type of being least likely to enjoy this film: Their spouses
