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Loving Vincent Review

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Loving Vincent review:

The fact that every frame of Loving Vincent was oil-painted, in a


process that took six years, would be remarkable enough in itself. But
painted to look exactly like the work of Vincent Van Gogh? That’s
something else. Corn fields shimmer and rustle with slight flickers of
the impasto. The night sky sparkles and swirls. And faces – even the
recognisable ones of a noted British cast – pose for a set of portraits
that are rarely short of captivating.
The directors are British animator Hugh Welchman and his wife Dorota
Kobiela, a Polish-born artist. They worked with 125 artists to paint the
film’s 65,000 individual frames, inspired in each sequence by specific van Gogh paintings.
Footage was shot of the cast playing out scenes on rudimentary sets, then this was
projected on to canvases, frame by frame, and painted over. The visual effect is
overwhelming, a luxurious immersion in the palette and environment of a celebrated artist.
The script is somewhat more down-to-earth, with the occasional feel of a biographical walk-
through that you might hear acted out on a museum tour. Van Gogh himself is the mystery
at the bottom of it, rather than the central figure. It’s set a year after his death, with family
friend Armand Roulin (Douglas Booth), who has been sent by his father (Chris O’Dowd) to
deliver a letter to Vincent’s brother Theo, trying
to puzzle out the artist’s state of mind when he
died. Addressed is the theory that van Gogh
may not have taken his own life, but been shot
by a disturbed teenage boy.
As biopics go, it’s psychologically rudimentary:
the flashbacks to friendships Vincent
experienced, which switch to sharper, more
contrasty black and white, are academically
parcelled out and don’t hold many surprises.
Instead, it’s all about surrendering yourself to the textures of scenes – the tinkling of cups in
a tea-room, the sounds of bickering in a bar. Clint Mansell’s elegantly mournful score does
an important job in knitting it all together into a flowing piece of embroidery you want to
stay with. And the novelty of seeing Saoirse Ronan’s face, and Helen McCrory’s, and Aiden
Turner’s, converted into moving-image portraits by these disciples of van Gogh’s style,
remains considerable to the end.

To be fair, the film perhaps runs into the mere bad luck that cinema has done pretty well by
van Gogh in the past: especially the two wonderful creations by Vincente Minnelli (1956’s
Lust for Life) and Maurice Pialat (1991’s Van Gogh), not to mention an Altman one, and so
on. A further forthcoming biopic, starring Willem Dafoe and directed by Julian Schnabel, will
adopt a first-person point of view. One thing’s for sure: a curio it may be, and skimpy on the
human element, but Loving Vincent certainly doesn’t skimp on the beauty or the
brushstrokes.

- Mahima Rathi
Batch-4

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