FINAL PORTRAIT-Review

Time for a hefty dose of culture down at the ole’ multiplex (really, the joint needs some classing up). The cinema arts have often used iconic figures in the other arts for inspiration and drama. Films have been based on the lives of writers, composers, musicians, and performers. Since the movies are such a visual medium, it’s only natural that they would veer into the worlds of illustration and fine art. Over the last few years, a cinematic art museum has featured lauded film biographies like MR. TURNER, POLLOCK, and last year’s Oscar-nominated wonder LOVING VINCENT. Really, Van Gough has been the focus or supporting character in several films, as have DaVinci, Michelangelo, Picasso, even Warhol. Now add another to that roster with this film about the 20th century sculptor Alberto Giacometti. But in this docudrama he’s not working his magic with clay and plaster. This story is told by the subject of his work with paint brushes on canvas. We go from blank slate to the FINAL PORTRAIT.

Writer and art historian James Lord (Armie Hammer) narrates the story of this collaboration in early sixties Paris. At a gallery, Lord accosts an older, chain-smoking, disheveled gentleman. It is the renown Alberto Giacometti (Geoffrey Rush), who has asked him to pose for a portrait. They head back to his studio, on an out-of-the-way side street. Across from that workshop is the flat he shares with often neglected wife Annette (Sylvie Testud). And above the studio is the workspace of Alberto’s younger brother Diego (Tony Shalhoub), who crafts the armatures for his brother’s sculptures along with pedestals and frames. As Lord sits across from Alberto for his new masterpiece, the calm is disrupted by the arrival of the great artist’s obsession, the prostitute known as Caroline (Clemence Poesy). The promise of “only a two or three-hour posing session” has its first postponement. But Lord has a few days to spare and gladly agrees to return, for a Giacometti is more than worth a bit of inconvenience. But soon those “few hours” stretch into days and eventually weeks as Lord befriends the master’s brother and long-suffering wife. As Alberto hems, haws, procrastinates, and restarts over and over, Lord wonders if the piece will ever be completed.

Though he’s not the teller of the tale, Rush has the real showcase role as the enigmatic, eccentric artist. Alberto shuffles about in a dead-eyed stare, only exuding his passion when around his much-younger muse. or when he curses at a brush stroke (explosive F-bombs shake the studio with great frequency). At the start of any session, Rush makes us think that there will be a flurry of creativity, only to shift gears to hit the pub or take a stroll. Then later, he exhibits child-like delight as he tosses huge wads of cash about the over-stuffed studio, for though he is half Swiss he doesn’t believe in banks. For much of the film, Hammer is the endlessly patient “straight man”, a blank sounding board for Rush’s rants and outbursts. His Lord may be too cool and aloof, only mildly annoyed that he must call the airline to postpone flights home. Despite a pleading phone conversation trying to calm a rattled acquaintance (friend or lover perhaps), the extended stay is a slight inconvenience. When Lord is agitated it’s merely a contrast to Alberto’s passivity. Shalhoub, with his close-cropped silver hair, is nearly unrecognizable as the great artist’s social buffer, the one who can tame the “talent demons”. But he can only do so much, and becomes Lord’s guide to his brother’s quirks and wild mood swings. As Diego, Shalhoub portrays a man completely content to hover in the shadows, allowing his sibling to bathe in the spotlight of adoration. Poesy as Alberto’s street-walking inspiration is a careening ball of energy knocking the cobwebs and dust off of the artist’s studio and the man himself. Her true motivations remain a mystery. Is he just a “sugar daddy’ or does she really care about him? What is clear is that her “drop-ins” plunge a dagger into the heart of Testud’s Annette, who generates a great deal of empathy as the betrayed spouse.

This marks the first directing effort from acclaimed actor Stanley Tucci , who also wrote the script, that doesn’t include his work in front of the camera. Perhaps this was to concentrate on the interplay between the two leads, or to present the toil and strain in creating art. Unfortunately the scenes in the studio are just not that compelling and quickly become repetitive: Lord arrives, Albert’s crankiness reaches a boiling point, a few brush strokes, then the day’s done. Albert’s inspiration is elusive. An early scene in which he compare Lord’s face to a “thug” or a “degenerate’ doesn’t ring true, particularly with an actor who looks as though he just stepped down from Mount Olympus. A few “outsiders” enter the art space, like gallery dealers and Caroline’s..umm…managers, but the scenes end with little dramatic result. Paris of that era is well recreated, but the constant drinking and chain-smoking seems forced. This true story may have made an engaging two act play, but there’s not enough going on in FINAL PORTRAIT to merit a feature-length flick. Perhaps another museum trek is time better spent on Giacometti.

2 Out of 5

FINAL PORTRAIT opens everywhere and screens exclusively in the St. Louis area at Landmark’s Plaza Frontenac Cinemas