Sep. 11, 2007 - Issue #621: Sex in The City 07

Evoking an error ... er, era in Klimt

‘Poor Klimt,” mocks the object of the titular character’s years-long fetishistic obsession. “He doesn’t know where he is. He’s lost.” At long last, in the final moments of the film, there’s some straw of sentiment the audience can empathize with.

Klimt is what happens when the three most difficult tropes in cinema—portraying dawning insanity, deathbed flashbacks and the creative process—are brought together to be totally fumbled, burdened by an incoherent script, sophomoric dialogue, self-conscious camera work and stilted acting.

It’s difficult to see why the film attracted a European festival award nod during its original 2006 release, except it bullies the earnest into appreciating it, much like willfully obtuse “art” films of the ’80s did, with their naked quirky chicks, posh accents and dialogue that would shame Samuel Beckett.

The sad thing is that Gustav Klimt could’ve dearly used some cinematic illumination of consequence and depth, instead of the gratuitous cartoon provided by Chilean-born veteran writer/director Raoul Ruiz and acted by the empty vessel of John Malkovich. Over the years, Klimt’s veneration of female sexuality and ornament has become palatable to the masses. Once a nervy visionary, Klimt’s works now adorn coffee mugs and calendars, often serving as a sort of reference shorthand for people who self-identify as both erotic and arty—and wish to have coffee mugs and calendars confirm their assessment. If any historical creative figure was ripe for revisiting, if only to contextualize an aesthetic within the systemic forces that fed and limited it, but hopefully also as a broader portrait of a complex human being, Klimt is a good mercy candidate. There are few biographical films that adequately convey the human-ness of a subject as well as the social factors surrounding them, and to be fair, this doesn’t seem to be what Ruiz was after. The story structure, a shooting style that could kindly be termed “hallucinogenic” and weird magnification of genuine details but blurry overall narrative fidelity suggest he was aiming to disrupt the usual relationship between central character and viewer and impart a sense of Klimt’s supposed perception, addled by syphilitic toxins and roaring creativity.

The film is lavish in some aspects—the extravagant costumes and sets are divine, and an endless parade of beautiful women in period dress or undress seem alive with Klimt-ness. Simply seeing people next to stand-ins for his works impart a feel for how surprisingly powerful the originals must have been, scaled near the dimensions of life. Klaus Kinski’s doppelganger son, Nikolai, invests his portrayal of Egon Schiele with consummate Klaus-ness, and the lovely Veronica Ferres brandishes the largest muff ever seen on film (she’s fully clothed).

Unfortunately, it takes more than an excellent costumer and set dresser to conjure an era, and more than constant exclamations of shock and scandal by supporting characters to communicate revolution. Reducing any artist to a grim succession of titillations and childish outbursts prevents us from seeing the revolutionary beneath the ornamentation. V

Fri, Sep 14, Sun, Sep 16 (7 pm)
Sat, Sep 15, Tue, Sep 18 (9 pm)
Klimt
Written & Directed by Raoul Ruiz
Starring John Malkovich, Veronica Ferres, Saffron Burrows, Nikolai Kinski
Metro Cinema, $10

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