Stanley Tucci’s “Final Portrait” is meant for some, but definitely not all
When did the desire to produce films that center around insufferable artistic geniuses begin? Just last year, Paul Thomas Anderson gave us “Phantom Thread”, but the trend could be traced back as far as “Lust for Life” in 1956. This year, Stanley Tucci presents this familiar narrative in a film called “Final Portrait”.
The film takes place in a mid-1960s version of Paris that feels like a small town — the characters meander through a handful of locations, run into the same people everywhere they go. Graveyards are common thoroughfare and each store’s sign is charmingly hand-painted. At the forefront, are two men — the artist and the observer. In the final days of his Paris trip, where he interviewed acclaimed artist Alberto Giacometti (Geoffrey Rush), New York writer James Lord (Armie Hammer) agrees to sit for a portrait — one that we know, from the opening minutes and title itself, will be his last. Giacometti tells Lord this process should only require a few hours of his time but it turns out to be much lengthier and emotionally exhausting than Lord expected. At first, Lord is thrilled to have a front row seat to witness Giacometti’s eccentricities— every freak out, exclamation of expletives, and flagrant dismissal of others. But what begins as curiosity fueled by admiration, develops to reveal the darkness beneath the famous painter’s gruff facade. In the time he spends posing upon the stool, observing his surroundings, Lord learns more about Giacometti and the characters that populate his life than through their previous conversations.
We get a sense of who Giacometti is from his actions and we want to think they’re motivated by something worth watching. When he receives millions of francs for his artwork, he hides it in his studio. Without hesitation, he’ll buy his mistress a car but refuses to buy his wife a new coat. He intentionally lives in squalor, despite his success, forcing his chosen bohemian lifestyle onto his brother and wife. We wonder whether he’s masochistic or just horribly self-centered — possibly both. He’s grumpy, his speech permeated by noncommittal grunts, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His brother, Diego (Tony Shalhoub), said it best: “My brother can only be happy when he’s completely and terribly uncomfortable.” But what benefit is there in forcing the audience to suffer too?
This is the fourth feature film Tucci has directed, his first being “Big Night” (1996) in which he also worked with Tony Shalhoub. However, this is the first film that he has not also acted in. Tucci’s screenplay does not give the audience much drama to hold onto, nor has he created a cast of compelling, empathetic characters. The only character that we can feel something for is Giacometti’s wife, Annette Arm, who’s captivatingly played with caged anxiety by French actress Sylvie Testud.
Although its characters are few, each actor brings unfiltered energy and distinct mannerisms to their roles. Clémence Poésy plays Caroline, a local prostitute and Giacometti’s mistress, with painful exuberance — never straying from the manic pixie dream girl trope. Armie Hammer, cast in a role that’s become quite typical for him — attractive and suave with excellent diction — remains almost a stranger to us beyond his stoic demeanor. (I’m impatiently awaiting the day when Hammer is given the opportunity equivalent of Heath Ledger’s The Joker to prove the depth of his talent — or lack thereof.) This unloveable cast of characters leaves us hungry for substance, something to make us want to continue watching this movie. In the numerous times when Giacometti paints over his work, to start clean, we can’t help but empathize with his subject in the worst way — just as Lord does, we groan at this setback, wondering how much longer this could possibly take.
Veteran music composer Evan Lurie’s score brightens up the numerous scenes in which we cut back and forth between macro-inserts of Lord’s face, Giacometti’s wrinkled and focused visage, and his deft paint brush that dances across the canvas. With each sequence, the instruments seem to mimic the motions, putting us even further in the artist’s perspective. The camerawork, overseen by cinematographer Danny Cohen, is just as shaky as the fumbling artist himself. Cohen previously proved his artful cinematic perspective in European period films such as “The King’s Speech”, “The Danish Girl”, and “Les Misérables” but seems to flail within the confines of this project. Although it’s James’ voiceover we hear intermittently, the camera makes us believe we are in Giacometti’s perspective. The pacing is stagnant and slow-moving. Everything on screen is either the dark warm grey of wet clay or the stark white of when it’s baked. We get to know James’ face nearly as well as the artist himself — every centimeter of his stubbled chin and nostrils.
This confusion of character perspective only adds to the perplexing idea of whom Tucci wants us to sympathize with. Or, are we supposed to remain objective, neither on Lord or Giacometti or even his wife’s side? Are we merely supposed to look upon these people, observe the few weeks in their lives and then leave, just as Lord does? “Final Portrait” reads like a play, stiff and monotonous, with our characters held at a distance so we can not see this film’s true flaws up close.
“Final Portrait” is now playing in select theaters.