★ ★ ★ ★ ☆
The father of modern art lives and loves again in this startling visual experiment – the first and only hand-painted motion picture – that continues a golden age of cinematic animation. Directors Dorota Kobiela and Hugh Welchman lead this British-Polish co-production, with Douglas Booth and Saoirse Ronan heading up a perfect cast of performers through ninety minutes of painted poetry, detailing the aftermath of Vincent Van Gogh’s death in 1890.
With twelve individual paintings accounting for every second of footage, it’s incredibly easy to find oneself overwhelmed by the sheer audacity and scale of the project, allowing the story it depicts to become eclipsed by pure awe. It’s a testament to the screenwriters that Loving Vincent’s narrative is as compelling as its colours. Booth (playing Armand Roulin, an acquaintance of the troubled artist) travels to the small French town of Auvers-sur-Oise, ostensibly to deliver a letter to Van Gogh’s brother, Theo. His quest soon becomes an investigation; to divine the reasoning behind the Dutchman’s unexpected suicide.
While the visual canvas of the film is sweeping, majestic and writ large with the brightest tones, the storytelling is intimate, built on small but effective interplays. It’s a portrait of an artist not lectured by scholars or listed in biographical facts but whispered, reminisced and dramatized in memories and anecdotes from the subjects of his many paintings. Standout vignettes include the uppity sniffs sent Roulin’s way by Helen McCrory’s churchgoing matriarch, Chris O'Dowd as a sage postmaster and the earnest regret of Van Gogh’s doctor, Gachet (Jerome Flynn). Like our bemused protagonist, the plot stumbles hither-and-thither (sometimes losing sight of the finer details in pursuit of pithiness), but this lack of coherent structure is redeemed by a mature reliance on gentle humour and subtle heartbreak over melodrama broader than a brushstroke.
I’ve tried typing a description of how this film looks about fifty times, but the only real way to understand is to see it for yourself. See the colours ooze and meld, notice the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it inclusions of Van Gogh’s masterworks, be stricken by the tiniest hint of moisture in Saoirse Ronan’s eyes that remains every bit as disarming through smudged oils as it is through the sharpest of digital lenses. Like all true art, its afterglow will leave you struggling to re-adjust your senses, baffled by the dull tones of reality.
With twelve individual paintings accounting for every second of footage, it’s incredibly easy to find oneself overwhelmed by the sheer audacity and scale of the project, allowing the story it depicts to become eclipsed by pure awe. It’s a testament to the screenwriters that Loving Vincent’s narrative is as compelling as its colours. Booth (playing Armand Roulin, an acquaintance of the troubled artist) travels to the small French town of Auvers-sur-Oise, ostensibly to deliver a letter to Van Gogh’s brother, Theo. His quest soon becomes an investigation; to divine the reasoning behind the Dutchman’s unexpected suicide.
While the visual canvas of the film is sweeping, majestic and writ large with the brightest tones, the storytelling is intimate, built on small but effective interplays. It’s a portrait of an artist not lectured by scholars or listed in biographical facts but whispered, reminisced and dramatized in memories and anecdotes from the subjects of his many paintings. Standout vignettes include the uppity sniffs sent Roulin’s way by Helen McCrory’s churchgoing matriarch, Chris O'Dowd as a sage postmaster and the earnest regret of Van Gogh’s doctor, Gachet (Jerome Flynn). Like our bemused protagonist, the plot stumbles hither-and-thither (sometimes losing sight of the finer details in pursuit of pithiness), but this lack of coherent structure is redeemed by a mature reliance on gentle humour and subtle heartbreak over melodrama broader than a brushstroke.
I’ve tried typing a description of how this film looks about fifty times, but the only real way to understand is to see it for yourself. See the colours ooze and meld, notice the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it inclusions of Van Gogh’s masterworks, be stricken by the tiniest hint of moisture in Saoirse Ronan’s eyes that remains every bit as disarming through smudged oils as it is through the sharpest of digital lenses. Like all true art, its afterglow will leave you struggling to re-adjust your senses, baffled by the dull tones of reality.
