Chris At The Pictures

★ ★ ★ ★ ☆

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.

★ ★ ★ ½ ☆

Here’s a deliciously sordid and gory gem from director Juan Carlos Medina and screenwriter Jane Goldman (Kick Ass, X-Men: Days of Future Past). Based on Peter Ackroyd’s book, Dan Leno and The Limehouse Golem, Medina’s film stars Bill Nighy as Inspector John Kildare. Eager to restore his reputation after damaging rumours of not being “the marrying kind”, Kildare is given the case of the titular Golem, a moniker appropriated by a killer who stalks the streets of London.

Olivia Cooke plays Lizzie Cree, a suspect in the death of her husband John (Sam Reid), himself under investigation for a possible part in the Golem murders. The alleged perpetrators have been whittled down to four: Cree, scholar George Gissing, stage performer Dan Leno, and Karl Marx (yes, that one).

During their individual questioning, we’re treated to fantasy sequences of each suspect committing one of the horrific homicides. Stylistic merits aside, they’re a hoot purely for the spectacle of Karl Mark dismembering someone with childish glee.

Each interviewee leaves an impression, but none more so than Douglas Booth as the exuberant Leno, who leaves no scenery unchewed. Eddie Marsan also puts in a juicy turn from under a very unconvincing bald cap, a prop which – combined with murky CG and an invisible but extremely loud orchestra in the music hall scenes – brings the film’s modest budget to the forefront.

Cooke is the best of the bunch by far, overshadowing even Nighy. Though reliably strong in his role as the noble and empathetic detective, the veteran British actor appears lost occasionally; the murder-mystery plot writ large over every inch of the marketing only rearing its head every once in a while. For most of the running time we’re taking trips back into Lizzie’s past, exploring her humble origins and deteriorating relationship with her husband and the stage she so desperately loves. Cooke proves a great companion for the journey, even if it’s genuinely painful turns feel somewhat at odds with the pulpier moments of misty streets and shameless viscera.

To its credit, the film itself seems aware of this imbalance. Infuriated by Kildare’s infatuation with Lizzie’s predicament, policeman George Flood (a great but misspent Daniel Mays) proclaims his confusion “as to whether we’re here to find the golem or save Elizabeth Cree!”

The unravelling revelations surrounding Lizzie’s guilt (or lack thereof) means Goldman can briefly raise a few discussions concerning the perceived innocence of one gender over another and the act of preserving one’s work after death. They’re piecemeal offerings, but to have them handed over by a B-movie Victorian horror is a welcome surprise. It’s not quite the ‘Hammer Horror takes on Mr Holmes’ we’re led to expect, but it’s well-acted, effectively gruesome and engagingly labyrinthine. Just one question: following Pride and now The Limehouse Golem, what film can we expect to complete the Gay Bill Nighy trilogy?

★ ★ ½ ☆ ☆