While the design and locations and photography are strong assets in this film; it is a turgid and melodramatic affair which demonstrates the limits of cinema to convey truth.
The case is the use of the soundtrack music: a mix of Gustav Mahler and Andrew Lloyd-Webber that plays constantly and loudly, and would have made Max Steiner grimace at its over use as it instructs the audience how difficult; how ecstatic; how tortured it is to be an artist. And then it really counts the story elides the details at the end.
This heightened and kitsch exploitation of emotions was once well ridiculed by Peter Ackroyd about a Yukio Mishima book: This is not writing, this is Barbara Cartland. Precisely the same critique can be made of this film: a deceptive, mawkish vanity project.
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