Loving Vincent: Melancholia in poetic visuals

Peculiar of a post-impressionist artist, Vincent van Gogh’s works are a window into the artist’s mind. Breaking free from the canons of impressionism, he painted in solitude — with rage and deep pain — ecstatically responding to natural landscapes, producing an emotionally charged oeuvre. Many, many years later, as you stand in a sanitised museum with his works clinically arranged, it still overwhelms you in ways that can seldom be articulated.

It’s these paintings that aptly form the universe of Loving Vincent. Filmmakers Dorota Kobiela and Hugh Welchman carve out settings and characters from Van Gogh’s popular works, creating an outstanding visual experience; one we’ve never seen before. The 90-minute feature boasts of being the first fully oil-painted film in history. It’s an ode that sure is laborious and painstaking, but the sheer joy of revelling in your favourite Van Gogh painting on screen is unmatched. The most rewarding aspect of the film -- as a film on art should be -- is the art itself. As the projector light creates an extraordinary texture on the blank whiteness of the cinema screen, the audience is ushered into an almost transcendental space.

It’s not new for filmmakers, poets, musicians and even fellow artists to pay homage to Van Gogh in their works, nor is it unprecedented for them to solve the mystery surrounding his death. Dorota Kobiela and Hugh Welchman, in their recreation of Van Gogh’s last few days, create an explanation that appears forced, and somewhat illogical. The build up is long and often repetitive, especially considering the film is merely 90 minutes. But as the mystery dissipates, on the sideline, the melancholia, which haunted the painter all his life, begins to take shape. While Van Gogh obsessively pours his sorrow onto the canvas, the makers of this film are unsure of what to do with its overwhelming presence. It remains unaddressed in words, but starkly visible in visuals.

Van Gogh himself remains a dark figure, lurking in the shadows. His mania and obsession are perfectly captured by Robert Gulaczyk, who plays the part. But the cast that includes Douglas Booth, Helen McCrory, Chris O’Dowd, Saoirse Ronan and Aidan Turner are overshadowed by the animation and the efforts of the 125 artists who recreated them in 65,000 oil paintings. It’s heartening to observe that the characters are introduced in the position in which Van Gogh painted them, creating a series of visual poetry. The true success of this film lies in what you see than what you are told.

As the film ends, expectedly, with a shot of The Starry Night (1889), arguably Van Gogh’s most known and celebrated work, Lianne La Havas begins to sing Don McLean’s Starry Starry Night. Just when you think you couldn’t be immersed deeper into the meditative world of Van Gogh, the film takes you through a dairy of the painter’s works which form the crux of the movie. As the book flips, with each passing page, the painter’s obsession and insanity escapes the screen and settles quietly in your head, nudging you insistently, long after you’ve left the cinema hall.