I’m the type of person that would be willing to pay the hefty entrance fee of a museum just for the experience, end up staring (cluelessly) at the paintings for a few minutes, and then leave to get some frozen yogurt. No matter how lovely the art pieces were, they would receive the same level of appreciation that I had for poetry (meaning nearly nothing). Yes, the closest I’d be to being cultured was drinking a bottle of Yakult.
Watching this visually impressive movie felt very much like that visit to a museum. The hand-painted scenes (mostly recreations of Vincent Van Gogh’s own paintings) looked stunning, but the novelty wore off after a few minutes. The flimsy plot that basically enumerated a list of facts about his life (as a possible murder-mystery) made me recall my futile attempt to read an entire volume of Encyclopaedia Brittanica (I ultimately got bored and failed).
The only time I actually felt something was when a version of Don McLean’s Vincent (Starry Starry Night) played during the end credits. How could you not sing along to that melancholic song? Bring on the infinite sadness.