Film review: Final Portrait
The appeal of Final Portrait grows and grows. It is an episode in the life of Alberto Giacometti who is renown for his sculptures and paintings. Written and directed by Stanley Tucci, the film is based on a true account documented in a book by James Lord, an American writer and art critic, about an event of which he was involved.
It is Paris 1964. James (Armie Hammer) has changed his reservation to depart for New York following an invitation from Alberto (Geoffrey Rush) to sit as his subject for a portrait. After all, it is merely over an afternoon, the young man has been made to understand. But, when 63-year-old Alberto suggests later, in passing, that a work can indeed never been finished, it appears obvious the New Yorker is set to stay on for a few more afternoons, and a few afternoons more.
In the — what turns out to be — 18 days he winds up having to delay his flight at huge personal expense, never mind to contend with an agitated lover pining for his return, however, James (and the audience) come to experience the revered painter in intimate and extraordinary fashion.
Self-critical and fully given over to his art, Rush’s stooped and grizzled Alberto seems to enjoy being depressed. “He is happy only when he is desperate and uncomfortable, ” says Diego (Tony Shalhoub), his calm and unassuming brother.
James, exasperated at the eccentricity that drives the artist to repeatedly wipe out what has already been accomplished, exclaims, “He seems determined to be completely dissatisfied.”
“Perfectly dissatisfied,” Diego corrects him.
So, to the anguish of his long-suffering wife, Annette (Sylvie Testud) — herself guilty of (or perhaps driven to) infidelity — Alberto obsesses with a prostitute called Caroline (Clemence Poesy). Altogether unpredictable and careless with money his profligacy toward the young woman is matched only by his meanness toward his spouse.
And all this time, as he sits again and again for his picture to be done, nearly at the end of his tether, swimming between sessions to relieve the physical and psychological strain, James remains impeccably polite, patient, self-restrained, in Hammer’s fine performance.
A clever and unexpected close arrives finally to end the vibrating tension. Tucci, known both for his acting and directing skills, has proven to be himself no less an artist, oiling the portrait of Giacometti with fascinating texture and exquisite nuance.