The Goldfinch
I found it entertaining, although I completely understand why it was so harshly criticized. It did not seem like a great film to me, nor an especially solid adaptation, but I also did not experience it as the absolute disaster many reviews describe. It has obvious problems with rhythm, structure and emotion, yes, but it also has an attractive enough story, a strong cast and such a carefully crafted visual wrapping that, at least for me, it kept me inside.
The premise seems very good to me: a boy marked by a tragedy, a painting tied to that trauma, a life broken from childhood and a constant feeling of guilt, loss and rootlessness. On paper, there is material there for a huge film. The problem is that the film wants to cover so much of the novel that at times it seems to be jumping between important moments without managing to let them all breathe equally. The compression is too noticeable.
Even so, Theo's journey interested me. That child who survives something terrible and carries for years a mixture of pain, secrecy and fascination with a work of art has something powerful. The film works best when it focuses on that wound: on how a loss can freeze a part of life, how an object can become both refuge and condemnation, and how someone can grow up without ever fully leaving the instant that broke him.
Visually, it is beautiful. There I think even those who hate it have to admit that there is a clear elegance. Roger Deakins's photography, the interiors, the colors, the museums, the houses, the deserts and the colder or more decadent spaces give it a very attractive finish. Sometimes the film seems more confident as a surface than as a drama, but that surface helps a lot in watching it. It is a pretty film, even when what it tells is sad.
The cast also adds something. Ansel Elgort can feel somewhat flat at times, but he did not bother me as much as he did others. Oakes Fegley, in the childhood section, seems more convincing to me, because he conveys the confusion and the initial blow better. Nicole Kidman brings a distant elegance that fits her character very well, and Jeffrey Wright gives humanity and calm to a part of the story that I appreciated. There is also Boris, who brings in a more chaotic and youthful energy.
What fails is that the emotion does not always arrive with the force it should. The film talks about grief, trauma, art, guilt, love, friendship, addiction and fate, but it does not always manage to make all that weigh. There are scenes that should break you a little and instead remain correct, well lit and well dressed, but emotionally somewhat distant. It is not that there is no feeling; it is that it is often softened by a narration that is too solemn and fragmented.
I understand the criticism that it feels like an adaptation that is too respectful and at the same time insufficient. It wants to include a lot, perhaps too much, and for that reason some relationships never fully come together. The bond with the painting, which should be the symbolic heart of everything, sometimes feels more explained than lived. The film tells you that the object matters enormously, and you understand it, but you do not always feel it with the necessary intensity.
However, I would not dismiss it. There are failed films that bore or irritate, and this one did not do that to me. It seemed irregular, yes, but also elegant, melancholic and fairly easy to follow. It has something of a luxury dramatic feuilleton, a story of lives damaged by an initial accident, a literary melodrama that never quite takes flight but remains interesting to watch. Perhaps it does not move you as it should, but it did not leave me outside either.
I especially liked the idea of how art can become attached to a traumatic memory. The painting is not just a valuable object, but a kind of material remnant of a destroyed life. That connection between beauty and guilt, between preservation and theft, between memory and obsession, seems to me the most interesting thing in the film, even if it is not always developed with all the possible force.
In the end, it remains for me an entertaining, beautiful and clearly imperfect film. It is not the great drama it was probably trying to be, nor does it seem capable of transferring all the depth of the novel, but it has enough elements for me not to regret having watched it: an attractive story, magnificent photography, good actors and an elegant sadness that, although it sometimes stays on the surface, gives it a certain personality. Failed, yes; useless, no.
The premise seems very good to me: a boy marked by a tragedy, a painting tied to that trauma, a life broken from childhood and a constant feeling of guilt, loss and rootlessness. On paper, there is material there for a huge film. The problem is that the film wants to cover so much of the novel that at times it seems to be jumping between important moments without managing to let them all breathe equally. The compression is too noticeable.
Even so, Theo's journey interested me. That child who survives something terrible and carries for years a mixture of pain, secrecy and fascination with a work of art has something powerful. The film works best when it focuses on that wound: on how a loss can freeze a part of life, how an object can become both refuge and condemnation, and how someone can grow up without ever fully leaving the instant that broke him.
Visually, it is beautiful. There I think even those who hate it have to admit that there is a clear elegance. Roger Deakins's photography, the interiors, the colors, the museums, the houses, the deserts and the colder or more decadent spaces give it a very attractive finish. Sometimes the film seems more confident as a surface than as a drama, but that surface helps a lot in watching it. It is a pretty film, even when what it tells is sad.
The cast also adds something. Ansel Elgort can feel somewhat flat at times, but he did not bother me as much as he did others. Oakes Fegley, in the childhood section, seems more convincing to me, because he conveys the confusion and the initial blow better. Nicole Kidman brings a distant elegance that fits her character very well, and Jeffrey Wright gives humanity and calm to a part of the story that I appreciated. There is also Boris, who brings in a more chaotic and youthful energy.
What fails is that the emotion does not always arrive with the force it should. The film talks about grief, trauma, art, guilt, love, friendship, addiction and fate, but it does not always manage to make all that weigh. There are scenes that should break you a little and instead remain correct, well lit and well dressed, but emotionally somewhat distant. It is not that there is no feeling; it is that it is often softened by a narration that is too solemn and fragmented.
I understand the criticism that it feels like an adaptation that is too respectful and at the same time insufficient. It wants to include a lot, perhaps too much, and for that reason some relationships never fully come together. The bond with the painting, which should be the symbolic heart of everything, sometimes feels more explained than lived. The film tells you that the object matters enormously, and you understand it, but you do not always feel it with the necessary intensity.
However, I would not dismiss it. There are failed films that bore or irritate, and this one did not do that to me. It seemed irregular, yes, but also elegant, melancholic and fairly easy to follow. It has something of a luxury dramatic feuilleton, a story of lives damaged by an initial accident, a literary melodrama that never quite takes flight but remains interesting to watch. Perhaps it does not move you as it should, but it did not leave me outside either.
I especially liked the idea of how art can become attached to a traumatic memory. The painting is not just a valuable object, but a kind of material remnant of a destroyed life. That connection between beauty and guilt, between preservation and theft, between memory and obsession, seems to me the most interesting thing in the film, even if it is not always developed with all the possible force.
In the end, it remains for me an entertaining, beautiful and clearly imperfect film. It is not the great drama it was probably trying to be, nor does it seem capable of transferring all the depth of the novel, but it has enough elements for me not to regret having watched it: an attractive story, magnificent photography, good actors and an elegant sadness that, although it sometimes stays on the surface, gives it a certain personality. Failed, yes; useless, no.
Mini Review: I found it entertaining, although I completely understand why it was so harshly criticized. It did not seem like a great film to me, nor an especially solid adaptation, but I also did not experience it as the absolute disaster many reviews describe. It has obvious problems with rhythm, structure and emotion, yes, but it also has an attractive enough story, a strong cast and such a carefully crafted visual wrapping that, at least for me, it kept...
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