The real point of this film is that every frame is a pastiche of a Van Gogh canvas, and everything has avowedly been painted by hand.
Landscapes pulse and throb, swirl and scintillate; brushstrokes bristle on skies or people’s faces like autumn leaves. Sometimes specific images are coyly referenced – although the film stops short of the sunflowers themselves.
It’s accomplished and, in a way, impressive. And as Van Gogh did paint so much, so indefatigably, it is almost as if a whole pictorial world could perhaps be put together, just as this film has been put together, from his canvases alone.
But it also becomes oppressive, self-admiring and even a bit pointless. Does it imply that the spirit of Van Gogh is lingering behind, after his death, looking at everything in this pastiche Van Gogh way? As an exercise in style, Loving Vincent is of interest, but it doesn’t tell us that much about his work or his life.
