Kinski Paganini

Herzog fans know the story, that the great actor and notorious madman Klaus Kinski tried to get him to direct a screenplay he'd written, some kind of biography of Italian violinist Niccolò Paganini. When Herzog told him his script was awful and had zero cinematic potential, he became enraged and decided to make the film himself. A wildly incompetent, deranged vanity project, Paganini was the last film Kinski made before his death, and his sole credit as director and screenwriter, and it's been little-seen since then. Now, in the year of our lord 2024, the deviants at Vinegar Syndrome have decided to give this film the deluxe blu-ray treatment that it certainly doesn't deserve, and allow us to see and judge this fascinating historical document for ourselves. Well then...

So, uh, 8 minutes into the movie, a narrator tells us "Every time he played, Paganini's phallus would become erect", while women attending his violin recital are shown to be apparently orgasming in their seats. This is pretty much the type of material I expected from Kinski. There is some occasionally amusing, depraved or gonzo filmmaking here, of which these opening scenes are rather a highlight. It also gets into some fairly creepy territory - exploring Paganini's apparent love of specifically underage girls, and there's something very off as well about how Kinski portrays his relationship with his son - all of which seems about right from a guy who sexually abused his daughter in real life.

What I less expected is that he's really moreso trying to make an arthouse film here, maybe even to direct it the way he thinks that Herzog would. I will say that the period costumes and set dressing are actually pretty good. But the thing is, most of the film, nothing is happening. And this is actually my biggest complaint about the film. Most of the time we're either watching Kinski pretend to play the violin, or, just, barely doing anything, while violin music nonetheless incessantly carries on in the soundtrack. This is maddening to the point where it's sometimes comical, as in a (shall we say, "iconic"?) five-minute scene that cuts back and forth at least 20 times between Kinski and a masked woman walking toward each other in slow motion.

As a biopic of Paganini, this is an epic fail. I didn't know anything about Paganini before, and I still don't think I learned anything. But, somehow, if you look closely enough, it feels almost autobiographical. Kinski in fact genuinely believed he was the living reincarnation of Niccolò Paganini. And from that perspective, as someone who's watched "My Best Fiend", and read "All I Need is Love" (aka "Kinski Uncut"), and seen countless interviews and media with Kinski (usually losing his s***)... As someone fascinated less by Niccolò Paganini and more by Klaus Kinski... I did find this film pretty interesting! Not on its own merits of course, but as a piece of film culture. And in that sense, the VinSyn blu-ray actually is deserved, and it's kind of an amazing release, especially given the wealth of supplemental features on it (including an hour of absolutely insane behind-the-scenes footage of Kinski directing, where, with his long black hair and delusional self-confidence, he looks like Tommy Wiseau - on cocaine... I think I found my review headline!)

Having appeared briefly in A SONG TO REMEMBER (1945), the Hollywood film about Frederic Chopin, I thought of watching this radical take on the life of Niccolo' Paganini (his own mainstream biopic came courtesy of the British THE MAGIC BOW {1946}, starring Stewart Granger). Anyway, this notorious film proved not only Kinski's sole directorial effort but his swan-song. By this time, he had proved so difficult that nobody wanted to employ him – the film's producer, Augusto Caminito, was apparently one of the few who could reason with him and, in fact, apart from helming the little-seen GRANDI CACCIATORI (1988; co-starring Harvey Keitel), he would replace Mario Caiano after the latter threw in the towel and abandoned VAMPIRE IN VENICE (1988)! Those two films were nothing to write home about, but they feel like real cinema, whereas this is an incoherent mess of a softcore home movie! Apparently, Kinski identified with violinist Paganini (who here is repeatedly described as a crippled monster yet women shamelessly lust for him!) because of their parallel lives – both being misunderstood geniuses with a voracious sexual appetite (of course, the fact that Kinski saw himself like that speaks volumes about the size of his ego)...to the point that the film is generally referred to as KINSKI PAGANINI!

Incidentally, the version I watched (where Kinski delivers his own lines in soft-spoken but heavily-accented Italian, despite being ostensibly a local!) ran just 81 minutes, which is how it was released theatrically (edited from a reportedly 12-hour TV mini-series!). Why the film was given a manic, haphazard pace (there is no plot to speak of here, as if we were only intended to catch a cursory glimpse of Paganini's backstory, which basically resolves itself in a succession of carriage-rides anyway!) when it could have been extended to, say, 2 hours with a proper beginning, middle and end, is beyond me – but, then, it would probably not have been worthy of attention, except that, as it stands now and the way I see it, it only elicits contempt! I know of Kinski's reputation (the Italian "Stracult" TV program even showed scenes of him going apeshit during the shooting of this very film, its subsequent press conference and other Italian movies he worked on) but this had never interfered with my appreciation of his undeniable acting talent. Here, however, by assuming complete control (after his frequent director Werner Herzog turned him down flat, which soured their relationship even more than it already was!), one can only place the film's shortcomings at his door. For the record, a recent German DVD edition unearthed a "Director's Cut" of PAGANINI running 95 minutes, which suggests that Kinski always knew he would end up with merely the skeleton of the original version – indeed, on the afore-mentioned program, Kinski is seen wildly operating the camera himself, and no amount of post-production tweaking can adjust a shot that is badly-framed, out-of-focus or underexposed…but, as I said, more judicious editing – rather than relying solely on instinct – could have improved the overall quality or, at least, allowed the viewer to care about what he was being asked to watch!

Needless to say, the film ends up giving Art-house cinema a bad name, not just because of its ungainly approach but mainly because it cannibalizes other film-makers without ever hoping to match their dexterity: apart from the fragmented structure a' la Nicolas Roeg (down to Paganini's son rushing to and aching over him in slow-motion at the moment of the violinist's death, in a reverse situation to the one at the start of DON'T LOOK NOW {1973}) and its being shot by utilizing only natural light (in clear imitation of Stanley Kubrick's BARRY LYNDON {1975}), we also get an irrelevant horse-mating scene (to go along with shots of Dalila Di Lazzaro pleasuring herself whilst thinking of Maestro Paganini!) lifted outright from Walerian Borowczyk's similarly smutty but far more considerable – and rewarding – THE BEAST (1975)! Incidentally, the film co-stars two of Kinski's family members: his last wife, Debora Caprioglio (billed Kinski), and his son Nikolai Kinski. While the former is not given much to do (especially since she has to share Paganini with so many other adulating women, including Italian starlet Eva Grimaldi as Napoleon Bonaparte' sister, who carries on with Paganini in full military regalia!), the boy is quite good – indeed, the film only connects on an emotional level during his scenes with Daddy (and it was undeniably poignant to watch the older Kinski dote so unreservedly over his offspring, keeping in mind also that he would die within 2 years!). Also turning up briefly in the film are Feodor Chaliapin as an elderly authority figure hellbent on expelling Paganini from the country for his licentiousness, and celebrated mime Marcel Marceau incarnating the musician in a staged parody of his exploits.

However, the star/writer/director's egomania, high opinion of himself (at one point, Paganini – and, by extension, Kinski – is literally described as being able to give himself a hard-on through the playing of his musical instrument!) and his lack of experience behind the camera sabotages at every turn the film's aspirations as an objective look at the mind-set of a creative but evidently troubled personality. The fact that Paganini's predilection for underage girls, which obviously landed him in trouble with the Law, elicits the ire of the people can only be shared by the audience, who are thus forced to participate in the masturbatory fantasies of an ageing and deranged narcissist who has pretty much hit rock-bottom on all conceivable levels! In the end, I should mention that Paganini's music is heard practically incessantly throughout but, rather than evoking the accomplishment of the work itself, one is left with ears reeling squeamishly from the strident notes!

Note: I thought it would be more in line with the spirit of the film if I capitalised every instance of KLAUS KINSKI's name being used throughout this review

I have no doubt that this is the most narcissistic film ever to see the inside of a cinema. Even the very title KINSKI Paganini shows a total lack of restraint.

It begins with an audience of pretty women frigging themselves senseless as KINSKI lashes at his violin. The whole movie is pretty much a montage of women losing complete control of their senses at the mere thought of KINS--- I mean Paganini. Even eleven year old girls wish they could, for but one second, experience the full thrust of his virility. He even sends sea-animals into a dizzy frenzy of lust- and horses, too. You see two horses going at it early on in the film and I'm sure both of them were secretly thinking of KINSKI. At least that's what he probably wanted us to think.

Just like with Dennis Hopper's The Last Movie, whatever plot may have been present whilst shooting was completely torn to shreds in the editing suite. What remains is a lot of strangely pretty shots of KINSKI power-walking through a lush 19th Century Europe or cavorting with buxom underrage actresses inside ornate manor houses. It's mostly shot in a cinéma vérité style. If it weren't for the fact that he's on screen for almost every second of the movie, I wouldn't be surprised if it was KINSKI himself manning the camera. The only time you see shots of anyone else is when a beautiful woman is rubbing herself lustfully, her thoughts occupied by the eponymous scowling Nosferatu with sweaty jet-black hair and a bald patch.

Ah, but KINSKI has a more sensitive side, too. Just like that memorable scene in My Best Fiend where he gently plays with a butterfly that's become strangely enamoured of him, we see him care for his exceptionally pretty young son. Although even this relationship seems oddly lusty.

The camera-work, well-staged as most of it is, has far too many close- ups. You almost never see any wide shots showing off the beautiful locations. There's absolutely no doubt in my mind at all this is because KINSKI wanted KINSKI to fill up the frame as much as possible. According to his ol' sparring partner Herzy, KINSKI threw a tantrum for not having the opening shot to Aguirre be a close-up of him walking down that misty mountain, instead of the hundreds of people and cattle that we actually saw. Well, he finally got his way.

In all likelihood, you'll absolutely loathe this movie. And you'll probably be right to. But there is a strange energy coursing throughout- that of a man at the end of his tether, foreseeing his death, and spending all his remaining lifeblood on this one final work.

I believe KLAUS KINSKI may have been an incredibly rare genetic throwback to some transitional Cro-Magnon race. He shows no signs of the tempering of thousands of years of social evolution. He's like some purely physical being. You can tell that by the time this movie was shot, he didn't so much burn the candle at both ends as throw it into the fire and cackle maniacally as it melted. He died two years after this was released. It was the last film he shot in a career that spanned over 130 movies. I can't think of a more fitting way to go out.

If you came here as a Paganini fan rather than a KINSKI fan (as if anyone could be a bigger fan of KINSKI than KINSKI himself), you can always just imagine this is a sexy 80-minute music video to some of Paganini's works. The interpretations by Salvatore Accardo are wonderfully performed.

I watched Paganini for the first time, then ran to watch bits of Fitzcarraldo again. I just realized why: It was the armchair cineaste's equivalent of taking a shower to rinse the muck off after watching Paganini.

I needed to watch Fitzcarraldo to remind myself that, yes, Kinski was a great actor. And he was.

I never thought I'd actually find a genuine-article case of this, but in Paganini you have Kinski finally using film--and his fans--as a full-tilt surrogate for his fading fantasy that he's the rooster in the barnyard.

It really is shameless. People thought that Woody Allen used film like this way long after he shoulda. Well, guess what? Allen is a piker.

If you're curious to see a great film star at his lowest ebb in this particular regard, watch Paganini.

Now, people in these comments extol the natural lighting, Kinski's raw magnetism, the unstudied editing, the artful inattention to technique in general, genuinely moving scenes of familial love, etc., etc. Yes, all those things are arguably there. I'm not just being conciliatory for rhetorical effect. But there comes a time when you have to admit the evidence of what you're seeing before your very eyes, and the conclusion is inescapable: Kinski is jerking off at our expense. He's not just exercising an eccentric degree of artistic license. He's lost in unfiltered, unsublimated sexual self-aggrandizement.

This film has a less-than-stellar reputation. Paganini is portrayed by Klaus Kinski in his final film; after failing to persuade his best 'fiend' Werner Herzog to direct, Kinsi did the job himself, electing to use only natural lighting. The resulting scenes are often obscured because of this. Kinski energetically mimes to the frenzied violin playing of Paganini, with his right hand. In close-ups of the genuine player that are spliced in, the instrument is being played with the left hand. These things, the meandering story, and the tasteless sex scenes between the titular character and a series of underage girls, have been used to berate the film. They don't bother me that much, particularly the latter, because that was an undeniable element of the character.

What sets my teeth on edge is the consistent use of screeching, choppy violin 'music' throughout the 81-minute runtime. Of course that was the sound Paganini was known for. Of course it represents his genius and torment (traits Kinski seized upon when he made the film, probably because of the similarities between them both). But it's present all the time, as a backdrop to all the varied emotional moments. What makes Paganini's final, and very powerful, scenes so effective is the comparative silence in which they are represented.

By this time in his life, as the Blu-ray extras attest at length, Kinski felt he was spent, that he 'did not exist', and this exacerbated his extreme behaviour (one commentator tells how every morning, after checking his make-up, the star would smash the mirror, explaining the reflection only has the right to see his image once). I'm not sure whether it was because no one wanted to work with him at this stage, or he wouldn't listen to advice anyway, but whatever; this film cries out for additional eyes during production, a more restrained voice behind the camera.

'Paganini', or 'Kinski Paganini', has many fine moments. Much of the superb location is well captured, the period and settings are well realised, many of the performances are very good (Kinski's son Nikolai in particular) and there's no denying that Klaus the actor was a force of nature and delivers a bombastic final performance. It could really have benefitted from a less grating soundtrack and a more subtle director. My score is 6 out of 10.