Paganini

Klaus Kinski defined himself in his memories as the reincarnation of Paganini, his obsession for the violin genius made him writes,direct,edit and of course stars along with his wife and son ,this biopic that also was his cinematographic testament ,being the last movie he ever made before his death, and without any doubt the one that better defines his own personality....

Based in his own persona and experiences Kinski creates a portrait of Paganini through a succession of images that borders the pornographic, accompanied by the music of the genius, creating moment of pure ecstasy in which music and sex come together as part of the same thing.

The film shows a man trapped in himself, who is only able to see the world through his own art.

Kinski and Paganini becomes the same person in a desperate journey in the search of love, where they will be saved by most pure love that exist, the love of their own blood.

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.

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!)

Klaus Kinski, full-time actor and madman, takes on the character of Paganini in this painterly tableau of the artist's obsessions and world.

Kinski assumes the role of star, director, occasional cameraman and places family members in prominent parts. The film is heavy on symbolism and sparse in the storytelling department. It is basically a series of meditations and the artist at rest before he goes on rampages of sex, as frenetic as his violin playing. The film is full of often beautiful photography (mostly using natural light or candles) and the distorted vision of the period comes to life in a staggering way. In terms of narrative, it is a complete fiasco, but Kinski does not give a damn about the story. He cares about the character and the moment. As such, character and moment are as intense and vibrant as any Kinski performance.

Kinski as an actor always seemed to burn through the screen. This film is 100% Kinski. Therefore, predictably, it is completely overwhelming, unbearable one might say, even if one overlooks the manic sex scenes (a heroic feat): a woman touches herself to the sound of Paganini's playing, while horses fornicate; the camera whirls savagely about as Paganini dives hungrily into an admirer's skirt, etc. Frankly these scenes would be out of place in any other movie. What unsettles here is the fact that they seem entirely at home in this crazed psychopath of a film.

Kinski Paganini is impossible to rate. You will very likely hate it (all the more so if you see it in the company of other people). As a window into Klaus Kinski's mind, it is essential. And, since it is a completely personal work featuring the creator's obsessions and themes, under his complete control, it fits the dictionary definition of art. Art is in the eye of the beholder (so no one need feel personally insulted), and for better or worse, this is one of the rare times I have seen its kind on a screen. You get it or you don't, and on a visceral level since narrative or sense is not the issue (in fact the only similar film is Luis Bunuel's "Un Chien Andalou", where you just follow a train of thought...).

A train-wreck of a film. Filmed with bewildering sensitivity and and fueled by intimidating passion, this is the cinematic expression of a man's soul.