Paganini

An obsessive, neurotic, schizoid masterpiece that is so far ahead of its time that its time is still ahead. It is a Rorschach test that will reveal the level of your soul. Yes, a dark evil film but a cinematically productive one, reading from Kinski's intuition about how his forms can read for us. The film, for decades, like a mad person, has been confined to an insane asylum, and considered a danger to society. It was like an unspoken secret not to see it.

I always liked it but I have been psyched out over the years from the orthodoxy insisting on its lack of merits. It has been enraging people for decades and I assumed in the restoration it would find a new life, only to find it is enraging the modern critics as well. A bad time to re-discover Kinski's Paganini (the only director other than Fellini who should have his name in the title of the movie). In our sterile climate of unprecedented conformity and rigid views of art, this reception is a mark for the film, not against it.

For all of Herzog's bad mouthing of Kinski, this film has had a grander restoration and release than his own output. Remember it was only together they made their enduring masterpieces; so badmouthing Kinski's B-movies maybe we can do the same for Herzog's nature channel documentaries or Hollywood Nicolas Cage Michael Shannon embarrassments.

I am being defensive of this movie because it warrants it, and I sense he didn't want it to impede on their works together, as if that was in danger of happening.

The cinematography brings a kind of gorgeous ancient European feeling. The editing is crass, obscene, appalling of course, it is Paganini. When have we ever had an edit like this? It is utterly mad, but it works as the most frightening tone poem ever on film, akin to even the weirdest underground Japanese cinema.

You almost don't want people to get it, and to continue to live in a state of blissful oblivion. And yet through its runtime it is a nonstop poem of madness, sex, only missing drugs; (as Dali said, and it might as well have been Kinski, "I do not take drugs, I am drugs".)

It is not for pretentious people. I can illustrate that I have watched Ken Russell's composer biopics recently, and while they are far from vanilla, in fact they are often quite daring, Paganini exposes them all as practically Disney fare.

And yet, we shouldn't take this all so literally either. I have always had a question of how mad Klaus Kinski actually was. I can tell you that you cannot make hundreds of films without having a firm grasp of reality, in fact, you must to survive in that business. He showed up on time, he made the films, he went home. The behind the scenes documentary of Fitzcarraldo shows him throwing a temper tantrum, yes, but it also shows him doing scene after scene with the utmost professionalism. The behind the scenes of Cobra Verde shows no tantrum at all.

So the depiction of this man is that he was a wild animal, a mad man, that does not gel for film business professionalism or the work the two created.

Point is, it is key to see this all as an artistic point of view. Kinski was not a De Sade figure, but it was how he played it. The film expresses both his inner dragon, but more, how he wanted to be seen.

What stands out here is that it's told without a hint of irony, like the followers of Herzog's bourgeoisie 'weird cinema' sensationalism. This is perhaps why it provoked them so greatly, he is showing the real thing.

Any bit of humor we can laugh at, such as the audience of women going crazy for him, is actually not as one would think, there for cinematic spectacle, but to express surreal excess, the contagious euphoria of being on stage. The film's goal is to capture is in this same trance.

The restoration finally brings the film to life for the first time ever. I am not sure if Vinegar Syndrome perceived its artistic virtues or did it to highlight it as a disastrous spectacle, but whatever is the reason, it's there to infuriate people for the rest of time. Kinski went farther than almost anyone, like Paganini he was not playing to the audiences, but to the fates.

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.

In this movie, Kinski gives his last great performance as the 19th century italian violin virtuoso Nicolo Paganini. People even say that Kinski is his reincarnation. At least, what we can say is that Kinski adopted the violin player's lifestyle. Paganini, in his time, was considered the first "rock star" even though rock wasn't even invented yet because he lived a life saturated with late parties, orgies and sexcapades of all kinds. No moral law, Carpe Diem all the way! Kinski was working on this project since the early 1970s. It was his little baby. And even though its narration is without any narration, with no genuinelike biographical anecdotes, its incoherent editing illustrates with wit, passion and violence what the murky worlds of Paganini and Kinski were all about. But beware, sensible people should pass this one.

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.

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.