You already know you ought to watch out when a documentary's subtitle borders on pretentious, as in the case of Valentino: The Last Emperor, which shamelessly rips off Bernardo Bertolucci's Oscar-winning epic. Sure, it might have been an attempt on the director's part to give the film extra glamor, but it also makes the huge disappointment much harder to swallow: this film gets its wrong so badly it even makes Oliver Stone's flawed Alexander biopic look like Lawrence of Arabia in comparison.
But maybe that's a little harsh. Maybe the hyperbolic title is justified, since the movie's subject matter, Italian designer Valentino Garavani (know only as Valentino to the entire world), is considered the single most important person in the fashion industry of the 20th century. The film aims to show the last days of his "empire" and the party he organized for his retirement, an event which was attended by nearly all the celebrities (mostly film stars) he has dressed over the years. We also get to see glimpses of his personal life, thanks to recollections of how he got started, images of him playing with his dogs and interviews with people such as his business (and life) partner Giancarlo Giammetti. All of this is meant to come together in a vast, respectful portrait of a living legend of sorts.
Why doesn't this happen, then? Well, primarily because the documentary doesn't have a real ark. Aside from when it focuses on the party and its aftermath, the movie consists of a series of clips or interviews which have no coherent link between them. Perhaps this is deliberate, given some scenes try to capture Valentino's famous mood swings, but the depiction that emerges is as lifeless as the fashion king's face (the latter is due to excessive surgery). Throughout the film he speaks Italian, English and French, but fails to convey any real emotions in either language.
In the end, though, the man himself isn't to blame. The problem lies with the director, Matt Tyrnauer, whose biggest defect is the fact that he isn't a filmmaker, but a Vanity Fair journalist. Because of this background, the film isn't as much a tribute as it is a clumsy attempt at sucking-up, which results in the sorry mess Tyrnauer tried to pass off as a proper documentary (how it managed to be selected at the Venice Film Festival, we'll probably never know). Not counting the stylish opening credits, there's absolutely nothing worth seeing here.
4,5/10
But maybe that's a little harsh. Maybe the hyperbolic title is justified, since the movie's subject matter, Italian designer Valentino Garavani (know only as Valentino to the entire world), is considered the single most important person in the fashion industry of the 20th century. The film aims to show the last days of his "empire" and the party he organized for his retirement, an event which was attended by nearly all the celebrities (mostly film stars) he has dressed over the years. We also get to see glimpses of his personal life, thanks to recollections of how he got started, images of him playing with his dogs and interviews with people such as his business (and life) partner Giancarlo Giammetti. All of this is meant to come together in a vast, respectful portrait of a living legend of sorts.
Why doesn't this happen, then? Well, primarily because the documentary doesn't have a real ark. Aside from when it focuses on the party and its aftermath, the movie consists of a series of clips or interviews which have no coherent link between them. Perhaps this is deliberate, given some scenes try to capture Valentino's famous mood swings, but the depiction that emerges is as lifeless as the fashion king's face (the latter is due to excessive surgery). Throughout the film he speaks Italian, English and French, but fails to convey any real emotions in either language.
In the end, though, the man himself isn't to blame. The problem lies with the director, Matt Tyrnauer, whose biggest defect is the fact that he isn't a filmmaker, but a Vanity Fair journalist. Because of this background, the film isn't as much a tribute as it is a clumsy attempt at sucking-up, which results in the sorry mess Tyrnauer tried to pass off as a proper documentary (how it managed to be selected at the Venice Film Festival, we'll probably never know). Not counting the stylish opening credits, there's absolutely nothing worth seeing here.
4,5/10