It's 1964 in Paris and it is fashionable to be an insane artist. Picasso, Chagall, they all do it. Why not Giacometti? He has a wife that wants to be part of his life and is always refused, but who accepts his mistresses and moods and abuses. He has a brother who accepts him and always helps out, but remains quite happily in the shadows. He asks a writer to pose for him for a few hours, only to erase his entire work again and again and again, then asking the poor guy to come back the next day. Every "day" we see Geoffrey Rush brilliantly portraying a crazy painter, while Armie Hammer just sits there, trying to understand why it is taking so long. And then the movie ends. That's the entire thing. Do we care about Tony Shalhoub being the background brother? Do we care about the characters of either Sylvie Testud or Clémence Poésy or even Armie Hammer's? No. Because they have no depth, regardless of acting prowess.
Bottom line: if you want a film to use as a trainer for being an obnoxious self absorbed hipster, you want to see this. Otherwise it's kind of pointless. It's worth noting that this is a 90 minute movie made from a 128 page memoir. I mean, what else was the writer going to do with an experience so weird? Write it down. It didn't need to be made into a movie, though.
Bottom line: if you want a film to use as a trainer for being an obnoxious self absorbed hipster, you want to see this. Otherwise it's kind of pointless. It's worth noting that this is a 90 minute movie made from a 128 page memoir. I mean, what else was the writer going to do with an experience so weird? Write it down. It didn't need to be made into a movie, though.