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There is so much potential for a great historical drama here, but it's completely wasted by the weak storytelling of Bigas Luna. You have one of Spain's greatest painters, Francisco Goya, and the intrigue over who actually posed for his most scandalous work, the Naked Maja. You have Spain's power player of the day, the secretary of state Manuel Godoy, carrying on with Queen Maria Luisa and the Duchess of Alba, the latter of whom is also involved with Goya at least to some degree, and who dies under mysterious circumstances. You have the historical backdrop of King Charles IV being largely passive and inept in handling the complexities of what neighboring countries were doing at the time, something that would ultimately lead to Napoleon installing his brother on the Spanish throne. And you also have a fantastic cast, including Penélope Cruz playing Pepita Tudó, Godoy's mistress and modelling nude for Goya. How can you possibly screw all that up?

Well, for one thing, you screw that up by taking too much delight in the sexual antics in the first half of the film instead of fleshing out these characters and giving us more of a clue of who they were. It's juvenile how Luna focuses in on female body parts and practically titters over French depilation "down there," meanwhile giving us a string of sex scenes that were more banal than they were erotic. We get the Duchess of Alba fainting each time she has an orgasm, for example, and Godoy blowing raspberries all over the squirming Queen's belly. We don't learn anything about who Goya was as an artist, or that he suffered from profound hearing loss and had problems with balance, among other things (also casting into doubt whether he was physically involved with the much younger Duchess of Alba, despite clearly being smitten). We don't really see the forceful, haughty, and free-spirited personality of the Duchess that other sources describe. We don't see how unpopular Godoy was because of his disastrous policies and his propensity to line his own pockets. We really don't learn a damn thing about the era, except that the clothing was resplendent. The costume department certainly did its job, but this is a case of being all dressed up with nowhere to go.

The second half of the film then completely grinds to a halt, shifting into a bland exploration into the mystery of how the Duchess of Alba died, and whether she was murdered. The flashbacks which shift perspective and possible suspects quickly grew tedious, especially as they revolved around the chemicals in Goya's paints, which of course was conjecture. This is storytelling at its worst, taking a historical conspiracy theory and then describing it in as boring a way as possible. What's also lost is the sense of the scandal and outrage that all three of the principals, Goya, Godoy, and the Duchess, engendered. Just a weak film, made by an immature director.

There is undoubtedly entertainment value here as long as you can put up with some gore, but I found this too telegraphed, starting with the title and continuing on with the lovely how-to video the evil foster mother kept referring to. Letting it unfold more gently would have made it much more interesting, even if the premise was hokey. The characters could also have done with some fleshing out (no pun intended) and there were several instances where the script had them doing things I couldn't believe they were doing. On the positive side, the repulsive moments did have me squirming in my seat, and the film held my interest. The little boy chomping on knives and what-not was a great character, and the three actors in the lead roles all turned in good performances. I also liked how it was unafraid to kill one off, though the ending was less than satisfying. At the end of the day, while there are nice flashes of style here, unfortunately there's nothing really new either.

One thing I'm always blown away by is it wasn't until Van Gogh was about 35 years old and in Arles before he finally realized his artistic vision and distinctive style. He then had two to three incredibly intense creative years, fueled by absinthe, coffee, and tobacco, and on the verge of madness produced almost all of the works we recognize as masterpieces today. (I'm simplifying a bit, and setting aside the more brilliant of his realistic efforts, like The Potato Eaters, which he painted in 1885 at 32.) At 37, then, destitute and despairing, Van Gogh committed suicide, having sold only a single of his paintings in his lifetime.

Altman's film picks up Van Gogh's life story at age 27, when he had already been an art dealer, teacher, bookseller, divinity student and evangelist prior to devoting himself to being an artist, much to the concern of his family. We lose a little bit of the perspective of just how brief a flash in his life the period in the south of France was, but that was probably necessary for brevity's sake. What we certainly get is a portrait of an artist who strove for truth with a passion, and often found this in poor, simple people he identified with. We also see a great deal of his privations which are staggering, the true 'starving artist,' living the most meager of existences, and unconcerned with his appearance. Aside from the touching tragedy of his story, it's a reminder that modern artists of a similar temperament and appearance should not be turned away from.

Behind brilliant talent which soars to the highest heights, there is often a person supporting them who makes their success possible, yet remains hidden in their shadow, and that was Vincent's younger brother Theo. Altman shows us Vincent, the purist to his vision, eschewing formal training or compromise, but in an equal light Theo, the quiet hero who needed to make a living being an art dealer but wished he could sell more of the Impressionist art he liked and had other frustrations. Theo not only funded Vincent faithfully, but also put up with his awkwardness and rough edges, believing in his art and loving him as a person. As if Vincent's tragedy wasn't enough, Theo would die just six months later at 36 from late stage neurosyphilis.

Altman contrasts the squalor of Van Gogh's existence brilliantly with an opening sequence showing the auctioning off of one of his paintings in the present, fetching millions of pounds. It would have been nice to have seen the importance of the efforts of Theo's widow, Johanna Bonger, recognized here, as the exhibitions she organized over the years after the death of the brothers played a major role in Vincent being recognized, but I guess you can't have everything. (A little irritating how we see an unflattering scene where she can't stuff food into her face fast enough, oblivious to hearing about Vincent's problems though).

I loved how unabashed the film was in giving us nastier details of the period - Vincent's discolored teeth, a prostitute he frequents using a chamber pot right in front of him, and Theo's STD. I thought it also did a great job of showing us his approach to painting and the conditions he created his masterpieces under without turning it into some kind of splashy attempt to show his "greatest hits." We see him in filthy clothes, smudged all over with paint, often putting the end of the brush in his mouth (which couldn't have been good for him given what was in those colors), and prone to rash, impulsive action, which felt pretty authentic. The scene where he conceives and executes Wheatfield with Crows is especially poignant and I felt immersed in both the artwork and the environment. This is a film that hits more than it misses, and if you're an art lover, it's worth seeing.