Timothy Spall talks about playing artist JMW Turner in Mike Leigh's award-winning biopic. Subscribe to Film4 for more interviews, clips and trailers: bit.ly/2up0y8g #Film4 #Interview #Turner
I loved everything about this film. Timothy Spall, Mike Leigh, the cinematography, the screenplay, the supporting actors, and of course the idea of bringing JMW Turner and the drama of nature and what this genuis managed to put on canvass onto the cinema screen.
I find that when people criticize this film as boring, they usually fall into the Michael Bay category. Romanticism is about personal self contemplation, being silent at the genius of nature and in doing so express ones creativity toward it. Today people hate silence, patience and honest reflection because the world around them has become artificial...
This is a pretty low discovery, maybe, but what I like, and something that makes the film appear even stronger to me, is that it didn't have to depend upon a seen-to-be pretty actress to keep the watcher watching. Incredible film, will definitely watch it again. Spall is unreal.
A brilliant film, saw it on the plane coming home earlier this year, his Turner was a magnificent piece of History brought to life. I will try to get the DVD next time i'm in the UK.
That Delacroix quote was good but not complete….what he said was…..” C’est vraiment Turner?……putain merde!” …..” is that really Turner? …..fucking hell!”
It Is so nice, after such a long, long spell, to be able to say, because one truly believes it, that movie making, with all it encompasses, has been served astonishingly well here. Wonderful to see a film so well grounded in regards to every aspect of what it means to be human - the angles, both acute and obtuse, here are remarkable. I feel just plain honored to behold such a thing - take a bow Mr. Leigh.
Brilliant movie, I saw it just a couple of nights ago and found it utterly compelling, especially thanks to Spall's performance, but also the brilliant script (by the iconic Mike Leigh). It's a bit slow in parts, but I loved that - in an era in which most people can't sit still and concentrate for a minute in a row, it's a breath of fresh air.
Oh this film, still is everything, Timothy Spall so so beautiful in his ugly vulnerability, my heart can’t fit what it does to me. His endless variations of grunts and grins and groans…utterly honest and yet mysterious as a creature feeling deeply, not remotely equipped for all of life’s demands, but enormously so for the epic intake and output of beauty. I mean, I could just rest my head on this film, lay my weary angry heart over its parade of moments over and over; the is world so unbelievably awful, false to its core right now, maybe always has been, but this brute contrarian and art within art, tells me unsparing truth, transcends with dirt and light and strangeness. I love love it’s horrible last moment with the broken little maid. Just giving it to her, then dark.
‘Turner Turns Gold’ Just how beautiful it could cause him to yet become - this pockly canvas and all of its sworn-in adulterous moments When chaos made us see it No pressure but for the cooker, he created all by himself Uneven instances of twisted reckonings - seething, seething, still heavenly hellish breathing The upsetting paramilitary artist, never handsome not never at all, just mightily made-up within the inner inside of his reckless being - bloodied and ferociously mischievous only ever of course… Camouflaged, flagged brilliance, perhaps? The financial worriers will push at themselves and ask it… too many times to count themselves in whilst all awhile he takes his favourite sycamore smile and proceeds with problematic poise aside argumentative levels of holy ghost precision Decisions, incisions, and Turner sits incredulously bargain-faced - attempts as best that he shan’t ever manage to handle the outright histrionics of a seated canvas which argues with the fighting size of its sitting easel Opposed to the others yet comfortably stuck back together again and for one last invaluable time sent beneficially insane - and three continual condition people start to sin, sin, sin for their hurtful worth in the uninviting world of messed up people and plagiarised places, faces, which still stand eerily still This is his ugly glare placed abruptly against the worshipping window way outside and it seems to be acting decidedly inescapable Severely battling to sever itself from its own gentrified natures and it absolutely knows that he will need for something abstract and sacrosanct to act whipsmart and real That if this piece has to suddenly become a sellout masterpiece then that is what it will take for it to cheat, masquerade and magnificently amount And he suddenly begins to sweetly, succinctly take it all of the ways away from dead and almost very neatly, nearly buried again and back to a burgeoning, besmirching place of undeniable mastery Was this all just a necessary dress-rehearsal though!? With one foot inside of the blanketed bed again and another trotting the corners of the whispering globe The speaking, swimming, sinning materials - all quarrelling upon their playful own and the bruising bouts of early-a.m. entrapping turmoil caught napping all by its own lonely and lonesome lullaby will witness and watch the shape of his body break in all of the right places - seems to be that he has had it so easy til now … One fell gluttonous swoop gathered by the instantaneously simultaneous installation of a two-day dotted, multi-coloured, -emotive excursion of bargaining happenings It wasn’t supposed to singularly be this way yet his breath both argues for and against it Motherfucking sacrilege happenstances and all guided mysteriously by the wrought-iron nature of one man and his striking, stricken visual - and he suddenly feels quite beneficially tired yet crazily made-up and recklessly ready To forever proceed - because he has to, had to have done all along And if he fails, he admittedly failed for a whole half-century at being anything other than dangerously imperfect at being incredibly real
A silly thought entered my head watching the clip at 5:06. Bob Ross vs Turner painting contest. Ross does his thing painting in a calm zen-like focus while Turner is bouncing all around spitting, sputtering, puffing, grunting, digging his brush in the canvass ect.
The difference is that Ross was a crap artist. Sorry but...he churned out the same old chocolate box shite endlessly. He was definitely techincally skilled but had not a single shred of originality. Still, he made tons of cash and certainly enoug people liked his painting and that's what counts.
