English landscape painter JMW Turner, commonly exalted as “the painter of light”, was one of the great artists of the 19th century, his work considered by art historians something of a precursor to the impressionist movement. It’s perfect, then, that Mike Leigh‘s marvelous Mr. Turner takes an impressionistic approach to exploring Turner’s character, focusing on intimate, revelatory, and often unflattering moments in the late painter’s life, stressing truth over historical accuracy while never shattering Turner’s mystique. Unlike your typical artist hagiography, Mr. Turner doesn’t attempt to cram every significant event and accomplishment of Turner’s life into a filmic nutshell. It does something much better: it gives us a sense of what it would feel like to be in Turner’s presence, in a time when he still sauntered around above soil.

As you may have picked up on from all the awards buzz overrunning every movie site on the internet (including us), Turner is played by the phenomenal Timothy Spall in what, for my money, is the best performance of 2014. When you look at Turner’s oil and watercolor masterpieces, of churning oceans under thunderclouds and placid lakes under sun-drenched bridges, you may imagine a slender fellow wearing fancy clothes, gently kissing the canvas with his brush, held between three fingers. Spall, as you may have noticed, isn’t slender or fancy or gentle, and as Turner he’s straight-up bestial, a tubby slob communicating mostly in growla, grunts, and groans, holding his paintbrush with a fist and violently thrusting it onto the canvas in a motion of controlled chaos.

Turner’s artistic prowess is always evident, but the pervading fact is that he’s mostly an ordinary, middle-aged man with as many flaws as the drunk down the street at the local tavern. He’s a boor and a womanizer, using his maid as a sex toy whenever he feels the compulsion (Dorothy Atkinson overachieves in a small, but significant role). He’s an absentee father, refusing to acknowledge his daughters’ presence in the rare occasion that they work up the courage to visit the old pig with their mother, his former mistress (the wonderful Ruth Sheen). The only aspect of his life he treats with a measure of class is his vocation, a field in which he’s driven, committed, and uncompromising. His artistic legacy and reputation is of utmost importance to him (he staunchly refuses to sell his collection to a dignitary for an ungodly amount of money, insisting that his work remain accessible to the public), and he views his colleagues as competitors and rivals.

Leigh’s lucid insight into what makes the mind of an artist tick is fascinating. So often is the artistic process romanticized and idealized in film, but here Leigh states plainly that not every artistic achievement is inspired by some life catastrophe or eternal adoration of a muse or lover. Many of the notable things we see happen to Turner–from his beloved father (Paul Jesson) dying, to finding a soul mate on his frequent trips to Margate in widow Sophia Booth (a fantastic Marion Bailey)–don’t seem to shape or inform his artistic endeavors at all. This contradicts everything we’ve been conditioned to think about art and artists in movies, and it’s a rejuvenating, eye-opening experience to watch it all unfold.

The contradictory nature of Turner is reflected in the film’s painterly imagery, which frames his physically grotesque figure with environments and landscapes as beautiful and richly colored and textured as his paintings. Seriously, it’s staggering how pretty this movie is; cinematography snobs will gawk or pass out from the glory of it all. For Leigh and cinematographer Dick Pope to achieve the same level of artistry with their moving images as Turner did on canvas is mind-boggling, and yet, they’ve damn well done it. (This is coming from an art history layman, mind you. Art geeks, don’t kill me.)

It all just feels so right and whole and meant to be. Every shot and camera movement is deliberate and precise. Every line of dialogue (yes, even the growls and snorts) expresses just enough. I’ve not in years seen an onscreen character that feels as fully-realized as Turner, and Spall’s seamless performance combined with the immaculate set and costume design and stunning photography makes for a film that feels more like a time machine than a period piece. It’s hard to imagine Leigh, Spall, and their team improving upon what they put forth in this transcendental masterpiece.

The artist in pursuit of his craft has long been a staple of the biopic, from musicians to writers and beyond. With his latest film Mr. Turner, Mike Leigh contributes the life of British painter J.M.W. Turner to this trope of cinema. Leigh’s brand of intimate comedic dramas can be distinguished even through the 19th century set dressings, to the delight of Happy-Go-Lucky and Another Year fans. English character actor Timothy Spall plays the painter over the last 25 years of his life as his work began to grow more abstract.

The film just had its premiere at the Cannes Film Festival (read our review) and will be released in the UK on October 31st. Watch the trailer below:

Mr. Turner trailer

It’s been too long since we’ve had a Mike Leigh film, but four years is only long with Leigh because the gaps between his movies are felt more heavily than with most. Reviewers have to try and stay as impartial as possible when verbalizing the qualities of a film, but there’s no denying when a filmmaker just does it for you. Leigh is one such example for me. His insistence on working without a screenplay, using the actors’ personal experiences in the creation of the characters as much as possible, and his roots in theatre, all fuse together to form an organic style that has become something of a comforting blanket for me. His latest film, which had its world premiere at Cannes this morning, sees him returning to an examination of artistic sensibilities in the 19th century, a subject he hasn’t broached since 1999’s Topsy Turvy. While it never feels as close as his modern day takes of ordinary woes (Another Year most recently), Mr. Turner is yet another exemplary work of art from a modern day master craftsman.

Following the eccentric lifestyle of British painter J.W.M. Turner (Timothy Spall), the film covers some of the most captivating aspects in the last quarter of Turner’s life. Most notably, his relationship with his father, whom he affectionately still calls ‘Daddy’ (Paul Jesson) and his housemaid Hannah (Dorothy Atkinson) whom he treats like an annoying pet until his carnal urges get the better of him. As we swing back and forth with Turner’s way of life, we follow wherever his inner compass leads us; the Academy of fellow painters, most of whom revere his work; the cliffs and hillsides overlooking the greatest object of his eye’s desire, the tumultuous seas; and a quaint little place he keeps finding inspiration in called Margate. During his visits there, he goes by the name of Mallard and keeps lodging with a chipper Ms. Booth (Marion Bailey). Leigh, together with his actors, cinematographer Dick Pope and composer Gary Yershon, takes us on a journey into the very ether of an artist’s soul, who (much like most artists) is a deeply troubled human being.

Slow off the mark, and slightly drowsy towards the end of it, Mr. Turner makes up for its, at times, lagging pace with its bombastic score and an exquisite kind of cinematography you want to bathe in. Spall will undoubtedly be a contender for Best Actor at Cannes; his gruff exterior portrait of a mad genius smothering the brewing storms he depicts with such passion (his conflicting marine landscapes are so much an extension of himself, he uses his own saliva to smear the colors in) and every other actor is a brilliant extension of Turner’s personality, from Bailey’s nonplussed Ms. Booth to a comical, albeit much too short, turn by Leigh regular Leslie Manville playing philosopher slash astronomer slash mathematician Ms. Somerville. But perhaps for the first time ever in a Mike Leigh film, the genial acting and dialogue (which will make you wish we still spoke in Victorian slang) meet their match with Pope’s photography. Effectively evoking the misty suns and pinkish hues of Turner’s paintings, a lot of the scenic stuff reminded me of the kind of majesty captured in Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon. If there was ever a case to be made of the intricate similarities between painting and cinema, look no further.

Ultimately however, and as always, it all comes down to Mike Leigh. If he doesn’t walk away with the Best Director, Palme or Grand Jury Prize (though it’s much too early to tell, and there’s no viable reason to the contrary) he will still be leaving the French Riviera a winner. His talent of getting under the skin of his characters and illuminating the hidden shadows that reside within us all is still unmatched. His penchant for comedy, a special highlight here involves a discussion of criticism versus art, is still very much present and welcoming. If you’re as big of a Leigh fan as I am, chances are you’ll be craving the next Leigh film just as much. The good news is that, along with all previous Leigh creations, we now have Mr. Turner to keep us company as well.