While the design and locations and photography are strong assets in this film; it is a turgid and melodramatic affair which demonstrates the limits of cinema to convey truth.<br /><br />The case is the use of the soundtrack music: a mix of Gustav Mahler and Andrew Lloyd-Webber that plays constantly and loudly, and would have made Max Steiner grimace at its over use as it instructs the audience how difficult; how ecstatic; how tortured it is to be an artist. And then it really counts the story elides the details at the end.<br /><br />This heightened and kitsch exploitation of emotions was once well ridiculed by Peter Ackroyd about a Yukio Mishima book: This is not writing, this is Barbara Cartland. Precisely the same critique can be made of this film: a deceptive, mawkish vanity project.