Flying Through Chaos: A Three-Day Journey with Modi in San Sebastian

Johnny Depp ventures into the chaotic world of art and madness with his latest directorial effort, *Modi: Three Days On The Wings of Madness*, a biopic that desperately tries to weave a nuanced tapestry of the life of the obscure Italian artist Amedeo Modigliani. Set against the backdrop of World War I Paris, this film is as messy as a palette that’s seen one too many brushstrokes. It premiered at San Sebastián, one of those festivals where Depp still holds a bit of charm, but good luck trying to convince anyone that this overripe slice of pain and passion will help revive his reputation.

It’s often said that with good acting comes poor directing. And what a treat it is to watch Depp throw himself into this duality! *Modi* feels like Depp is throwing a temper tantrum while simultaneously pleading for our sympathy. The general vibes shout, "Look at this tortured artist!" while the script sometimes feels like it was pulled from an old romantic postcard. From the disheveled, unkempt Modigliani, played by Riccardo Sciamarcio, we witness a whirlwind of foibles: a passionate pursuit of love, flirtations with society women, and a series of escapades that would make even the most hardened bohemian scratch their head in wonder.

We meet Modi in a café, where the concept of flirtation floats in the air like a badly mixed cocktail; there he is, attempting to woo a society dame, only to find himself in a madcap escape through—wait for it—a stained-glass window. Ah, the kind of slapstick that would make even Charlie Chaplin scratch his head. Just as the absurdity of Modi's life unfolds, Depp seems to revel in directing his actors to exuberant heights, particularly with the trio of creatives who embody the spirit of madness: Chaim Soutine and Maurice Utrillo join Modi in their artistic cabal, turning the film into a farcical ode to friendship. It’s a touch reminiscent of those rambunctious characters from a bygone era, with a nod to the eccentricities of the likes of Andy Kaufman.

And then there’s Al Pacino. The master shakes it up as collector Maurice Gangnat, though the anticipation builds to a rather lean and lackluster culmination. One might expect Pacino to go full throttle—yelling, gesticulating, perhaps bickering with a nearby pigeon—but instead, he serves a subdued whisper of a performance that feels almost like an afterthought, as if he were trying to keep the ruckus at bay.

Through a blend of absurdity and somber moments, there’s a peculiar sense of homage to the rock ‘n’ roll spirit, thanks to Depp's adoration for the late Jeff Beck. The insanity of Modi’s existence is portrayed almost like a punk rock rebellion, albeit wrapped in clichés that we’ve all heard before. The script—a concoction of lofty philosophies and lowbrow humor—bounces from profound to painfully awkward in a single breath. I mean, really, would an Italian in France be trading barbs about 'art' with a side of 'fart'? One's left to ponder what this delightful piece of art really represents.

Visually, it’s a curious affair. Set against the gritty edges of Hungary and Italy, much of the film's aesthetic is draped in a melancholy grey that feels more like an old, worn-out sock than an artistic statement. And as if that weren’t enough to set the odd tone, the musical score seems bent on overwhelming us with its chaotic energy—a soundscape of tango, klezmer, and the occasional oompah that saturates the air like a too-sweet dessert after a heavy meal. By the end of it, one might rascal through their minds: Is this really the lament of the underappreciated artist, or the fantastical musings of a man who can’t quite grasp the essence of struggle?

Alas, as we sift through the beautifully tangled throw of *Modi*, one gets the sense that perhaps what Depp is truly resting upon is a rather self-indulgent exploration into the myth of the starving artist—a lens through which a wealthy man romanticizes poverty and obscurity without ever stepping a foot in the shoes of the ones who truly suffer. With producers including Johnny Depp himself, Barry Navidi, and others, you can't help but wonder if this narrative isn’t more of a fairy tale than the raw truth. And when the credits roll, all that's left is a curious feeling of what this chaotic romp could have been, had it been crafted with a touch more clarity, grace, and perhaps a little less indulgence.