The Excess of Devotion: Luca Guadagnino’s Joie de Vivre is a Marathon that Overstays its Welcome

Luca Guadagnino’s seven-and-a-half-hour documentary on Bernardo Bertolucci, Joie de Vivre, defies easy categorization. It’s part homage, part history lesson, and part indulgent personal essay, with a sprawling narrative that dances across five decades of Bertolucci’s career.

Guadagnino’s sensibilities are better suited to the world of fiction, where creator and subject boundaries are clearly defined. As a documentarian, he struggles to strike a balance between reverence for his subject and the need for ruthless pruning. The result is a film that feels both generous in its scope and frustratingly meandering.

The biggest problem with Joie de Vivre isn’t just its length – although seven hours and 25 minutes is daunting even for Bertolucci fans. It’s the sense of indulgence that pervades every frame. Guadagnino’s affection for his subject tips into self-indulgence, as lengthy clips from films barely mentioned in passing are shown alongside others that get short shrift.

One example is Stealing Beauty, a film ripe for rediscovery by young audiences but given scant attention. Similarly, the extended section on four “lost” films, including Tragedy of a Ridiculous Man (1981), feels like a misstep. These lesser-known and relatively uninteresting films pad out an already bloated running time.

The interviewees struggle to find their footing within Guadagnino’s narrative. Martin Scorsese is typically insightful, while James Gray offers some welcome levity. However, Francesca Manieri’s contributions feel jarring, as she spouts academic-speak that disrupts the otherwise thoughtful discussion.

A more discerning editor might have trimmed some of the meandering sections and focused on films showcasing Bertolucci’s genius. As it stands, Joie de Vivre feels like a missed opportunity – a chance to delve deep into the world of one of cinema’s most fascinating figures.

Despite its flaws, Joie de Vivre has moments that are unflinching and necessary, such as Guadagnino’s showing of the entirety of Last Tango in Paris’s infamous butter scene. The discussion of 1900’s horrific final act is equally sobering, but these moments feel isolated islands in a sea of self-indulgence.

Joie de Vivre’s streaming release will likely be chopped into more manageable chunks, but this raises questions about Guadagnino’s understanding of documentary filmmaking and the implications for future projects. The enthusiasm surrounding Joie de Vivre, despite its flaws, also highlights our expectations from documentarians – whether we’re willing to forgive indulgence in the name of artistic vision.

Guadagnino’s film is a reflection of his own limitations as a documentarian, a marathon that overstays its welcome and leaves the viewer feeling overwhelmed rather than enlightened.