The life of Gustav Klimt is used as a springboard for Raoul Ruiz to do his thang. The result is another temporally discontinuous dream-movie, this one about artistic hedonism as a philosophical dead-end.
I am slowly getting around to seeing all of John Malkovich's movies on the sheer basis that you can guarantee his characters are always messed in the head in some capacity.
Very, very bad. Fractured narrative, no coherence, seems filmed in a derelict shed, plus the actors aren't doing their best either. Left near the end out of sheer boredom.