One of the best things about “Dalíland,” Mary Harron’s amused and amusing fictional look at the singular Salvador Dalí, is that it isn’t a cradle-to-grave exhumation. Instead, the movie focuses on a period in Dalí’s later years when he was widely, wrongly and seemingly permanently eclipsed both by the commercial profile of his art and by the flamboyant scandal he had made of his life. Harron’s result is less a consummate portrait and more a distillation of a sensibility, as if she had dropped Dalí in an alcohol still to extract his very essence.
The man, the myth and the mustache are all here, albeit modestly. Harron’s path into Dalí’s world is through an invented character, James (the newcomer Christopher Briney), who’s recently landed a job at the artist’s New York gallery. An anodyne pretty boy, James serves as a proxy for the viewer, a wide-eyed tourist in a seductively foreign land. He enters partly by chance, although his looks and good timing help: Dalí (Ben Kingsley), who’s struggling to produce sufficient new work for an upcoming show, recruits James as an assistant, ushering him into the frantic, at times funny and often bleak bacchanalia of the movie’s title.
Much of the story takes place in 1974, starting with one of Dalí’s customary winter sojourns at the St. Regis Hotel in New York. There, in a spacious suite wreathed in cigarette smoke and throbbing with rock music, he and his formidable, sometimes terrifying wife, Gala (Barbara Sukowa), preside over a glittery circus that’s populated by beautiful people and supplicating waiters, and watched over by Dalí ’s longtime aide, Captain Moore (Rupert Graves). Amid the ostrich boas, flowing Champagne and lines of coke, the slack-jawed James meets hangers-on like Alice Cooper (Mark McKenna) as well as the artist’s muse Amanda Lear (Andreja Pejic), and one exceedingly dull love interest, Ginesta (Suki Waterhouse).
James isn’t all that interesting, either, and there’s too much of him in the movie. This isn’t Briney’s fault; he’s pleasant to look at, and he manages his transition from tourist to accidental Dalí-wood guide well enough. It’s just that once Dalí and Gala swan in, they immediately and rightly become the only characters you want to spend time with. They’re entertaining, for one, having long settled into roles that feed their public profiles and public relations: She’s the money-grubbing dominatrix while he alternately cowers, begs for her attention and upstages her. The relationship provides tension and mystery that the well-matched Kingsley and Sukowa complicate with gargoyle masks and shocks of vulnerability.
