If there was ever an artist who embodied everything about the counterculture movement, it would undeniably be the great Salvador Dalí, who essentially helped define what it meant to be a revolutionary artist, choosing to stand out decades before we started to see the virtue of refusing to fit into society’s pre-ordained categories. Many have attempted to explore the iconic artist’s life, trying to penetrate his mind in the hopes of discovering the secrets that lurked within and made him such a folkloric figure of 20th-century culture. Very few have managed to actually succeed in finding something new to say about Dalí that hasn’t been accounted for in some form over the years, with most coming to the same conclusion: he was an iconoclast who marched to the beat of his own deranged drum, and was unimpeachably himself, in spite of personal and professional challenges that plagued him over the course of his career, which spans almost the entirety of the 20th century, stretching from the 1920s to his death in the 1980s. One person that did attempt to do something slightly different was Mary Harron, who chose to not look at Dalí on his own, or to investigate his artistic impulses, but rather explore his life through the perspective of the people around him, namely his friends, colleagues and admirers, as well as focusing on his greatest project – his longtime marriage to his wife Gala, who many consider to not only be his primordial muse, but the person that motivated him to keep working, especially when his hedonistic lifestyle began to take over. This is the foundation of Dalíland, in which Harron sets forward to examine one of the most curiously intriguing artistic partnerships of the era, albeit one that has been mostly absent in discussions around Dalí and his life, despite his relationship with Gala being the source of much of his inspiration, and the single most important factor in not only his career while he was alive, but his ongoing legacy, a sentiment that is not lost in this film, which develops into an engaging and intelligent drama that narrowly avoids biographical tropes by a wide margin, even if it is objectively not without some flaws of its own.

Throughout the process of watching  Dalíland, it is difficult to know where the truth ends and the fiction begins. It is promoted as being a true story, but only to the extent that it focuses on Dalí and his wife, who were certainly the larger-than-life figures depicted in the film, as well as a couple of other characters that we know were real based on their standing within the art industry, or simply because they were part of their well-publicized social circle that essentially reigned supreme throughout the global art scene for the better part of half a century. However, the ambiguity of never knowing what is fact and what is fiction is not an accidental oversight, but rather an intentional choice on the part of Harron and screenwriter John C. Walsh, who take advantage of their mysterious subjects by crafting a fascinating narrative that blurs the boundaries but reality and fantasy, composing what they believe would be how Dalí himself would imagine his own biographical film. I’d resist the urge to refer to Dalíland as one of his paintings come to life, since that is entirely impossible, since it’s not likely that anyone will ever be able to capture the raw, surreal energy of his style, and Harron is very smart in not even attempting such a challenge. Instead, she goes in her own direction, interpretating the story in a way that never once suggests it is the definitive biography of Dalí, nor one that is necessarily built from factual accounts, but rather a well-curated series of ideas and perceptions about who Dalí was and what he represented, in comparison to what we do know about his personal life. This allows Dalíland to have the freedom to be whatever it felt was most fitting, creating intersecting narratives about Dalí as an artist, and Dalí as a man, the two overlapping in creative and endearing ways, which gives nuance and depth to a film that sometimes feels slightly limited in its worldview, which is easily overcome by the director’s fervent attention to detail and willingness to expand on many of the more challenging ideas that occur right at the heart of the narrative.

However, there is a deeper conversation occurring at the heart of Dalíland, one that is a lot more difficult to pinpoint, since it isn’t entirely accessible from the start. It is a film that asks the audience to question what it means to live the life of an artist, trying to create the balance between world-renowned people and their creative process, and the observers that consume their work. This is done through circumventing the story of Dalí through the eyes of another character, the likely fictional James Lincoln, who manages to get quite close to the artist, immersing himself in this world without actually being directly involved, instead acting as a passive onlooker into his life, whose only contribution is being a source of encouragement for the artist, which is almost entirely unintentional. There is a steadily growing sub-genre of biographical films that focus on the trials and tribulations of famous people, but told through the perspective of younger, more obscure characters that are only present for a small part of their life, usually in the professional capacity (one of the most notable examples being the semi-fictional Almost Famous, as well as the deeply underrated My Salinger Year), and while these do normally follow a familiar formula, they are usually very entertaining and lightweight, while still being able to make a considerable impact based on the stories being told, because they give us a different perspective on these iconic figures, showing that beneath the public persona and extraordinarily high levels of fame, there was something much deeper that drove these people and kept them active, which is precisely where this film manages to make some of its most compelling commentary, even when it seems extremely conventional and not all that original in how it approaches the material. Harron clearly intended to showcase consistency more than originality, which is acceptable, albeit not very exciting, for this kind of narrative.

The biggest challenge that stood at the threshold of this film was the casting of the main character. It seems to be impossible to even begin the discussion around who could possibly play a figure as iconic and eccentric as Salvador Dalí, especially since all previous portrayals have usually depended on capturing the appearance (which is not difficult, since he had a very distinct look), but not digging deeper into his personality, which was the primary motivation of this film. The actor chosen needed to be able to play both sides of the character, and therefore had to possess a substantial amount of talent. Sir Ben Kingsley is someone who always commits to every role, regardless of size or specific details, and thus he was a terrific choice to play Dalí, especially since he was able to capture his quirks without being defined by them, an important task for whoever played the role. He is joined by Barbara Sukowa, who once again proves herself to be one of the most unheralded arthouse actors working today (and who is also not a stranger to being close to eccentric artists, with her experiences as one of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s muses putting her in good stead for this story), playing the better half of the Dalí marriage, and committing wholeheartedly to developing the character as more than just a long-suffering wife, but instead reconfiguring her as the motivation behind her husband’s genius. The rest of the cast is good but barely registers – Christopher Briney is a newcomer with a major role, playing the audience surrogate who immerses himself in Dalí’s world, giving us insights into the life of the iconic painter, while a variety of characters actors have small parts that help move the film forward without making too much of an impression, which is ideal considering how the focus should be on the two leads, rather than the characters that exist on the periphery.

As a whole, Dalíland is not anything especially unique or overly compelling, and there is nothing we learn in this film that we did not have the opportunity to discover through doing our own research – but there is a sensitivity that helps guide the film, giving it nuance and elegance where it is required, but never going too far, in the risk of becoming overwrought. It does have some pacing issues (and it arguably focuses too much on the character of James, who is not at all interesting enough to be a central figure in this story), which can make it feel longer than its economical 97 minutes may imply. However, these are all minor flaws in an otherwise very pleasant and compelling film. There’s not a lot of narrative complexity here, and it frequently tends to be quite conventional, but with a story such as this, following conventions is never a bad idea, especially since it allows for a reliable set of results, allowing the viewer to have the right level of expectations. It is neither definitive nor unique, and it follows traditions to the point of being predictable. However, the sophisticated humour, genuine love for its subject matter and earnest heartfulness all work together to make Dalíland a very charming film, a lovable diversion more than a major work, which is appropriate for this delightful but otherwise inconsequential biographical drama that exists more to celebrate Dalí’s legacy more than critically investigate his life and artistic motivations, which is partially understandable to an extent.