Critics reviews

The body is both a fading receptacle and a divining rod for ecstatic inspiration in this idiosyncratic, witty portrait of Kiev-born piano prodigy and all-round eccentric Oleg Karavaychuk.

The film is utterly enthralled by the pianist's presence, and cinematographer Carmen Torres follows every sway, every reverie, as Karavaychuk spins wayward yarns (about being neighbors with Anna Akhmatova and Arseny Tarkovsky in a Petersburg artists' colony provided by Stalin, for example) or unfurls his exquisite, otherworldly compositions in a style that seems closer to Cecil Taylor than Rimsky-Korsakov.

An altogether different kind of Russian Ark (2002)—Oleg (in customary tilted red beret) roams the halls of the Hermitage, reflecting on his unorthodox career while pausing to wring anguished beauty from a most ornate baby grand—Duque's homage transcends the seductions of quirk inherent in outsider-artist portraits.

Many would be quite happy to listen to Karavaychuk's erudite, bygone idiosyncrasies for hours. But in further episodes he gets to show off his virtuoso and disconcertingly experimental piano skills — including a stint on Czar Nicholas's elaborately gilded instrument, no less. Famous for performing with a pillow-case on his head, and/or in a near-horizontal reclining position, Karavaychuk has always been as much theorist and innovator as composer/interpreter/performer.

Simply everything [Karavajchuk] says is fascinating, whether it's an interpretation of music, a wry historical anecdote, an aside to the sound recorder, and back to the grandest of philosophy. We hear him play (on the Tsar's piano!), start, stop, play in entirety. We see him walk a bit, and talk some more—and that's pretty much it. The history within him is a dark current which is only hinted at, and perhaps heard in the music.