I think descriptors for Kinski lIke “insane” or “psychopathic” or even perhaps “brilliant” betray what he really was: a complete narcissist. Paganini is emblematic of that— the ultimate vanity project where Kinski sees himself as the disturbed and quasi-Mephistophelean genius whose artistic talents make young girls writhe in ecstasy and throw themselves into hysterics like he’s one of The Beatles. Interesting because Kinski cuts a decidedly hideous and uncharismatic figure; looking like Mr. Hyde with his top hat and stringy long black hair. All that aside, it’s not as bad of a film as its reputation suggests. There’s enough cinematic skill on display to prevent it from falling into Wiseau territory. That’s not to say there aren’t idiosyncratic choices on display, such as endless scenes of horse-drawn carriages careening down dirt roads in slow motion which seem to serve no purpose. Dialogue is sparse, supplanted by a persistent violin soundtrack that propels the film along with a manic and restless energy. As a character, Paganini isn’t particularly well fleshed out. He comes from nothing, has no apparent motivations and any scenes that seek to add human dimension— like as the doting and overly-affectionate father to his son— come off a a bit creepy and weird. In the end, the film is worth seeing largely as a curio; the culmination and footnote of one of cinema’s most infamous figures. Unfortunately, Kinski’s notoriety as an abuser makes it hard to really invest oneself in a…