This was another selection guided by my progression through the review compilation When the Lights Go Down by Rosemary Kael, which collects her reviews from the latter half of the 70's. Valentino emerged in 1977, one of a multitude of biopics from Ken Russell, this time focused upon the silent film star Rudolph Valentino (1895-1926) and his rise from ballroom gigolo dancer to massive movie star, following abruptly with his premature demise. 
Tasked to play the Italian-American was Soviet dancer/choreographer Rudolf Nureyev; his strongly accented English, though not authentically Italian inflected, nonetheless 'works' in an organic fashion (it isn't 'fake' bad English, if that makes any sense). Further, the fact that Nuryev is not an actor per se actually plays nicely into the caricature -- and not having the pleasure of knowing the real Valentino, I must assume that is what this portrayal largely is: a larger than life caricature. 'Rudy' is always 'on' and performing, always self-consciously preening and presenting.
These aren't bad things though, not at all. The obvious benefits of Nuryev as, first and foremost, dancer extraordinaire are immediately impressed upon the viewer. The physical ease with which he moves around the frame is convincing, the movement lithe and striking, like paintbrush to canvas. What is surprising, however, is just how affable Nuryev renders Valentino. His cockiness isn't off-putting, not one bit, rather, we share his conviction that he is being played by the system: the directors, producers, money-men, yes-men, and, finally, the paparazzi (portrayed as particularly vile homophobes here, focused almost exclusively on Valentino's seeming absence of the prototypical 'virile American male' persona. I suppose if there were a critique herein, it would be that Valentino is so affected by this 'powder puff' representation that he becomes consumed and, ultimately, destroyed by it -- as a good, red-blooded American male, I wanted to see him gleefully embrace the tags so unaffectionately affixed, but I suppose America wasn't ready for such heady 'real' heroism in the 20's.
I went into this film having precisely zero knowledge of the picture's subject, save for a vague familiarity with the name. Massive fan of the silent era I am admittedly not. However, this kind of portrayal, so full of verve (as it goes without saying Russell is known for) and, yes, sound and vibrant color, blows air into our imagined flat notions of the film and stars of that era. Russell manages to retain the sepia look and feel despite the richness of color; I'm not a cinematographer, but the work with light, sets, costume absolutely brings the period to the richness of life necessary to experiencing these people as living breathing individuals.
I left the film eager to read more about Nuryev -- he is without hesitation the obvious and proper star of this film, and rightfully so. His face sticks with you, though only having known it for the length of this singular film. I was saddened to learn that he, like the Rudy he portrayed, met an all too early demise from AIDS in '93 at the age of only 54 (Valentino was only 31, having expired after a ruptured ulcer -- the film plays a bit loosely and speculatively with this official version).
This was an unexpectedly wonderful biopic, even if one isn't familiar with -- let alone enamored of -- the late Rudolph Valentino. The film version may be more interesting than the source material, but that is why we love biopics in lieu of documentary, when the focus is sufficiently filled with the wonderful potential of loopholes and grey zones among the facts.
A quick shoutout must go to Felicity Kendal , who plays June Mathis, Valentino's agent and the only person who seems to genuinely care for the lead; it isn't entirely clear whether they ever had a relationship beyond the professional, but her concern acts as a stark counterbalance to the remainder of the cast for whom Rudy seems largely a tool to be utilized, rather than a thinking, feeling human being.
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