National Gallery: a crushingly dull documentary that lacks an eye for art

Rather than letting the paintings speak for themselves, Frederick Wiseman’s insipid and elitist documentary just gets in the way of the National Gallery’s treasures

The National Gallery is a magic world in the centre of London. Outside it, on Trafalgar Square, street performers entertain tourists and contemporary art comes and goes on the fourth plinth. On the other side of the gallery, established in 1824 as a free public museum of European paintings, lie Leicester Square and Soho. But inside, you can time travel.

Stand in front of Giovanni Bellini’s portrait of Doge Leonardo Loredan, for example, and you are in Renaissance Venice, breathing its air. Contemplate Vincent van Gogh’s painting of his humble wooden chair and you are right there, in his house in Arles in 1888 as he paces anxiously in the next room. He’ll soon be back for the pipe he left ready to smoke.

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