William Klein's work has influenced a lot of photographers for about 50 years. His style of "in your face" photography is now the predominant style for fashion and reportage. It's not really surprising that this book is in the same style he adopted in the 1950s, but it is disappointing. The problem, for me, is that Klein's work here is mimicing those who mimic him. There's nothing here you didn't see done in last month's "Vanity Fair" by some other photographer.
From the inside front cover to the back dust jacket photograph, this is a disconnected, hodge-podge of mob scenes. Some would say it's "dynamic". For me it's hyperactive, nervous and grating. It's a page-turner book. You turn the pages quickly to get through it as fast as possible. While some of the black and white pictures are passable, the color photographs are garish in their blaring, overdone saturation that screams, "Look at me!"
In my opinion, anyone or any thing that has to scream to get attention doesn't really deserve to get it.
This is supposed to be Klein's impression of the Paris where he lives and the Paris he says he loves. Okay. I'll pass. There's nothing in this Paris to love.
