The Christophers (2025) Movie Script
1
[marker scratching]
[street crowd walla]
[phone ringing]
Butler Art Restoration. This is
Lori, how may I help you?
Sallie from... Yeah.
Hi. Hi.
Yeah. Long, long time.
Yes. What's up?
Okay. What kind of work?
Yes, I can't do right now...
but I could do this afternoon.
Yeah, there's a pub
near where I live.
Shall I send you the address?
Okay. All right.
-I'm so sorry.
-That's all right.
-How may I help you?
-Yes.
Can I have Red Lantern's
noodles, please?
Yep. Red Lantern noodles.
[Sallie] Look, it's eight
unfinished canvases.
-[Barnaby] Would've been nine.
-Fuck off, Barnaby.
Should have been nine.
[Sallie sighs]
Ask her why there aren't nine.
Seriously, Barney, fuck you.
She tried to do one herself.
-Whatever.
-She nicked one. Hang on.
It's actually why we're
not allowed around there.
-I took a photo.
-Barnaby.
Whatever, it's on here.
3 million pound dump she took.
They weren't worth fuck all.
Yet.
Look, there were a series
of barely finished canvases...
with Polaroids stuck on.
They were nothing.
Of which "nothings,"
we have eight...
from Dad's only remaining good
period, which he abandoned.
And these are the third
series of Christophers?
The point is, he's not
going to be here much longer...
and if when he passes...
they go through his third
floor storage...
which he doesn't open
and never will...
and they happen to find
that he's finished...
a previously undiscovered
series...
All the original brushes.
All the original paints.
On original canvases, that
literally, if someone checked...
contain molecular
traces of his DNA.
They can actually do that.
I'm aware.
[Sallie] So?
You said this was a
restoration job.
-[Sallie] It is.
-It's a forgery job.
-What? No. No, no. God no, no.
-No!
All we we're trying to get you
to do is merely complete them.
By forging them.
By forging through them
until they're completed.
Look, really, Lori though,
does it even matter?
What are you talking about?
Of course it matters.
[Sallie] Yeah, does it though?
Actually?
I mean, Dad has his assistants
complete his paintings
all the time.
Yes, but these he's
hardly even started.
[Barnaby] How do you know he
didn't already have them...
all mapped out in
his head, Lori?
Two months ago, a piece
from Dad's first set...
of Christophers sold
at a Russian auction...
for 3 million plus. A piece from
the second set, 3.5 in China.
His style, as I'm sure
you found out...
is unique and quite hard
to replicate.
-You can though.
-I don't know about that.
Central Saint Martins. Week one.
Our very first assignment.
"Come up with a series of works
in the style of the artist...
who inspired you the most."
I saw it, Lori,
with my own eyes.
Ah, yes. That was a
very long time ago though.
And since then,
well, you know...
you've seen what I've
said about him.
Didn't you guys meet once?
Am I remembering that rightly
back when we were at college?
We know why you hate
him is the point.
Think of this as a way
to get revenge.
Just do the numbers, Lori.
Everybody knows what one
original Julian Sklar...
from that period is worth.
[mysterious music plays]
[street noises]
[music continues]
[doorbell rings]
[Julian over intercom]
Other door.
[door buzzes]
[birds chirping]
[door creaking]
Hello?
[Julian speaking indistinctly
in another room]
[door shuts]
[Julian] Fragile and timeless.
[continues indistinctly]
Let's go with soft lights.
[Julian continues to
speak indistinctly]
A bamboo shoot,
which has pierced...
Adrian's navel and has...
Oh God, I don't know, sprung
a rose, at which you then...
stare, transfixed,
and so I say...
happy anniversary.
35 years is too long
to sustain a relationship...
as we're all designed
to be dead by then...
evolutionarily speaking,
so kudos...
to modern science for
making generations...
feel like failures at love,
except, apparently, you...
Adrian and Linda...
and for that I congratulate
you both.
Julian Sklar, signing off.
[clears throat] Hello?
I'm here for the four o'clock?
[Julian] It's up one more.
Antanas. Is that a name?
And does it even matter
as it's unpronounceable...
and does violence to the ear.
So I shall call you Tony.
And for your birthday, Tony...
imagine me drawing
you a tiger...
upon which you are
gallantly perched...
in your sleeveless
Tottenham Hotspur shirt.
Which at 48 you are far
too old to be wearing.
And I am Julian Sklar.
And here I am signing off.
[computer beeps]
Tea, coffee, water?
Oh, thank you.
Water would be great
actually, yes.
Well, be a dear, and grab me one
as well. Just by the front door.
Jeremy.
[computer beeps]
Jeremy, you again?
[glasses clink]
[Julian talks indistinctly]
Alisa, Julian Sklar here.
Your mother would like me to
tell you not to quit art school.
Seriously though, do.
[chuckles]
Those clowns at Camberwell
will poison you...
with their Sainsbury's
aisles and ideas...
processed, packed in plastic.
The stalest up front so
that you buy into those first.
Grow your own, I say.
Go organic!
Although I hear that's
all rubbish too.
Do you know how much
plastic we eat in a week?
A credit card's worth.
It's in the water now.
It's hopeless.
So happy birthday, stay
in school, blah, blah.
I'm Julian Sklar and here I am
as I always am...
signing off.
[computer beeps]
149 pounds.
249 if I sign.
-Oh water?
-Yeah.
Thank you. Never get old.
Oh, I'm sorry.
Oh, Lori Butler.
Never get old, Lori Butler.
Yes, would you sit?
It's been a while since I
interviewed an assistant.
So, tell me about yourself.
However, if you are a painter...
I don't want to know about it.
And do dispense with the...
"big fan, you were with me
through" whatever drudgery...
your life's journey
has taken you.
Heartbreak, blah,
blah, grieving. Because
we both know...
that's a lie as I've done
nothing but shit in 30 years.
Nothing at all in 20.
"You made me want to be an
artist." No, my dear.
Your fucked-up childhood made
you want to be an artist.
I'm just what you tripped over
as you scurried to freedom.
Lori is it?
If you claim to be a fan of
that hideous reality show...
Art Fight, you may
show yourself out now.
Even the creators of that
pandering pig slop weren't fans.
And I realize this makes it
challenging to find
a compliment...
that doesn't read
like obsequiousness.
And for that you have
my sympathies.
Because don't get me
wrong, I like my flattery.
I just need to believe it.
So for now, I'll take, "I am a
woman, and I don't hate
you, Julian."
They hate me, the women,
even more than the men.
I was bisexual, Lori...
when it actually cost
something to say so.
Are you any good
with humidifiers?
I'm sorry.
Well, I'm told that I would
benefit from the use of
a humidifier...
and the infographics...
they burn a shadow
on the retina...
arrows into screw holes,
into arrows...
into whatever shapes those are.
Would you like some help in
assembling your humidifier?
Well, though I
hesitate to take you up on your
very kind offer...
begrudgingly, thank you.
So, we've established
you are not an artist...
and you're not a fan and you
may or may not be bisexual.
Oh, which reminds me...
there are recent editions
on the Wikipedia...
quotes taken out of context
and one in context...
but spoken while
inebriated and thus I can't be
held accountable.
Ah, but what I said was true...
over 75% of enrollment in
the art schools is women.
And my question was
simply a question...
why then are women not in
75% percent of museums, Lori?
You did say it was Lori?
On the subject of Lori...
what did they tell you
about this job?
-They?
-Yes, my offspring.
The dud Barnaby and
the harridan Sallie.
Yeah, they said you were
hiring an assistant...
to help catalog some of your
things so they can be valued...
by the HMRC or something
like that.
And they recommended
you highly...
which is frankly why I'm
a tad suspicious.
I must be reminded not
to carry things.
[Lori] Oh!
[doorbell buzzes]
That's according to my osteo...
a smallish man named Cyril.
Interesting tidbit
about Cyril...
he smells of radishes.
Why?
This isn't about the
unfinished Christophers, is it?
If so, you must tell me
because I won't paint them.
[door slams]
I can't paint them.
And please don't ask.
Please don't even speak of them.
Yeah, I'm sorry. I don't what
you're talking about.
Well, my children are
obsessed with them...
and I wouldn't have put it
past them if this...
had been somehow about that.
Oh, they're not even clever.
Those two, they're wrecks.
She, a train wreck,
utterly off the rails...
and he a shipwreck
sunken and waterlogged.
Blame their mothers, not me.
I had nothing to do with them.
[humidifier beeps]
I would not be
surprised, Lori...
if this was not so that
HMRC may, quote...
"assess the value of
my estate..."
but so that my children
could get intel on whether...
I was truly leaving
them nothing.
[knocking on door]
Ah, she has risen!
My masseuse Esme, who is a gift
from the heavens.
-Hi.
-Hi.
Where I apparently have been
mistaken for someone else.
She's here at the insistence
of Cyril the radish...
who says I must be kinder
to my joints.
It's all a faff, you know,
HMRC adore me.
I haven't paid taxes
in a decade...
but they've still got
one of my Garbage Twelves...
in their lobby in
Parliament Street.
And, alas, here it is.
[grunts]
A life to be summed up.
Itemised.
Julian Sklar: The Spreadsheet.
I don't even know what's up
there in the room above us.
[sighs]
And the door's been
locked for decades.
So, I shan't know
even going forward...
should there be any
forward left.
Yes. To the great displeasure
of the buzzard Barnaby...
and the hyena Sallie...
I have outlived the
actuarial prediction of...
even the direst of those
foolish enough to insure me.
At one point that had been
the goal to live forever.
And I should have liked
to have bequeathed...
that task to my art, but...
sadly my art,
not unlike my talent...
departed this life long
ago when, apparently...
I was not paying attention.
Excellent interview.
I like you, Lori Butler.
What about tomorrow
at the crack of noon?
Yeah, great.
[peaceful music plays]
[street noises]
[phone rings]
What's up?
Yes, 12:00 p.m. tomorrow.
Well, I have no idea. I don't
know what it's like up there.
I don't know if they're
even there.
Well, I would need the keys
for it first, wouldn't I?
When I know.
Sallie, I will call you
when I know...
if he even has the paintings.
Jesus.
[door creaks open]
[indistinct chatter]
[door slams]
-You all right?
-Hi.
[music continues]
[door clicks open]
[Julian] Perhaps it's simply
"The Reason My
Therapist Chose...
"Early Retirement Number Seven."
[audience laughs]
And next time, my dear, you have
the urge to express yourself...
why don't you nip
down to Boots...
and get yourself a pencil
and a notebook.
It's a lot cheaper.
[audience laughs]
What I can't stand
about painting...
is you paint from the
heart, from the soul...
you give yourself to
everything you can.
You pour it onto the canvas...
and then some bloody agent
comes along and takes 45%.
Well no more. [laughs]
[Female Reporter #1] Well,
they're quite a bargain.
I do believe someone has
walked away with...
a potentially 2 million pound...
painting for 1,100 pounds.
How do you feel about that?
It would be a bargain
at 2 million...
but whatever they pay,
I'm happy with. Thank you.
[Female Reporter #1] Well, they
are all stunning.
Thank you very much.
Of course the question
on everyone's lips is...
will the Christophers
be making...
an appearance on
the pavement today?
The Christophers...
No, they're indoors somewhere.
They're private matters.
Private affairs.
[street noises]
[doorbell buzzes]
[birds chirping]
[Julian over intercom]
Other door. [door buzzes]
Hello?
Hello?
[door slams shut]
Hello.
[Julian] Oh, coming!
[clears throat]
[coughs] Come in.
Do you mind me in
my dressing grown?
Actually, I do.
Okay.
Weinstein has ruined the
robe for the rest of us.
You needn't have worried.
I can't bear the sight of it
open myself.
Even when alone.
Studio. This way.
The locksmith should--
We shall take the scenic route.
Yep, if he can't find a
key for what's up there...
he'll have to change out the
whole third floor door lock.
I'll get him to make you
a copy as well.
But no copies for the kids.
However hard they beg.
Oh, now that was once
an entire dinosaur.
Only had room inside
for three, as it happened.
A fact that Ringo found
out the hard way. [laughs]
And oh, not the Ringo
you are thinking about. [coughs]
-No, this one was French.
-Right.
So, what is other Lori?
Am I allowed to ask if
she has a boyfriend?
I mean, no.
No she doesn't?
No, you're not allowed.
Noted.
[Lori nervously chuckles]
Why not though?
Well, firstly, we're at work.
Nonsense. It's not like
we cease to be ourselves...
simply by crossing some
conceptual boundary.
Here I am at work and here
I'm at home. Ask away.
At work. Oh, don't you dare.
All yours.
You can't ask me
in either place...
because you are my employer,
which means you hold the power.
And I should use it to ask
if you have a partner.
If you'll explain its relevance.
The relevance is that
I'm curious.
And who wouldn't want to bring
their life into their work?
Unless, well, right.
Yes, well, never mind. You said
that you weren't an artist.
Actually you said that.
Well, I swear that we had
that conversation yesterday.
Well, you know there was
speaking if that's what
you mean.
Well, did I not ask questions?
My children say that
I don't ask questions.
And actually by definition...
"did I not ask questions"
is a question.
My children are idiots.
I've no problem with
questions, Lori.
It's the answers that
I can't be bothered with.
Now you remember that I told
you that you were never...
-to speak of the Christophers.
-Mm-hmm.
Well, apparently I lied.
You are to speak of them once...
when you tell me that
they are no more.
No more?
The canvases are buried deep in
the back of the third floor...
and you are to bring them down
here and shred them to bits.
I'm to shred the Christophers?
What? Oh, they're
not Christophers.
They are musings on ideas that
could have been Christophers.
And you are to obliterate them
and destroy the stretchers.
And then bring me
the evidence...
because I shan't go near
them myself.
Okay.
Would you like me to leave them
here when they're shredded?
Yes. [chuckles]
It's not that I don't
trust you, Lori.
The box cutter.
[doorbell rings]
It's just that I
don't trust you.
[doorbell buzzes]
Ah, that'll be the locksmith
and the facialist...
whom I find to be nothing more
than a 90 minute endurance test.
However, Esme demands
that I'm kinder to my skin.
So I shall brace myself and go.
[Julian coughs]
[machine grinding]
Lockbox is sorted.
Spare front door key...
and third floor set to
go with the new door lock.
[door unlocks]
[floorboards creak]
[door creaks]
[somber music plays]
[camera snapping]
[fabric rustling]
[staple gun firing]
[tapping nails]
[keys clacking]
[wood splitting]
[fabric tearing]
[camera whirring]
[phone ringing]
[blade slicing sharply]
[breathes heavily]
[keys jingling]
[latch clicks open]
[light switch clicks]
[grunts]
[car door shuts]
[intriguing music plays]
[Julian snoring]
[birds chriping]
[sirens in the distance]
[clears throat]
[sighs]
[keys jangle]
[floorboards creak]
[Lori gasps] Oh!
I've changed my mind.
They shall not be shredded.
Okay. Okay.
They shall be burned.
All right? Yeah, sure.
I will sort it.
It is sorted.
We shall do it together. Which
is to say you shall do it...
and I shall watch.
It's a bit early for
you though, isn't it?
Well, I have been up all night.
And I shan't sleep until
they are smoldering ash.
Yes?
I'm curious, what kept
you awake?
Cascading memories of wrongs
done to me since my childhood.
They came as if from
a kinetoscope.
[Lori] Hmm.
Look it up, it's with a K.
Now to the fire pit. Follow me
or I shall burn them myself.
Have you ever been
betrayed, Lori?
Oh, I mean hasn't everybody?
Can be quite painful.
Can it not?
No matter what the
relationship with the betrayer.
And how were you betrayed, Lori?
[Lori clears throat]
I once had a partner
who left me.
Oh my God. Your generation
does whine about everything.
Left me for my other partner.
Oh, be still my beating heart.
Was this a throuple?
It was a consensual relationship
between three adults. Yeah.
Oh my, oh my, oh my.
You know, I was once
in a throuple...
back when it was merely
called infidelity.
No, that-- Nevermind.
Right, you toss them on.
[claps hands]
Oh, you seem hesitant.
Yeah, I mean they're
Julian Sklars.
Oh, please.
May I ask what's going on?
Oh, the great, "What's going
on?" Yes. What's going on?
That is the question
of the day, isn't it?
In the fire pit now, please.
[birds chirping]
[metal clanging]
Right. And now we need the
turpentine and matches.
So crack on, Lori.
First we have a little chat.
Sit. If you would.
And on the subject of
what is going on...
Perhaps you would like to tell
me exactly why you are here.
I mean... To pay my rent.
[chuckles]
And why did you seek
and then take this job?
You did tell me not to
mention if I was an artist...
or a fan, but I thought
maybe I'd learn something...
by being in your vicinity.
Really?
Learn what exactly?
Perhaps "how a man...
"once a paradigm of
progressive politics...
"could morph into the
apotheosis of everything...
"that is currently wrong...
"with everything artistically
and economically?"
Or how a "bloated ego
in yesterday's beret..."
could "squat on property
unaffordable...
"and hence uninhabitable
for generations to come..."
whose "only outrage at so-called
'cancel culture' came...
"once he had been justifiably
canceled himself."
"Justifiably," says his
future assistant...
on January the 3rd, 2022.
And she goes on. "Bloviating..."
she says, "in the voice of the
very thing, not just his work...
"but his entire being so
vociferously railed against
during...
"his once impressive
ascension..."
which preceded the
"artistic immolation..."
"and subsequent
"crash and burn..."
into the "soulless junk
heap of irrelevance..."
reserved for those who
have "exploded our culture...
"and imploded their legacy."
"And will his work even last?
"Or will it go the way of the
lava lamp and the leisure suit?
"And if it doesn't,
shouldn't it?"
Not even "should it."
"Shouldn't it."
Never underestimate the
internet prowess of a man...
who has spent decades
googling himself.
[sips]
So, why are you here?
I was hired by
Barnaby and Sallie...
to complete the
unfinished Christophers.
-Really?
-Yeah.
Why?
So they could have something
from you. I guess, when you die.
-You mean to sell?
-Yeah.
Just to sell?
So the idea would be...
I would return them
to the third floor...
where they would sit.
-Until I died.
-Yeah.
And you know them how?
Sallie and I met in art school.
You know, she went by a
different last name...
but we all knew.
Well, the school knew. She would
never have got in on her talent.
She said that she and her
brother had a job for me.
Well, it is the smartest thing
they thought of in decades.
I'll give them that.
And your cut?
A third.
And what makes you think
that you could do it?
Well, they said that
you were never up there.
No!
What makes you think you
could actually do it? Do it!
Well, the original
brushes are all up there.
The paints, the palette
knives, the linseed, the rags.
Those Kendall Plushes have
been deadstock for decades.
The microfibres alone
would vet huge.
Well, you must know
that your very premise...
that it is the correct equipment
which makes the work...
the work, is bollocks.
I guess that's where
the art of it comes in.
Art?
That's the part I am most
interested in, I guess.
The art of what?
Becoming someone else.
Oh, poo.
Get yourself your own
mindset, Lori Butler.
You inhabit that.
You don't squat in mine.
It takes guts.
It takes blood.
It took my blood, and don't you
think you can bleed for me.
Oh, and it seems that you
are not the only person...
in this room who wishes
that you were someone else.
I understand. I'm going to go.
You are in my home.
You have lied to me.
You have betrayed me.
And you are, at least
for the time being...
still in my employment.
So do an old "bloviating
bloated ego" a kindness...
and grab a stretched blank
canvas from upstairs.
-What?
-Any size.
You've seen yourself,
there are dozens.
Why?
Because I have one more
question for you.
And believe me, I shall pay...
particular attention
to your answer.
And after that, by all
means, you are free to leave.
[somber music plays]
[floorboards creak]
On there.
My question.
You say you can paint
in my style.
Do it then.
That's not a question.
Will you paint what you
believe I would paint...
were I whomever you
think I was...
whenever you think I was
whatever you think I was?
-No.
-No. Because you can't.
-Case closed.
-I'm not going to do this.
Thank you for the job.
And I'm sorry.
How would you know...
how I would've painted them
when even I don't know...
how I would have painted them?
I actually am truly sorry.
[footsteps receding]
[footsteps approaching]
The first Christopher series,
1994 and '95...
have a very distinct
trajectory in my mind.
The marks on number
one are tentative.
There's a delicacy verging on a
kind of inadvertent pointillism.
At least in the undercoat.
The colors warm with
each successive layer.
The bottoms are all
Prussian blues, cherry reds...
but as the layers rise,
the reds get rustier.
You even used ochre, a shade you
told David Sylvester was...
"sentimental slop."
In the third and fourth
the lac got denser...
and the oils thickened.
There was a liftedness,
almost like you were dancing.
The paint was literally
coming off the canvas...
and there was more
light around his face...
as his look moved more
and more to the center.
Towards his creator.
What are you saying then?
You were falling in love...
and for the first time
you were free.
I believe you came out then.
At least publicly.
But in the second series, 1997,
'98, it shifted.
By the fifth in series two...
you can see the hesitation
in the line.
The pressure becomes uneven.
Heavy darks start to appear
up top. Patches of blank.
And Christopher's gaze...
drifts further and further
off the canvas again.
And you started retouching.
Sometimes eight layers, ten.
Like you were trying to grasp
an image that wasn't there.
Number six looks like it
was restarted 12, 13 times...
and by eight there's
a wooden quality.
Almost as if you were
painting by rote.
And the blanks spread like
they were metastasizing.
Thomas McEvilley said
they had a joyful lightness...
a spirited lyricism.
McEvilley was wrong.
Graham-Dixon was wrong.
Marina Vaizey was wrong.
The lightness was forced,
and the joy was a lie.
It was obvious in the seventh...
and by the eighth
it was glaring.
It was over.
It wasn't very good,
that last one.
No. It isn't.
Some sap in Chicago paid
two mil for it during Covid...
-I heard.
-Yeah.
Well.
-Hence?
-Here we are.
Here we are then.
Grave robbers crawling
through the mud to exhume...
a trinket from some
already rotted coffin.
And this third series...
Am I-- Sorry, "I," to have
painted them recently or...?
No, back then was the thought.
Of course when they were
actually worth something...
and then "I'm" to have
buried them upstairs.
Didn't want them seen
would be the story I guess.
Too painful.
Something like that.
Yes. The breakup was hard.
[Lori] Hmm.
It wasn't. I'd done with them.
Sure.
-I had.
-Fine.
I must say I found
your prep impressive.
I've got to give you that.
There was no prep.
[doorbell buzzes]
That could be some bloody
package I've forgotten...
I've ordered.
[doorbell buzzes]
Oh, they're so
impatient, Amazon.
Oh, bollocks!
It's Barnaby.
Unless... Oh Christ.
[knock on door]
It's Sallie too. Oh, oh,
fuck me, it's both of them.
Hang on!
Hang on!
Buzzards on the buzzers.
[door unlocks] [Julian sighs]
Hi, Dad, I know what you said,
but may we come in please?
Why?
[Sallie] We need to speak
to your assistant.
Oh, I forgot what her name is.
Do you know I can't
recall it either?
Barney, any ideas?
-Lisa maybe.
-Yes! Lisa Maybe.
Why?
We just got a form that she
urgently needs to fill out.
-Tax related.
-Very.
Very tax related.
Yeah, we've been trying
to call her...
but she's not been
picking up, so...
So, is she here?
Yes. Lisa Maybe is here.
So do come in.
As there's something I need to
speak with you about as well.
[door slams shut]
The Christophers.
The...?
Sorry, Dad. Which are those?
Oh, have I got the name wrong?
Oh gosh, Dad. I mean,
you've painted so many.
Christopher. Christopher.
Why am I so fixated on
that name then?
Which was the one that I said,
perhaps you can recall this.
Which was the one that
you took a whack at...
at some point last year
accidentally thinking...
that it was not in
fact an egregious...
act of dishonesty and betrayal?
Oh right. Yeah, those, those.
Dad, what about them?
Well, I have asked Lisa
Maybe to destroy them.
-What?
-Wait, why?
Well, she can't, Dad.
[Lori] Oh, I already have.
-What the fuck, Lori?
-Yes. That's her name. Lori!
-And she has burned--
-[Lori] Shredded.
-She's shredded them.
-Fuck off.
Bullshit, even he knows
you're bullshitting.
-Yeah. Where are they then?
-Hang on.
[Sallie] Dad, you can't.
[Julian] Well, apparently I did.
But they're not yours.
Well, meaning that they
are the world's.
-The world of art.
-But not, of course yours.
No, no!
The furthest thing
from our minds.
Well, you should get out
and give them to the world.
And to do that, you should
get out now and get started.
You stupid, stupid man.
Get out of my house now.
The two of you.
Great. Now you've
shredded each other.
So I hope you feel very
good about it.
Shredded each other?
[door slams shut]
What does that mean?
Nothing.
-Nothing?
-Nothing.
And these, what are these?
These are fakes,
which I shredded.
The real ones...
the ones you were
about to incinerate...
are outside in the fire pit.
[laughs] Right?
So?
So, let's go.
As you are still, for
the moment, my employee...
I'm ordering you to come out
to the fire pit and burn them.
Well, as your employee
has now quit...
I wish you good luck with that.
Well, I'll go and do it
myself then.
Oh, really?
Really.
"Crack on," then.
[grunts]
How's the bonfire going?
What did you mean,
"I'd imploded my legacy"?
If you were to ask my cousin
who Julian Sklar is...
he would say the guy that
yelled at kids...
and housewives on Art Fight.
[Julian laughs]
Yes. Well, they get
off easy. Yes.
I was the one being tortured.
I was waterboarded by a
deluge of kittens, Lori.
Each one more hideously
adorable than the next.
Bopping at yarn. In acrylic.
Watercolor. Watercolor, Lori.
Peach tones, lavender, lavender.
Well, no, I did them a favor.
Did you?
Yes.
I saved them from a lifetime
of heartache and rejection...
and grasping at something that
they would never achieve.
And worse. Clawing back
at something...
that they would never recapture.
Because success, Lori, is worse.
Okay. Okay.
Let's just stop this. Yeah?
-What are you doing?
-You're not going to burn these.
What? I most certainly am.
There is a reason you've
kept them for 25 years.
If you really didn't want
them, you would've sold them...
for shit at your stupid
jumble sale.
Oh my "sidewalk salon."
Oh, that was a bugger off
to an industry...
who needed someone to
say it to them.
It was a move that gave you
cover to pretend it was you...
who was in control of
his own downfall.
No, but no, I'd done
with them. Lori.
Yeah, because they were
done with you.
It was a corrupt industry...
in a corrupt world.
Investments and tax shelters...
and trophies for the
Billionaire Boys' Club.
So, I left.
No, you mean you quit.
-No, I left.
-You gave in.
I left. And on my own terms.
And how do you know
if it's even art now...
anyhow, it's all online?
Oh, you get nothing...
when you stare at something
through a screen.
You know, I get yelled
at now from passing cars.
They call me a hack, a pig even.
Offended somehow as if...
we've got some sort of
personal relationship.
You don't think it's
a personal relationship?
Art?
No.
It's a man alone in his room.
Me in this room.
I have a relationship...
with the canvas.
And when I've said what I've
got to say to it, then it goes.
Where do you think it goes?
Do what you want.
You can take them out.
You can burn them again.
Don't leave me.
Why...
did you even care?
And you were so livid
with me...
in those writings.
Why?
I was 12.
It was pissing down rain.
I ditched school and snuck into
what happened to be a museum.
Yes.
Yes, what show?
It was the one with the
famous artist's...
work from when they were kids.
You saw "Enfant Terrible."
There was one you'd done my age
that was the easiest to copy.
By which you mean it
was the one...
that hit you most profoundly
in your soul.
By which I mean it
was literally called...
Anyone Can Do This
and Call It Art.
Yeah.
Mrs. Hanley...
she failed me for that one.
"Oh, this is nothing but
a spiral of words, Julian.
"You have desecrated the
canvas with everything...
"that the assignment is not."
But I said, "Yes!
"Because it's more interesting."
Yeah, and there was a
second piece of yours.
It was a drawing from
when you were six.
Boy Under Cloud.
Boy Under Cloud.
An oozing excretion of
maudlin treacle, that title.
You were six.
And did you find that
easy to copy as well?
Not at 12.
It was...
impeccable.
But?
I quit, is that what
you're saying?
Please God, don't feel
sorry for me.
To be honest, I'd rather have
your rage than your pity.
And now, if you'll excuse me.
I need to pay for
tonight's meal.
You are a quitter
yourself, you know, Lori.
No one goes to art school to
become a restorer or a critic.
I came in early this morning.
Really?
Yeah. 4:00, 5:00 am.
Well, I'm sorry if such
industrious assistantism was...
wasted on what turned out to be
an errant if dramatic misfire.
-What it tells me--
-Excuse me.
[computer beeps]
Good morning, Mario.
Now you told me that you
want me to paint something...
appropriately romantic
for your fiance.
And I presume by
"appropriately..."
that you want me to paint
it in vanishing ink.
[peaceful music plays]
[bag rustles]
[lids crack open]
[knock on door]
[frantic knocking]
-[Sallie] Lori.
-Oh my God. What?
I am not going back there.
-But you have to.
-Because?
Because you need to
start them from scratch.
You've still got old canvases
and paints and brushes up there.
Yeah. That's not
going to happen.
Well, we think it is.
[paper rustling]
Isidore Clemens. 1927.
Sold for 25,000 in that
Kent art house in 2017.
Split between that
corrupt gallerist...
and the person opposite me.
Maybe you shouldn't
write angry notes to exes.
Especially those who still
speak to other...
old college friends of yours.
Sometimes people say things.
I'm curious if the person
who paid the 25k might be...
interested in knowing
it's a fake.
Well, when you find out,
let me know.
I don't think you want to
challenge this.
Yeah, but you may need
to because you know...
and I know that no one benefits
from that being exposed.
Not the gallery,
not the artist...
and certainly not the
person that bought it.
Was that a confession
we just heard?
No, but this is.
I forged that painting.
And I forged Astley's
In-Between.
And I forged Panagatacos'
Six Shapes in Red.
All of that was a long time ago.
So you'll do what we say then?
No.
Well then, perhaps we'll see
you in court.
Yeah, because perhaps, Lori,
we've been recording this.
And does that include your fraud
bit before my confession...
and your blackmail bit after?
Because you'd need both
for context.
We'll give you 10,000 pounds
in advance.
-Wow. But no.
-Fifteen.
-No.
-Oh, come on mate.
20. 20 grand, okay?
But that's it.
We can't go higher than that.
Do you even have this money?
[Sallie] Yeah.
-Really?
-Yes.
How?
Because...
It doesn't matter.
Two hundred thousand.
-Pounds?
-Quid?
You must be out of
your bloody mind.
We haven't got that
sort of money.
The number's 200.
[Sallie scoffs] Look, I love
you Lori, but this is piggish.
Two hundred thousand.
You are being a cunty pig-cunt.
Two hundred thousand.
21,400 pounds, right,
please accept this.
That's all the money we have.
Please, please, Lori, please.
It's really, really important.
Oh my God.
You've sold them already.
-What?
-No.
This is...
This is fabulous.
The answer is no and
definitely not for 21,000 quid.
He's dying, Lori.
It's called Aplastic Anaemia.
Okay, he's been refusing
treatment for years.
Our time is running out.
Everyone's is.
The answer is even more no.
[unlatches door]
-Did you forget something?
-Can you close the door?
I believe your dignity
is just along there...
and you'll find your
pride upstairs somewhere.
Close the door.
[door slamming]
I've just googled a rare blood
disease called Aplastic Anaemia.
Ah, yes.
Well, much to the impending
dismay of the Heirs Abhorrent...
a genius in Stuttgart has
reionized y stems cells...
and thus, like everything else
that used to be inside me...
it has amounted to nothing.
The only thing dying,
I'm afraid...
is the dream of Lord
and Lady Vulture.
Well, they've sold them already.
-Sold?
-The Christophers.
They took a down payment of
a million quid last year.
That's why Sallie tried
to do it herself.
Oh, oh, what glorious idiocy.
[laughs]
Well, for what it's
worth of that...
they only have 21,000 quid left.
Well, I'm surprised
they've got anything.
How many paintings?
All nine. Even Sallie's.
To a fan?
To a 28-year-old tech bro...
who's going to donate them
for the tax credit.
Oh, to the Royal Academy?
Well, at least?
Maybe?
To a place called
Museum of the Desert...
just outside of Las Vegas.
Oh. [scoffs]
And this tech bro, does
he even know who I am? Or was?
No. But I'm told after
some googling.
Yes. And I assume my children
want you to resume...
your task of faking
these somehow?
Same plan, new old canvases.
I think I should do it.
You paint them?
Yeah.
Paint them, but very,
very badly.
[Julian laughs]
[peaceful music plays]
Imagine the look on the
tech bro's face...
when he sees what he's bought.
Oh, it's almost worth
staying alive for.
And I shall be alongside you...
for the entire time
as your assistant.
You're going to be my assistant?
Yes. And I'll be a very
good one too.
And now my first task is to
assist you in getting paints.
-And there's an art shop...
-Yeah?
...on Bronton Street,
which is quite dreadful.
Perfect.
Oh, but, oh, on this
particular occasion...
I shan't be able to help
you in person...
as I'm not allowed in...
due to a thin-skinned
proprietor...
and an overreaction to a
simple statement of fact.
Okay, I'll get this one then.
All right! And while
you are out...
shall I rustle us
up something...
little omelet?
You're going to make
me an omelet?
Yeah. Don't sound so surprised.
All right then, I'll
have a cheese omelet.
Yeah. Cheese omelet.
That's an omelet with cheese.
Yeah.
Actually, how do you introduce
the cheese into the omelet?
I'm just going to pick
something up for us. Yeah?
Excellent team work.
[chuckles] [door opens]
[Julian hums]
[door slams shut]
[playful music plays]
[wheels squeak]
[claps hands]
[hums joyfully]
[bags thud]
[lock clicks open]
[door slams shut]
-Hello.
-Coming. Coming!
I thought you might enjoy this
as a kind of inspiration piece.
-Is that Sallie's?
-Yes.
I keep it in her old room
to ward off future visits.
It's affixed to the wall along
with garlic and a wooden cross.
What's crazy is she's actually
improved since art school.
Well, that's another first.
An instance of where
a child of mine...
has actually inspired me.
Right. And this shall
be your metric.
Can you top it?
By which of course, I
mean, can you go under it?
This is fun! Assisting.
[mouthful] This is delicious,
Lori. Mm!
[grunts with pleasure]
Consider me poor but happy.
Okay.
I'm going to start.
This was to be his.
Well, they were all to be
his, as a matter of fact.
His? Christopher's?
Oh, was I blustering fool.
Messages on the
answering machine.
Gifts, gifts, gifts.
"Let me paint you one
more time, Topher...
"and all this should be yours."
Nothing.
Actually, let's start
with a different one.
I made him. I literally
created him.
He was the boy who
did my stretchers.
I gave him his life, his fame.
Everyone knew who
Christopher was.
He was invited everywhere.
And then one day...
He never came back.
I actually did want him to have
them even after all of the mess.
I should have liked to
have lasted in his mind.
You see, that's the thing,
isn't it?
To last in the mind of others.
First instincts, Lori!
I never joined the
Royal Academy, you know.
Oh, the R.A. I refused to
play that game.
The others were rabid about it.
Every last one of them more
competitive than the next.
But not me, Lori. I
was the least competitive
of them all by far.
Why are you staring at me?
I don't think you
want to do this.
I am ordering you,
Lori Butler...
to desecrate that
painting with that brush.
Well, as my assistant, you
don't get to call the shots.
Oh, very well then. I
resign as your assistant!
Okay, okay, okay. You win,
you win, you win.
Look, I will do it. I'll do it.
But let's pick a different one.
That's right, pick a
different one.
[somber music plays]
[Julian grunts]
[Julian grunts with effort]
[easel creaks]
[Julian mutters]
[paint splatters]
It's already dreadful.
[laughs]
Oh, well this is
monumentally hideous...
so...
Glue.
Yes.
[Julian grunts] [mutters]
This glue and then feathers.
No, no. We'll have the glitter
first, and then feathers.
And that.
Oh take that!
[laughs] Feathers.
[plastic rustling]
[laughs]
You would think at 85 I would
know you can't throw feathers.
Have you called my children?
Not yet.
Oh, well you must, you must...
because these Christopher Threes
will hang in the pantheon...
of the worst art of all time...
along with Dogs Playing Poker...
Velvet Elvis, and all of Warhol.
Yes, yes. I'll have
masking tape.
[tape rasping]
You see there should be a
through line of awfulness.
Each one worse than the rest.
As if the...
As if the destruct
was the construct.
I can't, oh, no, no, no.
[mutters]
Lori...
Something's happened.
Are you okay?
I'm struggling. I'm struggling
to make the strokes run.
It's physically impossible
to make it bad.
Look.
Yeah, you're right.
It is not uninteresting.
Wow.
So what do I do?
-Maybe keep going.
-Hmm.
For who though?
Well, you seem like you
were having a good time.
So why not just keep
having a good time?
Because why?
Because it is fun for you,
isn't it?
Because I'm fun for you?
Julian.
So here I am. Yes, I am
the entertainment again.
This is what you
wanted all along, isn't it?
To wind up the old fool...
and have him clutter about
and bang his cymbals.
Oh, is it interesting
being Jane Goodall...
to the old dancing monkey
in his natural habitat?
And how am I faring as the
anecdote you'll tell all your...
laughing friends about later.
This isn't what I meant
when I talked about living...
in the minds of others.
Julian, where is
this coming from?
No. Well, where are
you coming from?
"Oh, it's not uninteresting."
And how would you know that?
To judge art, you must
possess the various skills...
it takes to make said art.
And do you really think
you possess those skills?
Well, I don't. And why not?
Because of three words:
Untitled. Number. Seven.
I saw it on your website
and I didn't need to see it...
because I'd already seen it.
And when I say I'd already seen
it, and I might as well have...
because it rang
with the familiarity...
of all those other foul,
existential...
impressionistic landscapes by
all the other wannabe artists.
I think...
I think maybe, Lori...
it was a healthy thing
that you quit.
[somber music plays]
[door slams shut]
Christopher.
[canvas tearing]
[breathes heavily]
[pub crowd walla]
[upbeat music plays on speakers]
[glass clanks]
[phone keys clack]
[phone rings on the line]
I will take 21,000.
You can keep the 400...
but I get 50% of the final sale,
including the down payment.
-[Sallie] 25%.
-30?
-35?
Good. I'll call you with a plan.
[street noises]
[lock unlatches]
[door creaks]
[door slams shut]
[Julian] I was right.
You can't judge art by
looking at it online.
This is good.
Untitled Number Seven.
You know, there's a power
to it that I missed...
on your website.
So you came here to
tell me you were right.
Yes. About many things.
Including having seen
that before.
Which explains Lori, why I
thought that I'd seen it before.
I got a hunch when I looked at
you just as you were leaving...
and that I'd seen that
specific look before...
on your specific face.
And then I remembered you.
Art Fight.
So I looked up season three,
episode five...
and I was right.
You must have been what?
-21?
-I was 19.
And the truth is, at the time...
I'd really only glanced
at the painting.
I was merely thinking up
my next joke...
while I was telling
the last joke.
Did I cause you to quit?
I haven't quit.
I just quit showing.
I'm a broken man, Lori.
I believe I always have been.
And you know, it wasn't you
that I was mad at earlier.
Yeah, I know.
It was...
What do you mean, "You know"?
Seriously?
Who am I kidding?
Oh the lies that I've been
telling myself my whole life.
It's exhausting, and...
I didn't give Christopher
his life.
I gave him mine.
I suspect I ruined his.
I know I ruined his.
When you think of me,
Lori, I should like that...
you remember me as the
person you thought I was...
who did that very
first drawing...
who gave you the courage
to start.
Not the man who you
actually know me to be.
Why are you here, Julian?
Because I want to have
an exhibition.
And if I do actually
get a show, and...
Perhaps it could be called...
"Julian Sklar..."
I can't tell whether this
says "revived" or "reviled."
Exactly.
Is this a retrospective?
Oh no, they'd be new.
And people can judge them
however they judge them.
And I would be grateful, Lori
if you'd be so kind as to...
perhaps just be there
while I try.
Yeah. Yes.
Yes, of course.
-Yes.
-The crack of noon?
Precisely.
Oh, except, oh, I should, no...
I've got Esme and she
is pretty insistent that...
I don't cancel last minute.
-We could do 2:00 PM?
-What if we did Monday?
Julian.
I'd like, I think I should
like actually...
to just dream about
these actually...
for a week, tops.
Yeah, all right. Fine.
Yes. Yes.
Okay.
Thank you.
Yeah. Yeah.
This is where you leave.
Oh yes. Yes, of course.
Yes, yes. Goodbye.
[Julian whistles]
Whose is this?
It's mine, sir.
It's absolute shit.
[haunting music plays]
[dial lock unlatching]
[knocking]
Julian?
[Art Fight Moderator] Thank you
very much. [audience cheers]
Thank you very much indeed.
Welcome back to Art Fight.
The show where everyone's a
critic, particularly Julian.
We've got Lori Butler...
and she studies at Central
Saint Martins, no less.
Another one. Lots of those.
And she is showing us today...
her painting
Untitled Number Seven.
Julian, what do you think?
[Julian] Untitled Number Seven?
Well, it's a fitting name
given there are...
no actual words to describe...
what exactly it is I'm looking
at. [audience laughs]
And oh please.
Oh God, don't tell me.
I'm going to have to
look at the previous six...
in order to understand this one.
[audience laughing]
It's not a painting, Lori.
It's a cry for help from
the paint itself.
"Why am I here?" it screams.
Perhaps there's a title, Lori,
and perhaps it's simply...
The Reason My Therapist
Chose Early Retirement...
Number Seven.
[audience laughs]
[somber music plays]
[canvases thud]
[typing]
Hello, I'm calling for
Owen Appleton, please.
Personal.
Okay.
Can you please tell him
that I have something...
he may be very interested in?
Thank you.
[upbeat music plays]
[train roaring]
Hi, I'm looking for
Mr. Appleton.
I'm Owen. How can I help you?
I'm Lori Butler.
I told you on the telephone...
I don't want to talk
about any of that.
I understand that
and I respect that.
But I wouldn't have come
all the way here if there...
weren't some things that...
I think you might want
to hear me out on.
[train rumbling]
All right.
First, I have a question.
Why did he call you Christopher?
These are technically ours now.
Well, they're literally yours.
Everything in there, all yours.
[Sallie sighs]
Sort of weirdly feels
like a Julian Sklar museum.
It's actually a good idea.
This whole floor could
be the gift shop.
This stays exactly as it is.
Even this exactly as it
is, you want to keep this?
Yeah, just keep this here?
Just maybe that could be
the poster for the museum.
Blow it up on the
side of the... No?
It's the bathroom at the back.
-Holy shit.
-Oh my God.
Did you do these?
-Barney.
-Tell me. Tell me now.
Honestly, Lori, if you did
these, we will fucking fry you.
Barnaby, does it even matter?
Of course it matters.
If she did them, they're
worth fuck all again.
And if I didn't, what
would they be worth then?
"Schedule C1, I, Julian
Sklar hereby confirm...
"that the eight artworks
identified below...
"herein referred to...
"as the Christopher Series
Three consisting of acrylic...
"watercolor, glitter, feathers,
axle grease, masking tape...
[Barnaby mutters]
"are all authentic artworks that
I have created and gifted to...
"recipient, Owen Christopher
Appleton."
Christopher was his middle name.
Hmm.
Julian told him that
Owen sounded like...
the pained bleat
of a mooing cow.
You forged this, haven't you?
Why would I do that?
Well, let's think, you
know, to maybe, I don't know...
stop us from having them.
Plus you called me
before dad died...
and said that you would
forge the eight Christophers...
as long as we shared 50%
of the profits with you.
Okay, sorry. Let me
just get this straight.
You are accusing me of
forging a legal note from him...
which would give me 50%
of nothing.
Now why on earth
would I do that?
[peaceful music plays]
-Lori.
-Hi, Sallie. Barney.
-Fine. You won.
-Congratulations.
Dad is famous again. Yay.
But, look, you've
got to tell us.
Who painted them? Really?
The truth.
Really? Does it even matter?
[music continues]
[Julian videos overlap
indistinct walla]
It's good.
Really captures his essence.
-Esme?
-Hmm.
Hi.
I tried to get this to
you at the memorial...
but you left so quickly.
When I found him,
I also found this.
It belongs to you.
-No, no, this isn't mine.
-It is.
I took it because I didn't
want you know who to see it.
Okay, thank you.
Good luck, Lori.
Thank you.
[art crowd walla]
[paper rustling]
[bubble wrap tearing]
[peaceful music plays]
[marker scratching]
[street crowd walla]
[phone ringing]
Butler Art Restoration. This is
Lori, how may I help you?
Sallie from... Yeah.
Hi. Hi.
Yeah. Long, long time.
Yes. What's up?
Okay. What kind of work?
Yes, I can't do right now...
but I could do this afternoon.
Yeah, there's a pub
near where I live.
Shall I send you the address?
Okay. All right.
-I'm so sorry.
-That's all right.
-How may I help you?
-Yes.
Can I have Red Lantern's
noodles, please?
Yep. Red Lantern noodles.
[Sallie] Look, it's eight
unfinished canvases.
-[Barnaby] Would've been nine.
-Fuck off, Barnaby.
Should have been nine.
[Sallie sighs]
Ask her why there aren't nine.
Seriously, Barney, fuck you.
She tried to do one herself.
-Whatever.
-She nicked one. Hang on.
It's actually why we're
not allowed around there.
-I took a photo.
-Barnaby.
Whatever, it's on here.
3 million pound dump she took.
They weren't worth fuck all.
Yet.
Look, there were a series
of barely finished canvases...
with Polaroids stuck on.
They were nothing.
Of which "nothings,"
we have eight...
from Dad's only remaining good
period, which he abandoned.
And these are the third
series of Christophers?
The point is, he's not
going to be here much longer...
and if when he passes...
they go through his third
floor storage...
which he doesn't open
and never will...
and they happen to find
that he's finished...
a previously undiscovered
series...
All the original brushes.
All the original paints.
On original canvases, that
literally, if someone checked...
contain molecular
traces of his DNA.
They can actually do that.
I'm aware.
[Sallie] So?
You said this was a
restoration job.
-[Sallie] It is.
-It's a forgery job.
-What? No. No, no. God no, no.
-No!
All we we're trying to get you
to do is merely complete them.
By forging them.
By forging through them
until they're completed.
Look, really, Lori though,
does it even matter?
What are you talking about?
Of course it matters.
[Sallie] Yeah, does it though?
Actually?
I mean, Dad has his assistants
complete his paintings
all the time.
Yes, but these he's
hardly even started.
[Barnaby] How do you know he
didn't already have them...
all mapped out in
his head, Lori?
Two months ago, a piece
from Dad's first set...
of Christophers sold
at a Russian auction...
for 3 million plus. A piece from
the second set, 3.5 in China.
His style, as I'm sure
you found out...
is unique and quite hard
to replicate.
-You can though.
-I don't know about that.
Central Saint Martins. Week one.
Our very first assignment.
"Come up with a series of works
in the style of the artist...
who inspired you the most."
I saw it, Lori,
with my own eyes.
Ah, yes. That was a
very long time ago though.
And since then,
well, you know...
you've seen what I've
said about him.
Didn't you guys meet once?
Am I remembering that rightly
back when we were at college?
We know why you hate
him is the point.
Think of this as a way
to get revenge.
Just do the numbers, Lori.
Everybody knows what one
original Julian Sklar...
from that period is worth.
[mysterious music plays]
[street noises]
[music continues]
[doorbell rings]
[Julian over intercom]
Other door.
[door buzzes]
[birds chirping]
[door creaking]
Hello?
[Julian speaking indistinctly
in another room]
[door shuts]
[Julian] Fragile and timeless.
[continues indistinctly]
Let's go with soft lights.
[Julian continues to
speak indistinctly]
A bamboo shoot,
which has pierced...
Adrian's navel and has...
Oh God, I don't know, sprung
a rose, at which you then...
stare, transfixed,
and so I say...
happy anniversary.
35 years is too long
to sustain a relationship...
as we're all designed
to be dead by then...
evolutionarily speaking,
so kudos...
to modern science for
making generations...
feel like failures at love,
except, apparently, you...
Adrian and Linda...
and for that I congratulate
you both.
Julian Sklar, signing off.
[clears throat] Hello?
I'm here for the four o'clock?
[Julian] It's up one more.
Antanas. Is that a name?
And does it even matter
as it's unpronounceable...
and does violence to the ear.
So I shall call you Tony.
And for your birthday, Tony...
imagine me drawing
you a tiger...
upon which you are
gallantly perched...
in your sleeveless
Tottenham Hotspur shirt.
Which at 48 you are far
too old to be wearing.
And I am Julian Sklar.
And here I am signing off.
[computer beeps]
Tea, coffee, water?
Oh, thank you.
Water would be great
actually, yes.
Well, be a dear, and grab me one
as well. Just by the front door.
Jeremy.
[computer beeps]
Jeremy, you again?
[glasses clink]
[Julian talks indistinctly]
Alisa, Julian Sklar here.
Your mother would like me to
tell you not to quit art school.
Seriously though, do.
[chuckles]
Those clowns at Camberwell
will poison you...
with their Sainsbury's
aisles and ideas...
processed, packed in plastic.
The stalest up front so
that you buy into those first.
Grow your own, I say.
Go organic!
Although I hear that's
all rubbish too.
Do you know how much
plastic we eat in a week?
A credit card's worth.
It's in the water now.
It's hopeless.
So happy birthday, stay
in school, blah, blah.
I'm Julian Sklar and here I am
as I always am...
signing off.
[computer beeps]
149 pounds.
249 if I sign.
-Oh water?
-Yeah.
Thank you. Never get old.
Oh, I'm sorry.
Oh, Lori Butler.
Never get old, Lori Butler.
Yes, would you sit?
It's been a while since I
interviewed an assistant.
So, tell me about yourself.
However, if you are a painter...
I don't want to know about it.
And do dispense with the...
"big fan, you were with me
through" whatever drudgery...
your life's journey
has taken you.
Heartbreak, blah,
blah, grieving. Because
we both know...
that's a lie as I've done
nothing but shit in 30 years.
Nothing at all in 20.
"You made me want to be an
artist." No, my dear.
Your fucked-up childhood made
you want to be an artist.
I'm just what you tripped over
as you scurried to freedom.
Lori is it?
If you claim to be a fan of
that hideous reality show...
Art Fight, you may
show yourself out now.
Even the creators of that
pandering pig slop weren't fans.
And I realize this makes it
challenging to find
a compliment...
that doesn't read
like obsequiousness.
And for that you have
my sympathies.
Because don't get me
wrong, I like my flattery.
I just need to believe it.
So for now, I'll take, "I am a
woman, and I don't hate
you, Julian."
They hate me, the women,
even more than the men.
I was bisexual, Lori...
when it actually cost
something to say so.
Are you any good
with humidifiers?
I'm sorry.
Well, I'm told that I would
benefit from the use of
a humidifier...
and the infographics...
they burn a shadow
on the retina...
arrows into screw holes,
into arrows...
into whatever shapes those are.
Would you like some help in
assembling your humidifier?
Well, though I
hesitate to take you up on your
very kind offer...
begrudgingly, thank you.
So, we've established
you are not an artist...
and you're not a fan and you
may or may not be bisexual.
Oh, which reminds me...
there are recent editions
on the Wikipedia...
quotes taken out of context
and one in context...
but spoken while
inebriated and thus I can't be
held accountable.
Ah, but what I said was true...
over 75% of enrollment in
the art schools is women.
And my question was
simply a question...
why then are women not in
75% percent of museums, Lori?
You did say it was Lori?
On the subject of Lori...
what did they tell you
about this job?
-They?
-Yes, my offspring.
The dud Barnaby and
the harridan Sallie.
Yeah, they said you were
hiring an assistant...
to help catalog some of your
things so they can be valued...
by the HMRC or something
like that.
And they recommended
you highly...
which is frankly why I'm
a tad suspicious.
I must be reminded not
to carry things.
[Lori] Oh!
[doorbell buzzes]
That's according to my osteo...
a smallish man named Cyril.
Interesting tidbit
about Cyril...
he smells of radishes.
Why?
This isn't about the
unfinished Christophers, is it?
If so, you must tell me
because I won't paint them.
[door slams]
I can't paint them.
And please don't ask.
Please don't even speak of them.
Yeah, I'm sorry. I don't what
you're talking about.
Well, my children are
obsessed with them...
and I wouldn't have put it
past them if this...
had been somehow about that.
Oh, they're not even clever.
Those two, they're wrecks.
She, a train wreck,
utterly off the rails...
and he a shipwreck
sunken and waterlogged.
Blame their mothers, not me.
I had nothing to do with them.
[humidifier beeps]
I would not be
surprised, Lori...
if this was not so that
HMRC may, quote...
"assess the value of
my estate..."
but so that my children
could get intel on whether...
I was truly leaving
them nothing.
[knocking on door]
Ah, she has risen!
My masseuse Esme, who is a gift
from the heavens.
-Hi.
-Hi.
Where I apparently have been
mistaken for someone else.
She's here at the insistence
of Cyril the radish...
who says I must be kinder
to my joints.
It's all a faff, you know,
HMRC adore me.
I haven't paid taxes
in a decade...
but they've still got
one of my Garbage Twelves...
in their lobby in
Parliament Street.
And, alas, here it is.
[grunts]
A life to be summed up.
Itemised.
Julian Sklar: The Spreadsheet.
I don't even know what's up
there in the room above us.
[sighs]
And the door's been
locked for decades.
So, I shan't know
even going forward...
should there be any
forward left.
Yes. To the great displeasure
of the buzzard Barnaby...
and the hyena Sallie...
I have outlived the
actuarial prediction of...
even the direst of those
foolish enough to insure me.
At one point that had been
the goal to live forever.
And I should have liked
to have bequeathed...
that task to my art, but...
sadly my art,
not unlike my talent...
departed this life long
ago when, apparently...
I was not paying attention.
Excellent interview.
I like you, Lori Butler.
What about tomorrow
at the crack of noon?
Yeah, great.
[peaceful music plays]
[street noises]
[phone rings]
What's up?
Yes, 12:00 p.m. tomorrow.
Well, I have no idea. I don't
know what it's like up there.
I don't know if they're
even there.
Well, I would need the keys
for it first, wouldn't I?
When I know.
Sallie, I will call you
when I know...
if he even has the paintings.
Jesus.
[door creaks open]
[indistinct chatter]
[door slams]
-You all right?
-Hi.
[music continues]
[door clicks open]
[Julian] Perhaps it's simply
"The Reason My
Therapist Chose...
"Early Retirement Number Seven."
[audience laughs]
And next time, my dear, you have
the urge to express yourself...
why don't you nip
down to Boots...
and get yourself a pencil
and a notebook.
It's a lot cheaper.
[audience laughs]
What I can't stand
about painting...
is you paint from the
heart, from the soul...
you give yourself to
everything you can.
You pour it onto the canvas...
and then some bloody agent
comes along and takes 45%.
Well no more. [laughs]
[Female Reporter #1] Well,
they're quite a bargain.
I do believe someone has
walked away with...
a potentially 2 million pound...
painting for 1,100 pounds.
How do you feel about that?
It would be a bargain
at 2 million...
but whatever they pay,
I'm happy with. Thank you.
[Female Reporter #1] Well, they
are all stunning.
Thank you very much.
Of course the question
on everyone's lips is...
will the Christophers
be making...
an appearance on
the pavement today?
The Christophers...
No, they're indoors somewhere.
They're private matters.
Private affairs.
[street noises]
[doorbell buzzes]
[birds chirping]
[Julian over intercom]
Other door. [door buzzes]
Hello?
Hello?
[door slams shut]
Hello.
[Julian] Oh, coming!
[clears throat]
[coughs] Come in.
Do you mind me in
my dressing grown?
Actually, I do.
Okay.
Weinstein has ruined the
robe for the rest of us.
You needn't have worried.
I can't bear the sight of it
open myself.
Even when alone.
Studio. This way.
The locksmith should--
We shall take the scenic route.
Yep, if he can't find a
key for what's up there...
he'll have to change out the
whole third floor door lock.
I'll get him to make you
a copy as well.
But no copies for the kids.
However hard they beg.
Oh, now that was once
an entire dinosaur.
Only had room inside
for three, as it happened.
A fact that Ringo found
out the hard way. [laughs]
And oh, not the Ringo
you are thinking about. [coughs]
-No, this one was French.
-Right.
So, what is other Lori?
Am I allowed to ask if
she has a boyfriend?
I mean, no.
No she doesn't?
No, you're not allowed.
Noted.
[Lori nervously chuckles]
Why not though?
Well, firstly, we're at work.
Nonsense. It's not like
we cease to be ourselves...
simply by crossing some
conceptual boundary.
Here I am at work and here
I'm at home. Ask away.
At work. Oh, don't you dare.
All yours.
You can't ask me
in either place...
because you are my employer,
which means you hold the power.
And I should use it to ask
if you have a partner.
If you'll explain its relevance.
The relevance is that
I'm curious.
And who wouldn't want to bring
their life into their work?
Unless, well, right.
Yes, well, never mind. You said
that you weren't an artist.
Actually you said that.
Well, I swear that we had
that conversation yesterday.
Well, you know there was
speaking if that's what
you mean.
Well, did I not ask questions?
My children say that
I don't ask questions.
And actually by definition...
"did I not ask questions"
is a question.
My children are idiots.
I've no problem with
questions, Lori.
It's the answers that
I can't be bothered with.
Now you remember that I told
you that you were never...
-to speak of the Christophers.
-Mm-hmm.
Well, apparently I lied.
You are to speak of them once...
when you tell me that
they are no more.
No more?
The canvases are buried deep in
the back of the third floor...
and you are to bring them down
here and shred them to bits.
I'm to shred the Christophers?
What? Oh, they're
not Christophers.
They are musings on ideas that
could have been Christophers.
And you are to obliterate them
and destroy the stretchers.
And then bring me
the evidence...
because I shan't go near
them myself.
Okay.
Would you like me to leave them
here when they're shredded?
Yes. [chuckles]
It's not that I don't
trust you, Lori.
The box cutter.
[doorbell rings]
It's just that I
don't trust you.
[doorbell buzzes]
Ah, that'll be the locksmith
and the facialist...
whom I find to be nothing more
than a 90 minute endurance test.
However, Esme demands
that I'm kinder to my skin.
So I shall brace myself and go.
[Julian coughs]
[machine grinding]
Lockbox is sorted.
Spare front door key...
and third floor set to
go with the new door lock.
[door unlocks]
[floorboards creak]
[door creaks]
[somber music plays]
[camera snapping]
[fabric rustling]
[staple gun firing]
[tapping nails]
[keys clacking]
[wood splitting]
[fabric tearing]
[camera whirring]
[phone ringing]
[blade slicing sharply]
[breathes heavily]
[keys jingling]
[latch clicks open]
[light switch clicks]
[grunts]
[car door shuts]
[intriguing music plays]
[Julian snoring]
[birds chriping]
[sirens in the distance]
[clears throat]
[sighs]
[keys jangle]
[floorboards creak]
[Lori gasps] Oh!
I've changed my mind.
They shall not be shredded.
Okay. Okay.
They shall be burned.
All right? Yeah, sure.
I will sort it.
It is sorted.
We shall do it together. Which
is to say you shall do it...
and I shall watch.
It's a bit early for
you though, isn't it?
Well, I have been up all night.
And I shan't sleep until
they are smoldering ash.
Yes?
I'm curious, what kept
you awake?
Cascading memories of wrongs
done to me since my childhood.
They came as if from
a kinetoscope.
[Lori] Hmm.
Look it up, it's with a K.
Now to the fire pit. Follow me
or I shall burn them myself.
Have you ever been
betrayed, Lori?
Oh, I mean hasn't everybody?
Can be quite painful.
Can it not?
No matter what the
relationship with the betrayer.
And how were you betrayed, Lori?
[Lori clears throat]
I once had a partner
who left me.
Oh my God. Your generation
does whine about everything.
Left me for my other partner.
Oh, be still my beating heart.
Was this a throuple?
It was a consensual relationship
between three adults. Yeah.
Oh my, oh my, oh my.
You know, I was once
in a throuple...
back when it was merely
called infidelity.
No, that-- Nevermind.
Right, you toss them on.
[claps hands]
Oh, you seem hesitant.
Yeah, I mean they're
Julian Sklars.
Oh, please.
May I ask what's going on?
Oh, the great, "What's going
on?" Yes. What's going on?
That is the question
of the day, isn't it?
In the fire pit now, please.
[birds chirping]
[metal clanging]
Right. And now we need the
turpentine and matches.
So crack on, Lori.
First we have a little chat.
Sit. If you would.
And on the subject of
what is going on...
Perhaps you would like to tell
me exactly why you are here.
I mean... To pay my rent.
[chuckles]
And why did you seek
and then take this job?
You did tell me not to
mention if I was an artist...
or a fan, but I thought
maybe I'd learn something...
by being in your vicinity.
Really?
Learn what exactly?
Perhaps "how a man...
"once a paradigm of
progressive politics...
"could morph into the
apotheosis of everything...
"that is currently wrong...
"with everything artistically
and economically?"
Or how a "bloated ego
in yesterday's beret..."
could "squat on property
unaffordable...
"and hence uninhabitable
for generations to come..."
whose "only outrage at so-called
'cancel culture' came...
"once he had been justifiably
canceled himself."
"Justifiably," says his
future assistant...
on January the 3rd, 2022.
And she goes on. "Bloviating..."
she says, "in the voice of the
very thing, not just his work...
"but his entire being so
vociferously railed against
during...
"his once impressive
ascension..."
which preceded the
"artistic immolation..."
"and subsequent
"crash and burn..."
into the "soulless junk
heap of irrelevance..."
reserved for those who
have "exploded our culture...
"and imploded their legacy."
"And will his work even last?
"Or will it go the way of the
lava lamp and the leisure suit?
"And if it doesn't,
shouldn't it?"
Not even "should it."
"Shouldn't it."
Never underestimate the
internet prowess of a man...
who has spent decades
googling himself.
[sips]
So, why are you here?
I was hired by
Barnaby and Sallie...
to complete the
unfinished Christophers.
-Really?
-Yeah.
Why?
So they could have something
from you. I guess, when you die.
-You mean to sell?
-Yeah.
Just to sell?
So the idea would be...
I would return them
to the third floor...
where they would sit.
-Until I died.
-Yeah.
And you know them how?
Sallie and I met in art school.
You know, she went by a
different last name...
but we all knew.
Well, the school knew. She would
never have got in on her talent.
She said that she and her
brother had a job for me.
Well, it is the smartest thing
they thought of in decades.
I'll give them that.
And your cut?
A third.
And what makes you think
that you could do it?
Well, they said that
you were never up there.
No!
What makes you think you
could actually do it? Do it!
Well, the original
brushes are all up there.
The paints, the palette
knives, the linseed, the rags.
Those Kendall Plushes have
been deadstock for decades.
The microfibres alone
would vet huge.
Well, you must know
that your very premise...
that it is the correct equipment
which makes the work...
the work, is bollocks.
I guess that's where
the art of it comes in.
Art?
That's the part I am most
interested in, I guess.
The art of what?
Becoming someone else.
Oh, poo.
Get yourself your own
mindset, Lori Butler.
You inhabit that.
You don't squat in mine.
It takes guts.
It takes blood.
It took my blood, and don't you
think you can bleed for me.
Oh, and it seems that you
are not the only person...
in this room who wishes
that you were someone else.
I understand. I'm going to go.
You are in my home.
You have lied to me.
You have betrayed me.
And you are, at least
for the time being...
still in my employment.
So do an old "bloviating
bloated ego" a kindness...
and grab a stretched blank
canvas from upstairs.
-What?
-Any size.
You've seen yourself,
there are dozens.
Why?
Because I have one more
question for you.
And believe me, I shall pay...
particular attention
to your answer.
And after that, by all
means, you are free to leave.
[somber music plays]
[floorboards creak]
On there.
My question.
You say you can paint
in my style.
Do it then.
That's not a question.
Will you paint what you
believe I would paint...
were I whomever you
think I was...
whenever you think I was
whatever you think I was?
-No.
-No. Because you can't.
-Case closed.
-I'm not going to do this.
Thank you for the job.
And I'm sorry.
How would you know...
how I would've painted them
when even I don't know...
how I would have painted them?
I actually am truly sorry.
[footsteps receding]
[footsteps approaching]
The first Christopher series,
1994 and '95...
have a very distinct
trajectory in my mind.
The marks on number
one are tentative.
There's a delicacy verging on a
kind of inadvertent pointillism.
At least in the undercoat.
The colors warm with
each successive layer.
The bottoms are all
Prussian blues, cherry reds...
but as the layers rise,
the reds get rustier.
You even used ochre, a shade you
told David Sylvester was...
"sentimental slop."
In the third and fourth
the lac got denser...
and the oils thickened.
There was a liftedness,
almost like you were dancing.
The paint was literally
coming off the canvas...
and there was more
light around his face...
as his look moved more
and more to the center.
Towards his creator.
What are you saying then?
You were falling in love...
and for the first time
you were free.
I believe you came out then.
At least publicly.
But in the second series, 1997,
'98, it shifted.
By the fifth in series two...
you can see the hesitation
in the line.
The pressure becomes uneven.
Heavy darks start to appear
up top. Patches of blank.
And Christopher's gaze...
drifts further and further
off the canvas again.
And you started retouching.
Sometimes eight layers, ten.
Like you were trying to grasp
an image that wasn't there.
Number six looks like it
was restarted 12, 13 times...
and by eight there's
a wooden quality.
Almost as if you were
painting by rote.
And the blanks spread like
they were metastasizing.
Thomas McEvilley said
they had a joyful lightness...
a spirited lyricism.
McEvilley was wrong.
Graham-Dixon was wrong.
Marina Vaizey was wrong.
The lightness was forced,
and the joy was a lie.
It was obvious in the seventh...
and by the eighth
it was glaring.
It was over.
It wasn't very good,
that last one.
No. It isn't.
Some sap in Chicago paid
two mil for it during Covid...
-I heard.
-Yeah.
Well.
-Hence?
-Here we are.
Here we are then.
Grave robbers crawling
through the mud to exhume...
a trinket from some
already rotted coffin.
And this third series...
Am I-- Sorry, "I," to have
painted them recently or...?
No, back then was the thought.
Of course when they were
actually worth something...
and then "I'm" to have
buried them upstairs.
Didn't want them seen
would be the story I guess.
Too painful.
Something like that.
Yes. The breakup was hard.
[Lori] Hmm.
It wasn't. I'd done with them.
Sure.
-I had.
-Fine.
I must say I found
your prep impressive.
I've got to give you that.
There was no prep.
[doorbell buzzes]
That could be some bloody
package I've forgotten...
I've ordered.
[doorbell buzzes]
Oh, they're so
impatient, Amazon.
Oh, bollocks!
It's Barnaby.
Unless... Oh Christ.
[knock on door]
It's Sallie too. Oh, oh,
fuck me, it's both of them.
Hang on!
Hang on!
Buzzards on the buzzers.
[door unlocks] [Julian sighs]
Hi, Dad, I know what you said,
but may we come in please?
Why?
[Sallie] We need to speak
to your assistant.
Oh, I forgot what her name is.
Do you know I can't
recall it either?
Barney, any ideas?
-Lisa maybe.
-Yes! Lisa Maybe.
Why?
We just got a form that she
urgently needs to fill out.
-Tax related.
-Very.
Very tax related.
Yeah, we've been trying
to call her...
but she's not been
picking up, so...
So, is she here?
Yes. Lisa Maybe is here.
So do come in.
As there's something I need to
speak with you about as well.
[door slams shut]
The Christophers.
The...?
Sorry, Dad. Which are those?
Oh, have I got the name wrong?
Oh gosh, Dad. I mean,
you've painted so many.
Christopher. Christopher.
Why am I so fixated on
that name then?
Which was the one that I said,
perhaps you can recall this.
Which was the one that
you took a whack at...
at some point last year
accidentally thinking...
that it was not in
fact an egregious...
act of dishonesty and betrayal?
Oh right. Yeah, those, those.
Dad, what about them?
Well, I have asked Lisa
Maybe to destroy them.
-What?
-Wait, why?
Well, she can't, Dad.
[Lori] Oh, I already have.
-What the fuck, Lori?
-Yes. That's her name. Lori!
-And she has burned--
-[Lori] Shredded.
-She's shredded them.
-Fuck off.
Bullshit, even he knows
you're bullshitting.
-Yeah. Where are they then?
-Hang on.
[Sallie] Dad, you can't.
[Julian] Well, apparently I did.
But they're not yours.
Well, meaning that they
are the world's.
-The world of art.
-But not, of course yours.
No, no!
The furthest thing
from our minds.
Well, you should get out
and give them to the world.
And to do that, you should
get out now and get started.
You stupid, stupid man.
Get out of my house now.
The two of you.
Great. Now you've
shredded each other.
So I hope you feel very
good about it.
Shredded each other?
[door slams shut]
What does that mean?
Nothing.
-Nothing?
-Nothing.
And these, what are these?
These are fakes,
which I shredded.
The real ones...
the ones you were
about to incinerate...
are outside in the fire pit.
[laughs] Right?
So?
So, let's go.
As you are still, for
the moment, my employee...
I'm ordering you to come out
to the fire pit and burn them.
Well, as your employee
has now quit...
I wish you good luck with that.
Well, I'll go and do it
myself then.
Oh, really?
Really.
"Crack on," then.
[grunts]
How's the bonfire going?
What did you mean,
"I'd imploded my legacy"?
If you were to ask my cousin
who Julian Sklar is...
he would say the guy that
yelled at kids...
and housewives on Art Fight.
[Julian laughs]
Yes. Well, they get
off easy. Yes.
I was the one being tortured.
I was waterboarded by a
deluge of kittens, Lori.
Each one more hideously
adorable than the next.
Bopping at yarn. In acrylic.
Watercolor. Watercolor, Lori.
Peach tones, lavender, lavender.
Well, no, I did them a favor.
Did you?
Yes.
I saved them from a lifetime
of heartache and rejection...
and grasping at something that
they would never achieve.
And worse. Clawing back
at something...
that they would never recapture.
Because success, Lori, is worse.
Okay. Okay.
Let's just stop this. Yeah?
-What are you doing?
-You're not going to burn these.
What? I most certainly am.
There is a reason you've
kept them for 25 years.
If you really didn't want
them, you would've sold them...
for shit at your stupid
jumble sale.
Oh my "sidewalk salon."
Oh, that was a bugger off
to an industry...
who needed someone to
say it to them.
It was a move that gave you
cover to pretend it was you...
who was in control of
his own downfall.
No, but no, I'd done
with them. Lori.
Yeah, because they were
done with you.
It was a corrupt industry...
in a corrupt world.
Investments and tax shelters...
and trophies for the
Billionaire Boys' Club.
So, I left.
No, you mean you quit.
-No, I left.
-You gave in.
I left. And on my own terms.
And how do you know
if it's even art now...
anyhow, it's all online?
Oh, you get nothing...
when you stare at something
through a screen.
You know, I get yelled
at now from passing cars.
They call me a hack, a pig even.
Offended somehow as if...
we've got some sort of
personal relationship.
You don't think it's
a personal relationship?
Art?
No.
It's a man alone in his room.
Me in this room.
I have a relationship...
with the canvas.
And when I've said what I've
got to say to it, then it goes.
Where do you think it goes?
Do what you want.
You can take them out.
You can burn them again.
Don't leave me.
Why...
did you even care?
And you were so livid
with me...
in those writings.
Why?
I was 12.
It was pissing down rain.
I ditched school and snuck into
what happened to be a museum.
Yes.
Yes, what show?
It was the one with the
famous artist's...
work from when they were kids.
You saw "Enfant Terrible."
There was one you'd done my age
that was the easiest to copy.
By which you mean it
was the one...
that hit you most profoundly
in your soul.
By which I mean it
was literally called...
Anyone Can Do This
and Call It Art.
Yeah.
Mrs. Hanley...
she failed me for that one.
"Oh, this is nothing but
a spiral of words, Julian.
"You have desecrated the
canvas with everything...
"that the assignment is not."
But I said, "Yes!
"Because it's more interesting."
Yeah, and there was a
second piece of yours.
It was a drawing from
when you were six.
Boy Under Cloud.
Boy Under Cloud.
An oozing excretion of
maudlin treacle, that title.
You were six.
And did you find that
easy to copy as well?
Not at 12.
It was...
impeccable.
But?
I quit, is that what
you're saying?
Please God, don't feel
sorry for me.
To be honest, I'd rather have
your rage than your pity.
And now, if you'll excuse me.
I need to pay for
tonight's meal.
You are a quitter
yourself, you know, Lori.
No one goes to art school to
become a restorer or a critic.
I came in early this morning.
Really?
Yeah. 4:00, 5:00 am.
Well, I'm sorry if such
industrious assistantism was...
wasted on what turned out to be
an errant if dramatic misfire.
-What it tells me--
-Excuse me.
[computer beeps]
Good morning, Mario.
Now you told me that you
want me to paint something...
appropriately romantic
for your fiance.
And I presume by
"appropriately..."
that you want me to paint
it in vanishing ink.
[peaceful music plays]
[bag rustles]
[lids crack open]
[knock on door]
[frantic knocking]
-[Sallie] Lori.
-Oh my God. What?
I am not going back there.
-But you have to.
-Because?
Because you need to
start them from scratch.
You've still got old canvases
and paints and brushes up there.
Yeah. That's not
going to happen.
Well, we think it is.
[paper rustling]
Isidore Clemens. 1927.
Sold for 25,000 in that
Kent art house in 2017.
Split between that
corrupt gallerist...
and the person opposite me.
Maybe you shouldn't
write angry notes to exes.
Especially those who still
speak to other...
old college friends of yours.
Sometimes people say things.
I'm curious if the person
who paid the 25k might be...
interested in knowing
it's a fake.
Well, when you find out,
let me know.
I don't think you want to
challenge this.
Yeah, but you may need
to because you know...
and I know that no one benefits
from that being exposed.
Not the gallery,
not the artist...
and certainly not the
person that bought it.
Was that a confession
we just heard?
No, but this is.
I forged that painting.
And I forged Astley's
In-Between.
And I forged Panagatacos'
Six Shapes in Red.
All of that was a long time ago.
So you'll do what we say then?
No.
Well then, perhaps we'll see
you in court.
Yeah, because perhaps, Lori,
we've been recording this.
And does that include your fraud
bit before my confession...
and your blackmail bit after?
Because you'd need both
for context.
We'll give you 10,000 pounds
in advance.
-Wow. But no.
-Fifteen.
-No.
-Oh, come on mate.
20. 20 grand, okay?
But that's it.
We can't go higher than that.
Do you even have this money?
[Sallie] Yeah.
-Really?
-Yes.
How?
Because...
It doesn't matter.
Two hundred thousand.
-Pounds?
-Quid?
You must be out of
your bloody mind.
We haven't got that
sort of money.
The number's 200.
[Sallie scoffs] Look, I love
you Lori, but this is piggish.
Two hundred thousand.
You are being a cunty pig-cunt.
Two hundred thousand.
21,400 pounds, right,
please accept this.
That's all the money we have.
Please, please, Lori, please.
It's really, really important.
Oh my God.
You've sold them already.
-What?
-No.
This is...
This is fabulous.
The answer is no and
definitely not for 21,000 quid.
He's dying, Lori.
It's called Aplastic Anaemia.
Okay, he's been refusing
treatment for years.
Our time is running out.
Everyone's is.
The answer is even more no.
[unlatches door]
-Did you forget something?
-Can you close the door?
I believe your dignity
is just along there...
and you'll find your
pride upstairs somewhere.
Close the door.
[door slamming]
I've just googled a rare blood
disease called Aplastic Anaemia.
Ah, yes.
Well, much to the impending
dismay of the Heirs Abhorrent...
a genius in Stuttgart has
reionized y stems cells...
and thus, like everything else
that used to be inside me...
it has amounted to nothing.
The only thing dying,
I'm afraid...
is the dream of Lord
and Lady Vulture.
Well, they've sold them already.
-Sold?
-The Christophers.
They took a down payment of
a million quid last year.
That's why Sallie tried
to do it herself.
Oh, oh, what glorious idiocy.
[laughs]
Well, for what it's
worth of that...
they only have 21,000 quid left.
Well, I'm surprised
they've got anything.
How many paintings?
All nine. Even Sallie's.
To a fan?
To a 28-year-old tech bro...
who's going to donate them
for the tax credit.
Oh, to the Royal Academy?
Well, at least?
Maybe?
To a place called
Museum of the Desert...
just outside of Las Vegas.
Oh. [scoffs]
And this tech bro, does
he even know who I am? Or was?
No. But I'm told after
some googling.
Yes. And I assume my children
want you to resume...
your task of faking
these somehow?
Same plan, new old canvases.
I think I should do it.
You paint them?
Yeah.
Paint them, but very,
very badly.
[Julian laughs]
[peaceful music plays]
Imagine the look on the
tech bro's face...
when he sees what he's bought.
Oh, it's almost worth
staying alive for.
And I shall be alongside you...
for the entire time
as your assistant.
You're going to be my assistant?
Yes. And I'll be a very
good one too.
And now my first task is to
assist you in getting paints.
-And there's an art shop...
-Yeah?
...on Bronton Street,
which is quite dreadful.
Perfect.
Oh, but, oh, on this
particular occasion...
I shan't be able to help
you in person...
as I'm not allowed in...
due to a thin-skinned
proprietor...
and an overreaction to a
simple statement of fact.
Okay, I'll get this one then.
All right! And while
you are out...
shall I rustle us
up something...
little omelet?
You're going to make
me an omelet?
Yeah. Don't sound so surprised.
All right then, I'll
have a cheese omelet.
Yeah. Cheese omelet.
That's an omelet with cheese.
Yeah.
Actually, how do you introduce
the cheese into the omelet?
I'm just going to pick
something up for us. Yeah?
Excellent team work.
[chuckles] [door opens]
[Julian hums]
[door slams shut]
[playful music plays]
[wheels squeak]
[claps hands]
[hums joyfully]
[bags thud]
[lock clicks open]
[door slams shut]
-Hello.
-Coming. Coming!
I thought you might enjoy this
as a kind of inspiration piece.
-Is that Sallie's?
-Yes.
I keep it in her old room
to ward off future visits.
It's affixed to the wall along
with garlic and a wooden cross.
What's crazy is she's actually
improved since art school.
Well, that's another first.
An instance of where
a child of mine...
has actually inspired me.
Right. And this shall
be your metric.
Can you top it?
By which of course, I
mean, can you go under it?
This is fun! Assisting.
[mouthful] This is delicious,
Lori. Mm!
[grunts with pleasure]
Consider me poor but happy.
Okay.
I'm going to start.
This was to be his.
Well, they were all to be
his, as a matter of fact.
His? Christopher's?
Oh, was I blustering fool.
Messages on the
answering machine.
Gifts, gifts, gifts.
"Let me paint you one
more time, Topher...
"and all this should be yours."
Nothing.
Actually, let's start
with a different one.
I made him. I literally
created him.
He was the boy who
did my stretchers.
I gave him his life, his fame.
Everyone knew who
Christopher was.
He was invited everywhere.
And then one day...
He never came back.
I actually did want him to have
them even after all of the mess.
I should have liked to
have lasted in his mind.
You see, that's the thing,
isn't it?
To last in the mind of others.
First instincts, Lori!
I never joined the
Royal Academy, you know.
Oh, the R.A. I refused to
play that game.
The others were rabid about it.
Every last one of them more
competitive than the next.
But not me, Lori. I
was the least competitive
of them all by far.
Why are you staring at me?
I don't think you
want to do this.
I am ordering you,
Lori Butler...
to desecrate that
painting with that brush.
Well, as my assistant, you
don't get to call the shots.
Oh, very well then. I
resign as your assistant!
Okay, okay, okay. You win,
you win, you win.
Look, I will do it. I'll do it.
But let's pick a different one.
That's right, pick a
different one.
[somber music plays]
[Julian grunts]
[Julian grunts with effort]
[easel creaks]
[Julian mutters]
[paint splatters]
It's already dreadful.
[laughs]
Oh, well this is
monumentally hideous...
so...
Glue.
Yes.
[Julian grunts] [mutters]
This glue and then feathers.
No, no. We'll have the glitter
first, and then feathers.
And that.
Oh take that!
[laughs] Feathers.
[plastic rustling]
[laughs]
You would think at 85 I would
know you can't throw feathers.
Have you called my children?
Not yet.
Oh, well you must, you must...
because these Christopher Threes
will hang in the pantheon...
of the worst art of all time...
along with Dogs Playing Poker...
Velvet Elvis, and all of Warhol.
Yes, yes. I'll have
masking tape.
[tape rasping]
You see there should be a
through line of awfulness.
Each one worse than the rest.
As if the...
As if the destruct
was the construct.
I can't, oh, no, no, no.
[mutters]
Lori...
Something's happened.
Are you okay?
I'm struggling. I'm struggling
to make the strokes run.
It's physically impossible
to make it bad.
Look.
Yeah, you're right.
It is not uninteresting.
Wow.
So what do I do?
-Maybe keep going.
-Hmm.
For who though?
Well, you seem like you
were having a good time.
So why not just keep
having a good time?
Because why?
Because it is fun for you,
isn't it?
Because I'm fun for you?
Julian.
So here I am. Yes, I am
the entertainment again.
This is what you
wanted all along, isn't it?
To wind up the old fool...
and have him clutter about
and bang his cymbals.
Oh, is it interesting
being Jane Goodall...
to the old dancing monkey
in his natural habitat?
And how am I faring as the
anecdote you'll tell all your...
laughing friends about later.
This isn't what I meant
when I talked about living...
in the minds of others.
Julian, where is
this coming from?
No. Well, where are
you coming from?
"Oh, it's not uninteresting."
And how would you know that?
To judge art, you must
possess the various skills...
it takes to make said art.
And do you really think
you possess those skills?
Well, I don't. And why not?
Because of three words:
Untitled. Number. Seven.
I saw it on your website
and I didn't need to see it...
because I'd already seen it.
And when I say I'd already seen
it, and I might as well have...
because it rang
with the familiarity...
of all those other foul,
existential...
impressionistic landscapes by
all the other wannabe artists.
I think...
I think maybe, Lori...
it was a healthy thing
that you quit.
[somber music plays]
[door slams shut]
Christopher.
[canvas tearing]
[breathes heavily]
[pub crowd walla]
[upbeat music plays on speakers]
[glass clanks]
[phone keys clack]
[phone rings on the line]
I will take 21,000.
You can keep the 400...
but I get 50% of the final sale,
including the down payment.
-[Sallie] 25%.
-30?
-35?
Good. I'll call you with a plan.
[street noises]
[lock unlatches]
[door creaks]
[door slams shut]
[Julian] I was right.
You can't judge art by
looking at it online.
This is good.
Untitled Number Seven.
You know, there's a power
to it that I missed...
on your website.
So you came here to
tell me you were right.
Yes. About many things.
Including having seen
that before.
Which explains Lori, why I
thought that I'd seen it before.
I got a hunch when I looked at
you just as you were leaving...
and that I'd seen that
specific look before...
on your specific face.
And then I remembered you.
Art Fight.
So I looked up season three,
episode five...
and I was right.
You must have been what?
-21?
-I was 19.
And the truth is, at the time...
I'd really only glanced
at the painting.
I was merely thinking up
my next joke...
while I was telling
the last joke.
Did I cause you to quit?
I haven't quit.
I just quit showing.
I'm a broken man, Lori.
I believe I always have been.
And you know, it wasn't you
that I was mad at earlier.
Yeah, I know.
It was...
What do you mean, "You know"?
Seriously?
Who am I kidding?
Oh the lies that I've been
telling myself my whole life.
It's exhausting, and...
I didn't give Christopher
his life.
I gave him mine.
I suspect I ruined his.
I know I ruined his.
When you think of me,
Lori, I should like that...
you remember me as the
person you thought I was...
who did that very
first drawing...
who gave you the courage
to start.
Not the man who you
actually know me to be.
Why are you here, Julian?
Because I want to have
an exhibition.
And if I do actually
get a show, and...
Perhaps it could be called...
"Julian Sklar..."
I can't tell whether this
says "revived" or "reviled."
Exactly.
Is this a retrospective?
Oh no, they'd be new.
And people can judge them
however they judge them.
And I would be grateful, Lori
if you'd be so kind as to...
perhaps just be there
while I try.
Yeah. Yes.
Yes, of course.
-Yes.
-The crack of noon?
Precisely.
Oh, except, oh, I should, no...
I've got Esme and she
is pretty insistent that...
I don't cancel last minute.
-We could do 2:00 PM?
-What if we did Monday?
Julian.
I'd like, I think I should
like actually...
to just dream about
these actually...
for a week, tops.
Yeah, all right. Fine.
Yes. Yes.
Okay.
Thank you.
Yeah. Yeah.
This is where you leave.
Oh yes. Yes, of course.
Yes, yes. Goodbye.
[Julian whistles]
Whose is this?
It's mine, sir.
It's absolute shit.
[haunting music plays]
[dial lock unlatching]
[knocking]
Julian?
[Art Fight Moderator] Thank you
very much. [audience cheers]
Thank you very much indeed.
Welcome back to Art Fight.
The show where everyone's a
critic, particularly Julian.
We've got Lori Butler...
and she studies at Central
Saint Martins, no less.
Another one. Lots of those.
And she is showing us today...
her painting
Untitled Number Seven.
Julian, what do you think?
[Julian] Untitled Number Seven?
Well, it's a fitting name
given there are...
no actual words to describe...
what exactly it is I'm looking
at. [audience laughs]
And oh please.
Oh God, don't tell me.
I'm going to have to
look at the previous six...
in order to understand this one.
[audience laughing]
It's not a painting, Lori.
It's a cry for help from
the paint itself.
"Why am I here?" it screams.
Perhaps there's a title, Lori,
and perhaps it's simply...
The Reason My Therapist
Chose Early Retirement...
Number Seven.
[audience laughs]
[somber music plays]
[canvases thud]
[typing]
Hello, I'm calling for
Owen Appleton, please.
Personal.
Okay.
Can you please tell him
that I have something...
he may be very interested in?
Thank you.
[upbeat music plays]
[train roaring]
Hi, I'm looking for
Mr. Appleton.
I'm Owen. How can I help you?
I'm Lori Butler.
I told you on the telephone...
I don't want to talk
about any of that.
I understand that
and I respect that.
But I wouldn't have come
all the way here if there...
weren't some things that...
I think you might want
to hear me out on.
[train rumbling]
All right.
First, I have a question.
Why did he call you Christopher?
These are technically ours now.
Well, they're literally yours.
Everything in there, all yours.
[Sallie sighs]
Sort of weirdly feels
like a Julian Sklar museum.
It's actually a good idea.
This whole floor could
be the gift shop.
This stays exactly as it is.
Even this exactly as it
is, you want to keep this?
Yeah, just keep this here?
Just maybe that could be
the poster for the museum.
Blow it up on the
side of the... No?
It's the bathroom at the back.
-Holy shit.
-Oh my God.
Did you do these?
-Barney.
-Tell me. Tell me now.
Honestly, Lori, if you did
these, we will fucking fry you.
Barnaby, does it even matter?
Of course it matters.
If she did them, they're
worth fuck all again.
And if I didn't, what
would they be worth then?
"Schedule C1, I, Julian
Sklar hereby confirm...
"that the eight artworks
identified below...
"herein referred to...
"as the Christopher Series
Three consisting of acrylic...
"watercolor, glitter, feathers,
axle grease, masking tape...
[Barnaby mutters]
"are all authentic artworks that
I have created and gifted to...
"recipient, Owen Christopher
Appleton."
Christopher was his middle name.
Hmm.
Julian told him that
Owen sounded like...
the pained bleat
of a mooing cow.
You forged this, haven't you?
Why would I do that?
Well, let's think, you
know, to maybe, I don't know...
stop us from having them.
Plus you called me
before dad died...
and said that you would
forge the eight Christophers...
as long as we shared 50%
of the profits with you.
Okay, sorry. Let me
just get this straight.
You are accusing me of
forging a legal note from him...
which would give me 50%
of nothing.
Now why on earth
would I do that?
[peaceful music plays]
-Lori.
-Hi, Sallie. Barney.
-Fine. You won.
-Congratulations.
Dad is famous again. Yay.
But, look, you've
got to tell us.
Who painted them? Really?
The truth.
Really? Does it even matter?
[music continues]
[Julian videos overlap
indistinct walla]
It's good.
Really captures his essence.
-Esme?
-Hmm.
Hi.
I tried to get this to
you at the memorial...
but you left so quickly.
When I found him,
I also found this.
It belongs to you.
-No, no, this isn't mine.
-It is.
I took it because I didn't
want you know who to see it.
Okay, thank you.
Good luck, Lori.
Thank you.
[art crowd walla]
[paper rustling]
[bubble wrap tearing]
[peaceful music plays]