Christophers, The (2025)

[bunniefuu]

[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.

-f*ck off, Barnaby.

Should have been nine.

[Sallie sighs]

Ask her why there aren't nine.

Seriously, Barney, f*ck 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 f*ck 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 sh**t,

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 sh*t in 30 years.

Nothing at all in 20.

"You made me want to be an

artist." No, my dear.

Your f*cked-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 g*n 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,

f*ck 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 f*ck, Lori?

-Yes. That's her name. Lori!

-And she has burned--

-[Lori] Shredded.

-She's shredded them.

-f*ck 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 sh*t 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-c**t.

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 sh*t.

[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 sh*t.

-Oh my God.

Did you do these?

-Barney.

-Tell me. Tell me now.

Honestly, Lori, if you did

these, we will f*cking fry you.

Barnaby, does it even matter?

Of course it matters.

If she did them, they're

worth f*ck 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]