The allure of watching an artist work has always been… elusive. Documentaries like *The Mystery of Picasso* hinted at the magic, but even the gentle rhythms of Bob Ross can lull viewers to sleep. The very act of creation, of paint meeting canvas, often feels more compelling in theory than in practice.
This challenge is amplified in *The Christophers*, a new film centered around Julian Sklar, a once-renowned British painter now relegated to art fairs and reality television. Played with a wry energy by Ian McKellen, Sklar isn’t just a painter; he’s a relic, a figure whose artistic relevance has faded with time.
The film’s core mystery doesn’t revolve around Sklar’s current work, but a series of unfinished portraits – the “Christophers” of the title. Decades ago, he abruptly abandoned the project, but now his pragmatic children see a fortune within those incomplete canvases, setting in motion a complex scheme.
Enter Lori Butler, portrayed by Michaela Coel, a painting restorer who supplements her income with a food truck job and harbors a potentially dangerous secret: she might be a forger. Hired as Sklar’s assistant, Lori is tasked with completing the portraits, a task fraught with uncertainty and hidden agendas.
The premise promises a thrilling exploration of art, forgery, and family greed. However, the film quickly loses momentum, becoming trapped within the confines of Sklar’s estate. What should be a tightly wound plot unravels into a series of extended conversations between the aging artist and his new assistant.
McKellen initially shines, capturing the dissipated charm of a once-celebrated artist. He records personalized video messages for paying fans, and obsessively critiques his Wikipedia page, lamenting inaccuracies and drunken pronouncements. These moments offer glimpses of a compelling character, but they aren’t enough to sustain the narrative.
The suspense evaporates as Sklar quickly discerns Lori’s intentions. Instead of escalating tension, the film meanders, oscillating between Sklar demanding the paintings be destroyed and then inexplicably wanting Lori to complete them – either beautifully or deliberately badly – to thwart his children.
Soderbergh, a director known for his sharp, economical thrillers like *Out of Sight*, seems strangely adrift here. The film becomes bogged down in ponderous ideas about art and the artist’s soul, failing to capitalize on the inherent drama of its premise. A subplot involving a tech billionaire buyer feels underdeveloped and ultimately inconsequential.
The central question – whether these mediocre paintings will be finished or not – proves remarkably unengaging. Scene after scene unfolds with Sklar and Lori talking, arguing, and occasionally applying paint to canvas. The film’s energy wanes with each passing moment.
The situation worsens with Sklar’s death, a surprisingly sentimental moment involving a self-portrait. A flurry of eleventh-hour plot twists involving forged documents and “new” portraits fail to ignite any real excitement, falling far short of the intricate schemes found in Soderbergh’s *Ocean’s* films.
The film asks us to invest in Lori’s posthumous tribute to Sklar – a tedious video installation – but it’s a plea that falls flat. Ultimately, *The Christophers* is simply dull, as uninspiring as a long-form radio program.
Perhaps Sklar’s death offers a fitting parallel to the viewer’s experience. He finds a peaceful rest, and one can’t help but feel that the audience will reach a similar state by the time the credits roll.
