All language subtitles for The.Christophers.2025.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.10bit.DDP5.1.x265-FaS

Butler Art Restoration, this is Laurie.
How may I help you?

Sally from... Yeah, hi.

Hi. Yeah, long time.

Yes.

What's up?

OK. 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 lentils noodles,
please? Yes, some noodles.

It's eight unfinished canvases.

Would have been nine.

Fuck off, Barnaby. Should have been
nine.

I forget why there aren't nine.
Seriously, Barney, fuck you. She tried

herself. Whatever.

She nicked one. Hang on. It's actually
why we're not allowed round there. I

a photo. Barnaby.

Whatever. It's only a three million
pound dump she took. Yet they weren't

fuck all.

Yet.

Look, there are theories of barely
finished canvases with Polaroid stuck on

them. There 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
Christmas?

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

All the original brushes, all the
original paint... ..on original canvases

literally, if someone checked, contain
molecular traces of his DNA.

They can actually do that?

I'm aware.

So?

You said this was a restoration job.

It is.

It's a forgery job.

No, no, no, God, no, no. What we're
trying to get you to do is merely

them. By forging them? By forging
through them until they're completed.

Laurie, though, does it even matter?

What are you talking about?

Of course it matters.

Doesn't it, though, actually?

My dad has his assistants complete his
paintings all the time. Yes, but these

he's hardly even started.

How do you know he didn't already have
them all mapped out in his head, Laurie?

Two months ago, a piece from dad's first
set of Christmas sold at a Russian

auction for three 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, Laurie, with my own
eyes.

Yes, that was a very long time ago.

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

college? We know why you hate him, is
the point.

Think of this as a way to get revenge.
Do the numbers, Laurie. Everybody knows

what one original Julian Sklar from that
period is worth.

I love you.

I'm not.

Antanas. Is that the name?

It doesn't even matter, as it's
unpronounceable and there's violence to

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 is 48. You're far too old
to be wearing that.

And I am Julian Scar, and here I am
signing off.

Tea? Coffee?

Water?

Oh, uh, thank you.

Water would be great, actually, yes.

Well, be a dear, and grab me one as
well, just by the front door.

Jeremy.

Jeremy, you can...

Elisa, Julian Sklar here.

Your mother would like me to tell you
not to quit art school.

Seriously, though, do.

Those clowns at Camberwell will poison
you with their Sainsbury's Isles of

ideas.

Processed, packed in plastic.

The stay list 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... Oh, Bruce.

So, happy birthday.

Stay in school, blah, blah. I'm Julian
Scar.

And here I am, as I always am, signing
off.

£149.

2 .49 if I sign.

Thank you.

Never get old.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Oh, um, Laurie Butler, I guess.

Never get old, Laurie Butler.

It's been

a while since I

interviewed an assistant.

Sure. Tell me about yourself. However,
if you are a painter, I don't want to

know about it.

I do dispense with the big fan.

You were with me through whatever
drudgery 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, and 20?

You made me want to be an artist. No, my
dear, you're fucked up. Childhood made

you want to be an artist. I'm just what
you tripped over as you scurried to

freedom.

Glory, is it?

If you claim to be a fan of that hideous
reality show Art Fight, you may

show yourself up.

Even the creators of that pandering pig
slop.

weren't fanned.

And I realize this makes it challenging
to find a compliment that doesn't read

like your secrecy.

Listen to that, you'll 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, Laurie, when it actually
cost something, sir.

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?

Although I hesitate to take you up on
your very kind offer.

Begrudging. Thank you.

So, we've established you are not an
artist and you aren't 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.

However, what I said was true.

Over 75 % of enrollment in the art
school is women. And my question was

question, why then are women not in 75 %
of museums?

Laurie.

You didn't say it was Laurie.

On the subject of Laurie, what did the
tell you about this job.

They?

My offspring, the Dud, Barnaby and the
Harridan Sally.

Yeah, they said you were hiring
assistants to help catalogue some of

things so they can be valued by the HMRC
or something like that.

And they recommended you Heidi, which is
quite the work. I'm a bit suspicious.

I must be reminded not to carry things.

Oh.

That's according to my host, you know.

A smallish man named Cyril.

Interesting tidbit about Cyril. He
smells of radishes.

Why?

This isn't about the unfinished
Christmas, is it?

So you must tell me.

Because I won't pick them. I can't pick
them. And please don't ask. Please don't

even speak of them.

Yeah, I'm sorry, I don't know what
you're talking about.

Well, my children are obsessed with
them, and I wouldn't have put it past

if this had been somehow about that.

Oh, they're not even clever, those two.
They're reps.

She, a train wreck, utterly off the
rails.

And he, a shipwreck, sunken and
waterlogged. Blame their mothers, not

nothing to do with them.

I would not be surprised, Laurie, if
this was not so that HMRC may quote...

assess the value of my state, but so
that my children could get intel on

I was truly leaving them nothing.

Ah, she is risen.

My most dearest Esme, who is a gift from
the heavens.

Well, I apparently have been mistaken
for someone else. She is here at the

insistence of Cyril the Ravish, 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 my lobby in
Parliament Street.

At last, here it is.

A life to be summed up, itemised.

Julian Scar, the spreadsheet.

I don't even know what's up there in the
room above us.

And the doors have been locked for
decades and I shan't know even going

should there be any forward left.

Yes, to the great displeasure of the
buzzard Barnaby and the hyena

Sally, I have outlived the actuarial
prediction of even the direst of those

foolish enough to ensure me.

At one point that had been the goal to
live forever and I should have liked to

have... bequeathed that task in 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'd like to worry about that.

What about tomorrow?

At the crack of noon.

Great.

Well,

12 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 open there.

Well, I would need the keys for it
first, wouldn't I?

Well, I know.

Sally, I will call you when I know if he
even has paintings.

Perhaps it's simply the reason my
therapist chose early retirement number

seven.

And next time I dare you to express
yourself, why don't you nip down to

and get yourself a pencil and a
notebook?

It's a lot cheaper.

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!

Well, they're quite a bargain. I do
believe someone has walked away with a

potentially £2 million painting for £1
,100.

How do you feel about that? It would be
a bargain of £2 million, but whatever

they pay, I'm happy with. Thank you.
Well, they are all...

Stunning. Thank you very much. Of
course, the question on everyone's lips

will the Christophers be making an
appearance on the pavement today?

The Christophers?

No, they're indoors somewhere. They're
private matters, private affairs.

Coming in.

Do you mind me in my dressing gown?

Actually, yeah, I do.

Oh.

Okay.

Weinstein has ruined the room for the
rest of us.

You needn't have worried.

I can't bear the sight of it open
myself.

Even when I'm alone.

Oh.

Studio.

This way.

The locksmith. 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.

Uh -huh.

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.

The fact that Ringo found out the hard
way.

And, oh, not the Ringo you're thinking
about.

No.

This one was French.

Right.

Yes.

So what is other?

Laurie, am I allowed to ask if she has a
boyfriend?

I mean, no.

No, she doesn't.

No, you're not allowed.

Noted.

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
am 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

hold the power.

And I shall 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.

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, they were speaking, if
that's what you mean.

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, Laurie.

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.

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 are they not, Christophers?

They are musings and ideas that could
have been Christophers and you are to

obliterate them and destroy the
stretchers and then bring me the

because I shan't go near them myself.

OK.

Would you like me to leave them here
when they're shredded?

Yes.

It's not that I don't trust you, Laurie.

No. The box cutter.

It's just that I don't trust you.

Ah, that'll be the locksmith and the
facialist, whom I find to be nothing

than a 90 -minute endurance test.
However, it has to be demands that I am

to my skin, so I shall brace myself.

lockbox is sorted, spare front door key
and third floor set to go with

a new door lock.

I've changed my mind.

They shall not be shredded.

OK, OK.

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 there are
smouldering ash.

Ash.

I'm curious what kept you awake.

Cascading memories of wrongs done to me
since my childhood.

They came as from a kinetoscope.

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, Laurie?

Oh.

I mean, hasn't everybody?

Could be quite painful, can't it not?

No matter what the relationship with the
betrayer.

And how were you betrayed, Laurie?

I, uh, I once had a partner who left me.

Oh, my.

God, your generation does whine about
everything.

Left me for my other partner.

You're still my beating heart.

Was this a struggle?

It was a consensual relationship between
three adults, yeah. Oh, my, oh, my, oh,

my.

You know, I was once in a struggle, back
when it was merely called infidelity.

No, never mind.

Right, you toss them on.

Oh, you seem hesitant.

Uh, yeah, I mean, they're Julian's
class.

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. In
the fire pit.

Now, please.

Right. And now we need the turpentine
and matches, so crack on, Laurie.

First, we have a little chat.

Sit, if you would.

And on the subject of what is going on,

perhaps you'd like to tell me something.

Why are you here?

I mean, to pay my rent.

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
barrier could...

squat on property unaffordable and hence
uninhabitable for generations to come,

whose only outrage at so -called
cancelled culture came once he had been

justifiably cancelled himself.

Justifiably, says his future assistant.

On January the 3rd, 2022.

And she goes on, obloviating.

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

preceded the artistic immolation and
subsequent crash and burn into the

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 letters shoot and if it

doesn't shouldn't it

Never

underestimate

internet prowess of a man who spent
decades googling himself.

So why are you here?

I was hired by Barnaby and Sally to
complete the unfinished Christopher's.

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, huh?

Sally and I met in art school.

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's the smartest thing they've
thought of in decades. I'll give them

that. And you're 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 dead
stock for decades. The microfibres alone

would fit 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.

That's the part I am most interested in,
I guess.

The art of what?

Becoming someone else.

Oh, poor.

Get yourself your own mindset, Laurie
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're 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

obloviating, bloated ego a kindness and
grab a stretched blank

canvas from upstairs.

Any size.

You've seen yourself through a dozen.

Why?

Because I want a question for you, and
believe me, I should pay particular

attention to your answer, and after
that, by all means, you are free to

I'm there.

My question.

You say you can paint in my style.

Do it.

That's not a question.

Will you paint what you believe I would
paint?

Were I whoever 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 joke, and I'm sorry.

How would you know how I would have
painted them when even I

don't know how I would have painted
them?

Ashley, I'm truly sorry.

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 colours 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 light got
denser and the oil 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 centre, towards his creator.

What are you saying?

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
metastasising.

Thomas McEverly said they had a joyful,
lightness -spirited lyricism.

McEverly was wrong.

Graham Dixon was wrong. Maria Vesey 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.

Grade robbers.

crawling through the mud to exhume the
trinket from some already rotted coffin.

And this third series, am I, sorry, I,
to have painted

them recently, or?

Back then was the thought.

Of course, when they were actually worth
something.

And then I'm to have buried them up
there.

Didn't want him seen would be the story,
I guess.

Painful.

Something like that.

Yes, the breakup was hard.

It wasn't. I'd done with him.

Sure.

I had.

Fine.

I must say, I found your prep
impressive.

I've got to give you that.

There was no prep.

That could be some bloody package I've
forgotten I've ordered.

Oh, they're so impressive, Thomas.

Oh, Wallace.

It's part of it.

Unless... Oh, Christ.

It's Sally, too.

Oh. Oh, fuck me, it's both of them.

Hello!

Hello!

Buster, don't look. Buster.

Hi, Dad.

I know what you said, but may we come
in, please?

Why? We need to speak to your assistant.

Oh, I forgot what her name is.

Do you know? I can't recall 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.

They're very tax -related.

Yeah, we've been trying to call her, but
she's not been picking up, so... So, is

she here?

Yes, this baby is here, so do come in.

As there's something I need to speak
with you about as well.

The cryptopoops.

The... Sorry, Dad, which are those?

Oh, have I got the name wrong?

Oh, my gosh. I mean, you've painted so
many. Christopher?

Christopher? Why am I so fixated on that
name, then?

Which was the one... 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, yes, those.

Dad, what about them? Well, I have asked
Lisa, maybe, to destroy them.

Wait, why?

She can't, Dad.

Oh, I already have.

What the fuck, Laurie?

Yes, that's her name, Laurie.

And she has been... Shredded.

She's shredded them. Fuck off. Bullshit.
Even he knows you're bullshitting.

Yeah, where are they, then?

Hang on.

Dad, you can't.

Well, apparently I did.

But they're not yours.

Meaning that they are the world. The
world of art.

But not, of course, yours.

No, no. Further things from our mind.

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.

Great. Now, you've shredded each other,
so I hope you feel very good about it.

Shredded each other?

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.

Right.

So?

So, let's go.

As you are still, for the moment, my
employee, I'm ordering you to come out

the fire pit and burn them.

Well, as your employees now quit, I wish
you good luck with that.

I'll go and do it myself then.

Really? Really.

Crack on then.

How's the bonfire going?

What did you mean?

I'd imploded my legacy.

If you was to ask my cousin who Julian
Squire is, he would say the guy that

yelled at kids and housewives on Art
Fight.

Well, they got off easy.

I was the one being tortured.

I was waterboarded by a deluge of
kittens.

I eat one more hideously adorable than
the next, all popping at yarn in

a criddly watercolour, watercolour line.

What?

No, I did them a favour.

Did you?

Yes.

I saved them.

From a lifetime of heartache and
rejection and grasping at something that

would never achieve and, worse, clawing
back at something that they would never

recapture because success, Laurie, is
worse.

OK.

OK. Let's... Let's stop this, sir.

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 have sold them for shit at your

jumble sale.

Oh, my sidewalk seller.

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

downfall.

No, I'd done with them, Laurie. 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 on my
own terms.

And how do you know if it's even art
now, any time?

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 pity.

Offended, somehow.

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
limited with me

and 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.

Mrs Hanley.

She failed me for that.

Oh, this is nothing but a spiral of
words, Julian.

You have desecrated the canvas with
everything that the assignment is not,

said, yes, because it's more
interesting.

You know, the second piece of yours was
a drawing from when you were six.

Boy and a Cloud? Boy and a Cloud.

And using the excretion of Maudlin Cheek
for that title.

You were six.

And did you find that easy to copy as
well?

Not at 12.

Mm -mm.

You were... lookable.

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 I should excuse me.

I need to pay for tonight's meal.

You're a quitter yourself, you know,
Laurie.

No one goes to art school to become a
restorer or a critic.

I came in early this morning.

Yeah. Really?

Yeah.

4, 5am?

Mm -hm.

Well, I'm sorry if such industrious
assistantism was wasted on what turned

to be an errant, if dramatic, misfire.

Well, it told me... Excuse me!

Good morning, Mario.

Now, you told me that you want me to
paint something appropriately romantic

for your fiancée, and I presume I
appropriately

that you want me to paint it in
vanishing ink.

Laurie! 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.

Here's the door, Clannan.

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
£25 ,000 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 Attlee's in between.

And I forged Panagatanga's 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, Laurie, we've
been recording this.

And does that include your fraud bit
before my confession and your blackmail

after? Because you'd need both for
context.

We'll give you £10 ,000.

In advance.

Wow. But no.

15. No.

Oh, come on, mate.

20. 20 grand, OK?

But that's it. We can't go higher than
that.

Do you even have this money?

Yeah.

Really? Yeah.

How? Because.

It doesn't matter.

200 ,000.

Pounds!

We haven't got that sort of money. The
number's 200.

I love you, Laurie, but this is piggish.

200 ,000. You are being a cunty pig
cunt.

200 ,000. £21 ,400, right? Please accept
this.

That's all the money we have. Please,
please, Laurie, please. It's really,

really important.

Oh, my God.

You've sold them already.

What? No.

This is, um... Fabulous.

The answer is no, and definitely not for
21 ,000 quid. He's dying, Laurie.

It's called a plastic anemia.

Katie's been refusing treatment for
years.

Our time is running out.

Everyone's is.

The answer is even more no.

You forget something?

Can you close the door? I believe your
dignity is along there and you'll find

your pride upstairs somewhere.

Close the door.

I've just googled a rare blood disease
called a plastic anemia.

Ah, yes.

Well, much to the impending dismay of
the heirs abhorrent.

A genius instructor that has re -ionized
my stem cells.

And that's like everything else that
used to be inside me.

It's amounted to nothing.

The only thing dying, I'm afraid, is the
dream of Lord and Lady Boucher.

Well, they've sold them already.

Sold? The Christophers.

They took a down payment of a million
quid last year.

That's why Sally tried to do it herself.

Oh, how glorious it is.

Well,

for what it's worth, of that, they only
have 21 ,000 quid left.

I'm surprised they've got anything.

How many paintings?

All nine.

Even Sally's. Oh, yes.

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.

And this tech bro doesn't even know who
I am or what.

I'm told after some Googling.

And I assume my children want you to
resume your task of seeking

these somehow.

Same plan. New old canvases.

I think I should do it.

You paint them.

Yeah.

Paint them?

But very, very badly.

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 going to...

Be my assistant.

Yes, and I'll be a very good one too.

Now, my first task is to assist you in
getting paid.

And there's an art shop on Bronson
Street, which is quite dreadful.

on this particular occasion, I shall be
able to help you in person, as I'm not

allowed in, due to a thin -skinned
proprietor and an overreaction to a

statement of fact.

Okay.

I'll get this one then. All right, and
while you're out, shall I rustle us up

something? A little omelette?

You're going to make me an omelette?

Don't sound so surprised.

All right, then I'll have a cheese
omelette. Cheese omelette?

That's an omelette with cheese?

Yeah.

Actually, how do you introduce the
cheese into the omelette?

I'm just going to pick something up for
us, yeah?

Excellent tea, Mark.

I thought you might enjoy this as a kind
of inspiration piece.

Is that Sally? 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.

That's crazy. She's actually improved
since art school.

Yes. 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.

It's this thing. Oh, this is delicious,
Roy.

Consider me poor but happy.

Okay.

This was to be his.

Well, it ought to be his.

As a matter of fact.

His?

Christopher's?

Oh, was I a blustering fool?

Messages on the answer, Miss Juno.

Gifts, gifts, gifts.

Let me paint you one more time, Telfer,
and all this shall be yours.

Nothing.

Actually, let's start with a different
one.

I made him. I literally created him.

It was the boy who did my stretches.

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

liked to have lasted in his mind.

That's the thing, isn't it?

To last in the mind of others.

First instincts, Laurie.

I never joined the Royal Academy, you
know.

I refuse to play that game.

The others were rabid about it. Every
last one of them more competitive than

next, but not me, Laurie. I was the
least competitive of them all by far.

are you staring at me?

I don't think you want to do this.

I am ordering you.

logic buffer to desecrate that painting
with that brush. Well, as my assistant,

you don't get to call the shots.

Very well, then.

I resign as your assistant. Okay, okay,
okay. You win. 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.

It's already dreadful.

Oh, now this is a monumentally hideous
salve.

Glue.

Yes,

glue and then feathers.

No, no, no, we'll have glitter first.

And then feathers.

That!

Take that!

Feathers.

You were thinking 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 Three's will hang in the
pantheon of the worst art of all time,

along with dogs playing poker, Velvet
Elvis, and all of Warhol.

Yes. I shall have masking tape.

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.

I... Something's

happened.

Are you OK?

I'm struggling. I'm struggling to make
this dreadful.

It's physically impossible to make it
back.

Yeah, you're right.

It is not uninteresting.

Keep going.

So who, though?

Well, you seem like you're having a good
time, so why not just keep having a

good time?

Because why?

Because it's fun for you, isn't it?

Because I'm fun for you.

Julian? So here I am. Yes, I am the
entertainment again, am I?

It's just what you wanted all along,
isn't it?

To wind up the old fool and have him
clatter about and bang his cymbals.

Oh, was it interesting being Jane
Goodall to the old dancing monkey in his

natural habitat?

And how am I faring as the anecdote you
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?

Well, where are you coming from? Oh,
it's not uninteresting. How would you

that?

To judge art, you must possess the very
skills it takes to make said art.

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, I might as well have
because it rang with the familiarity

of all those other faux existential

impressionistic dance skits by all the
other wannabe

artists.

I think...

I think maybe, Laurie, it was a healthy
thing that you quit.

I will take £21 ,000. You can keep the
£400, but I get 50 % of the final sale,

including the down payment.

£50.

£50. £50.

Good.

I'll call you with a plan.

I was right.

You can't judge art by looking at it
online.

This is good.

Untitled number seven.

There's a power to it that I missed on
your website.

So you came in to tell me you were
right.

Yes. About many things.

including having seen that before, which
explains, Laurie, why

I thought that I'd seen it before.

I got a hunch when I looked at you, just
as you were leaving, that

I'd seen that specific look before on
your specific face, and I remembered

you.

Artifact. So I looked up.

Season 3, episode 5.

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, aren't I?

I believe I always have been.

I didn't know it wasn't you that I was
mad at earlier.

I know.

It was... What do you mean?

You know.

Seriously.

Who am I kidding?

All the lies that I've been telling
myself my whole life.

It's exhausting.

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, Laurie, 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...

It could be called...

Julian

Squire. I can't tell whether this is
revived or reviled.

Exactly.

Is this a retrospective?

Oh, no, they've been new.

And people can judge them however they
judge them.

And I would be grateful, Ronnie, if
you'd be so kind as to perhaps just

be there while I try.

Yeah, it is.

Yes, of course. Yes.

Okay. Crack of noon.

Precisely. Oh, except...

No, I've got Esme, and she's been
insistent that I do council last minute.

Oh, we could do 2pm. 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.

This is where you live?

Whose is this?

It's mine, sir.

It's absolute shit.

Julia?

Thank you very much. Thank you very much
indeed.

Welcome back to Art Fight, the show
where everyone's a critic.

Particularly Julian.

We've got Laurie Butler, and she studies
at Central Saint Martins. A

lot to go. And she is showing us today
her painting, Untitled

No. 7. Julian, what do you think?

Untitled No.

7.

Well, it's a fitting name, given there
are no actual words to describe what

exactly it is I'm looking at.

And, oh, please, oh, oh, God, don't tell
me. I'm going to have to look at the

previous thick in order to understand
this one.

It's not a painting, Laurie.

It's a cry for help from the paint
itself. Why am I here?

Perhaps there's a title.

Laurie, and perhaps it's simply the
reason my therapist chose early

I understand.

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.

Hi, I'm looking for Mr Appleton.

I'm Owen.

How can I help you?

I'm Laurie 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.

All right.

First I have a question.

Why did he call you Christopher?

I mean, these are technically ours now.

Well, they're literally yours.

Everything in there, all yours.

Sort of weirdly feels like a Julian
Squire museum.

Such 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?

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.

Oh, my God.

Did you do these?

Barney. Tell me, tell me now, honestly.
Laurie, 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

below, herein referred to as the
Christopher Series 3, consisting of

watercolour, glitter, feathers, axle
grease, masking tape, are all

authentic artworks that I have created
and gifted to... ..recipient Owen

Christopher Appleton.

Christopher was his middle name.

Julian told him that Owen sounded like
the pained bleat of a mooing cow.

You've 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

legal note from him which would give me
50 %

of nothing.

Now, why on earth would I do that?

Bonnie. Hi.

Sally. Barney.

Fine, you won.

Congratulations.

Dad is famous again.

Yay. Evelyn, you've got to tell us.

Who painted this?

Really? The truth?

Really? Does it even matter?

Not in the romantic

Good.

Really captured the weapon.

Esme? 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.

I took it because I didn't want you to
know who to see it.

Okay.

Thank you.

Good luck, Laurie.