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Fuck.

Let me be blunt.

Art would not exist without criticism.

It would not exist.

I like to think of myself
and my fellow critics, collectively,

as the banks on a river,
and art is the water that flows between us.

And we work to channel this flow,

guide it, to restrain it,
you might even say.

Because without banks, even the greatest
of torrents would be, what?

Floodplain, listless expanse
of mud and flies.

Now, ladies and gentlemen,

please examine this painting, if you will.

What do you feel?

Indifference, am I correct?

You are unmoved.

Let's be honest, this is no more interesting
than your average wallpaper, is it?

Look at the brushstrokes, so...
So rough and clumsy.

Almost like a child's painting, no?

Is anyone here familiar
with the work of Nils Ingen?

Well, don't be ashamed.
He's not very well-known in America.

Don't be ashamed.
He's not very well-known in America.

Let me tell you a little bit about Nils.

Nils was 16 and already something
of a prodigy when the Nazis invaded Norway.

Nils and his twin sister joined
the Resistance a year into the occupation.

They were betrayed.

Betrayed, arrested and transported
to the concentration camp in Buchenwald.

Nils kept himself and his sister alive
by painting portraits of the camp officers.

And this is something
for which he felt great shame after the war.

So Nils vowed two things:

Never to paint another human figure

and never to touch a brush again.

And, therefore...

...the rough working of the paint.

All of Nils's postwar canvases
were undertaken

either with a palette knife
or with his fingers.

Nils titled this particular painting, Nora,
after his sister.

She died, in 1955, of consumption,

which she contracted at Buchenwald.

And that gray...

And that... And that gray...

That gray, vaguely avian shape...

some see that as a representation
of Nora's soul,

slipping its earthly bonds, free at last,
after enduring so much horror here.

This painting was Nils's last painting.

With Nora dead, he refused to eat anything,

and nothing but water passed his lips
for the next 27 days.

He continued to work on the canvas
as he weakened,

and reportedly that bird-like shape

was the last detail that he added.

So I suppose you could see this painting...

as a suicide note.

A cri de coeur, famous last words,
cry from the heart.

Looks like a different painting now,
doesn't it?

It looks like a different painting now.

- Doesn't it?
- Absolutely.

There's a poignancy to it
that you hadn't noticed before,

and there's far more technical skill
than you first assumed.

And all of this simply because of what I,
as a critic

and an expert, have shared with you.

I suppose you could say that I have shaped
your experience of this painting.

Would anyone like a print?

Let me...

Let me share one last detail with you.

Everything I just told you
about Nils and Nora...

Lies. Lies.

Lies. Just a pack of lies.

I painted this painting.

And it's trash. And you can see that, right?

It took me 30 minutes.

And it's just paint slapped down
without any real care or inspiration.

So is anyone still interested in a print?

No, I thought not.

I single-handedly made you believe
that this was a masterpiece.

You believed, you have to admit it.

That, my dear friends,
is the power of the critic,

and that's why you should be careful
with someone like me.

Thank you. Thank you.

You're not really how I imagined
an art critic would look.

Well, you know what they say
about the book and its cover, Ms...?

Hollis. Berenice Hollis.

Are you interested in art, Ms. Hollis?

I just came here for the potato chips.

No offense, Mr. Figueras.

I just reached a point in my life
where I appreciate the value of free things.

Oh, I see.

So that painting...

I'd like a print.

There aren't any.

That was just what you call
an oratorical gesture.

Oh, you're one of those.

- One of which?
- A liar.

That's harsh, don't you think?

If the shoe fits.

Yeah.

Sorry.

Sorry.

Water?

Ever wonder when something
is just starting, how it's gonna end?

Like what?

Anything. Us, say.

A week from now,
I'll be planning our wedding.

Then I'll take you to an opening,
and as I look across the room,

I'll see you talking to this artist,

this broad-shouldered artist, sculptor.

Big hands.

And as you leave with him,
you give me a little wave.

And I'll climb to the top of the duomo,
throw myself off in grief.

You're gonna make me your whore.

I'll be turning tricks to support you
while you visit your galleries

and you write your articles and you sip
champagne with your high-class friends.

- For love.
- That's right.

I'll catch some disease,
lose my teeth, go blind...

- No.
- ...be dead in a year.

All for love.

We'll have babies.

Girl named Amy, boy named Matt.

We'll move to the States,
Connecticut probably.

Buy a house, porch with a swing
and a brook.

Babbling.

Of course. And a stone wall.

And I'll die first.

Some sort of lingering cancer
that you'll nurse me through.

And then you.

And our kids will insist
that you died of a broken heart.

I'm gonna get up now.

Shower, leave.

We'll never see each other again.

All you gotta do is lie here
and let it happen.

Got it?

Got it.

Come in.

Want an upper?

Sure.

What are you doing this weekend?

What?

You're supposed to ask me out
before you fuck me.

- Ever heard of Joseph Cassidy?
- The art dealer?

- Yeah.
- Been invited to his estate.

You got rich friends.

- Well, I've never met him.
- Then why the invite?

I'm guessing he wants me to write
a catalog for his collection,

and it would be a nice gig
if I could land it.

And I bet there'll be
some free cucumber sandwiches.

So, what do you say?

- You'll be my chauffeur?
- Share the driving?

James, hi.

It's Louisa, Louisa Prentes.

It's rather awkward for me
to be calling you about this,

but the check you gave me
was returned by my bank.

If you'd give me a call back, thanks.

Who died, little girl?

Your poor Norwegian.

I keep thinking he was real.

He was real.

- You said you made him up.
- No, just the end.

Nils and Nora were real,

and Nils survived for a time at Buchenwald
by painting the German officers.

- For a time.
- For a time.

In medieval painting,
the fly represented sin,

so if an artist added a fly to a portrait,
for instance,

it meant that that person was damned.

I suppose you can see where this is headed.

Nils painted flies on the Germans.

He did.

Unfortunately, his camp commandant
was something of an amateur art historian,

and he took exception,
and Nils was gutted like a deer,

- left out in the yard for the flies...
- Stop.

...to feast on.

You asked.

What about Nora?

Nora spent her postwar years in Paris,
drinking too much and painting some.

Badly, I'm afraid.

She just wasted away, basically.

That was Nora's painting you showed us,
wasn't it?

Why didn't you say so?

Because my story's much more poignant,
Nils starving and everything.

Yeah, but it's not true.

- Does that matter?
- Of course it matters.

That's what art's about, isn't it?
The truth.

No.

I mean, pumpkin, if it's just about telling
the truth, anybody could do it.

My job is to separate the good lies
from the bad ones.

And how do you do that?

Well, is your name really Berenice?

Why would I make that up?

That's not a yes.

It's not a no either.

Okay.

Let's get the bags.

Lunch is in an hour. Please be prompt.

Thank you.

I was a kid...

exactly the kind of place
I dreamed of living.

Princess in a castle.

How about you?

What'd you wanna be when you were a kid?

Oh, I was never a kid.

I hatched from the egg like this,
fully grown.

Come on.

Seriously, you can't tell me
you never wanted to paint.

Have you ever been to New York?

Yeah.

You know those big banners they hang
outside the museums for special exhibitions?

I wanted one.

"Figueras."

I had a teacher in art school.

Good teacher.

She took me aside one day
and told me that I was much better

at talking about art than doing it,

and said it only had to be a tragedy
if I made it one.

You still want that banner though,
don't you?

Follow your heart.

Do you realize how many museums
that would consider this their centerpiece?

And here, it's just another slap of paint
on the wall.

He live alone?

- Has that feel, doesn't it?
- Must be lonely.

- What?
- Man like Cassidy? It's a choice.

Women can't understand that as a rule,
the allure of solitude.

- And you do?
- Oh, yeah. This is how I live too.

On a...

slightly more modest scale, but still.

Just a lone wolf, huh?

Scoff all you want.
I've been a monk here in Italy.

Art my only mistress.

I bet you, he overpaid for these.

And 10 years from now,
he won't be able to give them away.

Would it help you, Mr. Figueras,
if I told you

that I had a terrible stammer
when I was a child?

- Took me years to get over it.
- I'm so sorry. I didn't know.

A neighbor of mine gave me some advice.

Try and sing through the words
to help ease their passage.

This makes my attachment to these pictures
seem a bit sentimental, I know,

but I like the reminder that they bring,

that I should never let
a thing's worth obscure its value.

Ms. Hollis.

Am I correct?

Joseph Cassidy.

- Welcome to my summer cottage.
- Thank you for having us.

Aperitivo, anyone?

I really must apologize.

I couldn't help but overhear
your conversation as I entered.

It was fascinating.

People and their hunches.

How some have the gift and others don't.

Always trust your hunches, my dear.
You have the gift.

You were quite right to suspect
that Mr. Figueras here

has been leading a decidedly un-monastic
existence during his Italian sojourn.

There was a Ms. Sofia Rosselli,

and then there was a Mrs. Louisa Prentes,
and then... Oh, come on.

Don't look so uncomfortable, Mr. Figueras.

I invited you over to my house,
I'm bound to make inquiries.

By the way, my home life,
you completely misread it.

This is my wife's estate.

It's been in her family for generations.
If you'd have come here yesterday,

you would've found
the place swarming with people.

I mean, children, grandchildren,
dogs, cats, nannies.

They all decamped for London this morning,
the whole bloody shooting match.

Can still sort of smell them a bit though,
can't you?

That sort of funny child smell.

- Jim. Can I call you Jim?
- Please.

Just winding you up. Why would you think
my children would have a peculiar smell?

Berenice, you've been a bit quiet.

- I hope we haven't bored you too much.
- Oh, not at all.

Maybe I should've made more of an effort
to draw you out, but I...

I sense you're someone not overly fond
of personal questions.

- And why would that be?
- I don't know.

Just a hunch. Maybe I'm wrong.

- Where are you from?
- Duluth.

Minnesota?

The Art Institute there,

they used to have a really lovely
Toulouse-Lautrec, but no more.

When I say Duluth,
I mean a small town south of the city.

Which one?

It's quite small, Mr. Cassidy.
I'm sure you've never heard of it.

Oh, of course not.

Nice to be from a small town though,
isn't it?

How so?

Well, you venture into the world
like a newborn,

free to be whomever you choose.

You know, neither of you have mentioned
the empty chair.

I assumed that was for your wife.

What if I told you that,
at the edge of my property,

there's a dilapidated little house,

and in this house there's a man
who I invite for lunch every day,

and the only response I ever get from him
is this empty chair?

Who is it?

This man, my dear young friend,
is the reason that I summoned you here.

I don't understand.

Rodolfo, let's have coffee
on the terrace, shall we?

Very well, sir.

If you could interview any living artist,
who do you think it would be?

- Anselm Kiefer.
- Kiefer?

Kiefer will speak to anyone
with an open notebook, I think.

No, put yourself
in a bit more rarefied company, okay?

No critic has spoken to this guy
in over 50 years.

It's been that long
since anyone's even seen this man's work.

Still not with you.

Okay.

If I say to you:

Paris, 1968.

Twelve paintings gone up in flames
in a gallery fire.

You're fucking with me.

Two days later,
on the same smoke-stained walls,

an empty picture frame appears.

A little notecard by it, which read:

"Jerome Debney. Number One."

Oh, yeah, my college roommate had
a poster of that on her wall.

You're really saying Jerome Debney is here?

What was the last you heard of him?

Another fire, about a year ago,
in his studio and house in France.

Everything burned down. He lost everything.

A lifetime's work went up in flames,
and no one ever got to see it.

Gone. As if it never existed.

He is not a wealthy man,
gets all his money from a charitable trust.

- The Debney Trust.
- Yeah.

Upon whose board I'm very honored to sit.

And in that capacity,
I'm to offer the great man accommodations.

So now every morning,

I got Jerome bloody Debney
sunning himself beside my pool.

- Rodolfo?
- Sir?

What was Mr. Debney reading
when you picked him up the other day?

Flash Art, sir. The March issue.

- Mr. Figueras' column.
- Oh, you're kidding me.

And what was he doing
while he was reading it?

Chuckling, sir.

He said, "This young man is quite amusing."

Berenice, would you mind if I borrow James
for a little private conversation?

No.

I employ a team of investigators
to ensure authenticity and chain of title.

I see.

One of them came across a recent piece
by you on Modigliani's brushstrokes.

- Do you remember that?
- Yes, of course.

Rather interesting thesis.

Helped me overcome some uncertainty
over a particular Modigliani provenance,

Woman with a Red Scarf.

We made a rather profitable sale
to the Tate.

Oh, it's in the Tate now.

Yeah, it kind of sparked
my curiosity though.

So I had my people do a bit more digging.

You were quite the boy wonder,
weren't you, James?

Reading your old articles,

one would've thought
you'd be running a museum by now.

- Yeah, well...
- What happened, James?

Embezzlement, right?

Well, that makes it sound
like something it wasn't.

What was it then?

The gallery had an account
for incidental expenses,

and I thought it would be all right to...

borrow a small amount and then repay it.

Sounds like something
pretty easy to sort out.

I didn't handle that situation very well.

I had more of a temper back then.

Oh, did you?

Matured with age, have you?

What is this about, Mr. Cassidy?

Redemption.

Think of the splash it would make.

The first critic to interview Jerome Debney
in over 50 years,

to see and describe his current work, and...

You know, I could pull quite a few strings,

and you could be running
a major museum soon.

And why would you do this for me?

I'd value a Debney, James,

and I'd like you to procure one for me.

How am I supposed to do that?

Well, that's a transaction
between you and Mr. Debney, isn't it?

Yes, but what's to keep me from doing the
interview without getting you the painting?

Did someone pay you
to write that Modigliani article?

A man called Charles Clay?

Charles Clay sold me
Woman with the Red Scarf.

Did you know you were helping
to validate a forgery?

Or were you duped as well?

It's not a forgery.

Anyway, be the end of your fucking career,
wouldn't it?

You sold it to the Tate.

Well, I know, but I rely on the expertise
of scholars in these matters.

Anyway...

I'm off to London tomorrow morning, so you
and Berenice can have the run of the place.

See what you can manage.

Want one?

You got a habit, captain?

Just a little boost now and then.

- How many a day?
- Who's counting?

Where I'm from, that's called a habit.

Duluth, huh?

- Thought there was an accent.
- A Duluth accent?

Minnesota. Something weird with the vowels.

I thought all addicts were hapless losers.

Whoa, are we fighting?

- Only if you want to.
- Our first squabble. Okay, bring it on.

- Call me a name.
- Asshole.

Put effort into it.

Bastard.

Son of a bitch, piece of shit,
motherfucker, cocksucker.

Say something bad about my character
and make it sting.

You treat serious things
as if they were trivial

and trivial things as if they were serious.

Come on.

You have one more go,
then I will show you how it's done.

How many days you think I got left?

- Left?
- To live.

- I mean, what kind of question is that?
- There's a number, right? For both of us.

Days, hours, minutes.

After this minute right here, one less.

- That's how it works.
- So why waste it like this?

We're friends, right?

The best.

So who gives a fuck where I'm from?

I can mail that for you, ma'am.

- If you like.
- Yeah, that'd be great.

Thank you.

- Morning, sir.
- Morning.

Have you got a pen pal, sugarplum?

Just my mama.

Back in old Duluth?

Had to tell her I met a boy.

Not a word.

Watch.

- Good one.
- Very good one.

Man of many skills.

That's right.

I had the weirdest dream last night.

Weird is how they generally come
in my experience.

I woke up real early.

Heard someone whispering,
so I went to the door,

cracked it open,

and there you were,

down the corridor in a robe with Cassidy,

and he gave you an envelope, a thick one.

And here I was thinking flying horses,

sex with your mother, that kind of weird.

I went back to bed and lay there wondering:

"Why would Cassidy give her
an envelope full of cash?"

"Her" being me.

This is a dream we're talking about, right?

Is it?

You're a funny one, aren't you?

Oh, look.

We'll tell our grandchildren about this.

I came here a pauper,
but I'll leave a prince, a fucking emperor.

I saw blue once.

Genuine blue, you understand.

Platonic blue.

In a pool much like this.

I was underwater,

staring upwards at the sky.

And perhaps it was merely
a deficit of oxygen.

But for a moment...

blue.

I've been searching for it ever since.

Mr. Figueras,

I thought it might be you.

You've shaved your beard.

You must grow it back. It adds character.

Honored, Mr. Debney.

And startled. How did you...?

Your column, every month,
with its little photo.

Oh, it's a fine thing to see a young man
with such a clear eye.

And your beautiful friend,
you hope to protect her from my charm.

- She has a name, I assume?
- Ms. Berenice Hollis.

Jerome Debney. At your service, Ms. Hollis.

It's an honor, Mr. Debney.

Please.

May I be direct, in the modern way?

Mr. Cassidy has brought us together.
Why, it doesn't matter.

He's a collector.

And collectors, as we both know,
are odd creatures.

I assume an arrangement has been forged,
an agreement that suits you both.

I don't really wish to know, no.

One of the great pleasures
in being an artist

is that one need not traffic with the world
in this fashion.

I presume that you would like an interview.

Tape recorder spinning away.

I cannot abide such things.

A conversation?

Natural, informal.

This, perhaps, might be possible.
Nothing more.

Would such an approach assuage you?

That would mean the world to me.

The holy grail. Be the greatest honor.

But should it come so easily?

Excuse me?

What have you suffered?

The king invites you to his palace.

You sun yourselves by its pool.

The grail approaches and presents itself.

No battles, no trials.

The gods would never approve.

Mr. Debney, it was merely a metaphor.

What power lurks in metaphors.

- Are you a swimmer?
- I think...

One length, underwater,
and I'll speak with you.

- But, Mr. Debney, I...
- Two lengths.

If your next word is anything but "yes,"
it'll be four lengths.

Very well.

My mother taught me how to haggle.

If you have nothing to lose,
you must be merciless.

Come.

Sit beside me
and we'll cheer him on together.

I didn't expect you to be so sociable,
Mr. Debney.

One of the things I've learned
in my long stay upon this darkling plane,

most things, most people,

they are not what you'd expect.

Are you what one might expect?

What might that be?

A stone.

Perhaps an egg.

The question being,

how deep the hardness goes.

We'd need to drop you to know for certain.

Bravo! Halfway!

- You're old friends?
- Freshly minted.

He is an ambitious young man.

So if you are an egg,

I hope you'll be careful.

Trust me, I'm anything but an egg.

Do you know the saddest egg of all?

The egg that believes it's a stone.

Is there anything I might say
that could dissuade you

from writing about me in your magazine?

I suspected as much.

I go now where you are not welcome
to my studio for three hours.

After that, a boat ride, and you're welcome
to accompany me if you wish.

After the boat ride, a shower

and then dinner.

For which you are also welcome.

The meal, not the shower.

Is that acceptable?

Such sweet sorrow.

Did you find my blue under there?

You okay, champ?

How did you end up with such a pretty name?

Waiting for me when I arrived.

Doesn't strike me
as a common choice in Minnesota.

- We gonna dance to this tune again?
- Tell me.

My mother bet my Aunt Sally
that I'd be a girl.

Which I am, as you maybe noticed.

So "Berenice," bringer of victory.

What did they bet?

- A new set of pickling jars.
- Oh, you're good.

Lying's easy when you tell the truth.

It's the quirky details that carry the day.

Aunt Sally, pickling jars.

Nils vowing never to touch a brush again,
Nora dying of consumption.

Want to know about Nora? Ask Debney.
He probably met her in Paris.

Almost time for our boat ride.

You're on your own for that.

If I don't rest, I can't make dinner.

What?

We're not supposed to talk about it.
That's the deal?

It's not so complicated, honeybunch.
I had a deadline, the pills helped.

Then I started needing more,
then it wasn't about the deadlines anymore.

I can end it. I just...

I'm just waiting for the right moment.

And I can certainly hear how that sounds,
and it's not like that.

Yeah.

You're probably right.
We shouldn't talk about it.

Where is our Galahad?

Resting. He sends his regrets.

I wore him out, didn't I?
With our little escapade.

Where are you taking me?

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild

Did you know a woman named Nora Ingen?

Nora.

The beautiful and broken Nora.

What do you know of her?

Only what James told me.

The concentration camps,
her brother painting the Germans,

the flies.

Flies?

A fairy tale.

- To give meaning where there was none.
- It's not true?

The camps were not a place
where paintings were made.

The idea of such a thing, it's obscene.

Nils died like all the others.

Packed into a narrow room.

Gassed.

How do you know?

- She told me.
- Nora?

We were not very good to her,
the men in my circle.

We passed her around like a talisman,

daring ourselves to kiss
the tiny numbers tattooed on her forearm.

We were callow

when we should've been kind.

Now you know the worst of Jerome Debney.

We're still friends?

Of course, Mr. Debney.

- We'll always be friends.
- Oh, wonderful.

Wonderful.

A favorite spot of mine.

One must labor to apprehend it.

And those surely don't help.

I try to think of them as regrets.

One can either feel tormented

or learn to endure their presence.

I obviously carry mine
less gracefully than you.

Well, then you must tell me a secret.

Something shameful.
It will ease your burden.

I'm a teacher.

And a fine one, I'm sure.

- I made a mistake.
- What sort?

An indiscretion with a colleague.

Married, I assume?

Every year, I have the freshmen girls
for health.

The facts of life, that kind of thing.

How not to get pregnant.

The teacher was not such a good student?

Officially, I'm on leave
to have a cyst removed.

I have a friend, a best friend.

She's older, married.

Before I left, I told her everything,

and there was this moment
when I was talking,

and she gave me this look...

It was just a flash, you know, reflexive.

...like she wanted to spit on me.

It stung. Keeps stinging.

So when I got to Italy, I thought, "Why not?

Play the whore for a little while.

See how it feels."

And does it suit you?

This new mask?

Turns out, I'm all right at it.

You have to be careful, my dear.

A mask can be a perilous thing.

When I take mine off at night,
another waits beneath.

And under that?

So many years, Ms. Hollis.

Decades.

And it's masks all the way down by now.

And you?

Is there anything left?

I think so.

Then it's not too late, is it?

James?

Sky's still standing, Chicken Little.

Just slipped on the stairs.

Tell Papa all about the boat ride.

I think I lost 3 pounds to mosquitoes.

But I like him. He's a fine old man.

- What did you two lovebirds talk about?
- This and that.

- Not the other thing?
- Never on a first date.

What kind of girl you take me for?

Seemed to think I should tell you the truth.

- About what?
- Myself.

And what would that be?

Small-town girl, made a mistake.

In way over her head,
paddling about with sharks like you.

- Little Bo-Peep, huh?
- Pretty much.

Tell it to Aunt Sally.

Aren't you the little lady?

Bit late for that, turns out.

Did I miss any local sights?

He took me to some ruins.

- Just up the lake?
- Just outside the property.

Felt like the first person to set foot there
in a hundred years.

It scares me to think of him
out there alone, though, on the water.

Why?

He capsizes, no one will ever find him.

Probably what he wants,
vanish without a trace.

Be the perfect close to his legend.

Nobody wants to end up
at the bottom of a lake, chief.

Thank you.

Do me a favor?

What are friends for?

Tonight, when we're at his house, I need
to take a photo of whatever he's working on.

- Can you distract him a bit, please?
- Why?

- There's no way he's ever gonna...
- Why do you need to take a picture?

For my work, for my writing, reference.

Seems kind of underhanded, don't you think?

Underhanded?

He's inviting us into his home.

It's a memory aid, Pollyanna.
I'll delete it when I'm done.

What makes you think
he's gonna show you anything anyway?

My irresistible charisma.

No, Mr. Figueras.

No, no, no.

It's a ridicule.

Why ruin a pleasant evening?

Let us finish our meal.

I'll pretend you never raised the idea,

and we'll all part as friends.

You have a duty, Mr. Debney.

- To whom?
- Posterity.

When you've departed,
the world will come rushing in.

Wouldn't it be better
to share your work now, with me,

while you're still here to explain it?

I can help you do this. Together, we...

What is the earliest example of art
you can think of?

The caves, I suppose. Lascaux, Altamira.

Odd place to paint, wouldn't you agree?

A hole in the ground?

Can you explain the impulse?

Well, it's a long way
from my field of expertise,

but I suppose there's
some sort of ritualized element here.

I mean, the womb, Mother Earth,
a descent into...

I have a much simpler hypothesis.

They had no desire to share their work.

They were hiding it
from eyes they considered unworthy.

But I suppose you could also say
it was a way

of safeguarding the paintings
for future generations.

After all, their work was discovered,
just as yours shall be.

And I'll be there to write of it,
Mr. Debney, with you or without you.

He's such an earnest young man.

To speak so seriously
of such foolish matters.

Oh, nothing could be less foolish.

Come. Let me show you my studio.

Are you serious?

I think you'll be quite amused.

- Both of us?
- Everyone.

It's time.

Past time.

- Take this.
- What?

When I give you the nod, drop it.

- What...?
- Trust me.

We have to be rather fleet of foot,
I'm afraid.

I have a rendezvous this evening.
With a local widow.

And I can write about this,
what you show us?

You have my blessing.

Indeed, I'll be rather intrigued
to learn what you make of it.

This is everything, you understand.

Nothing else exists.

This one has been quite tricky.
I'd value your insight.

Too much blue?

- I don't understand.
- Those are finished.

More or less.

Though if the muse calls, I return.

But, Mr. Debney, there's nothing here.

No?

The blue.

I keep thinking too much.

Mr. Debney, I...

You know of the fire, the first,
at the gallery in Paris?

Yes, of course.

For three weeks,
the world picked up Jerome Debney,

turned him this way and that,
covered him with words.

I'll be honest,
I thought I was quite the success.

- A genius, even.
- You were. Are.

A carelessly discarded cigarette.

In less than an hour...

nothing.

You would've thought I'd lost a loved one,
how I was treated.

Letters of condolence, mournful embraces.

And yet, in my heart...

a great burden lifted.

All those words, all those opinions,

that was the meaning of the empty frame.

It was a joke.

Fill this with your chatter.

And look how they did with it.

- I've seen it on a T-shirt.
- Yeah.

From then on in,

there was no one who could make my work

anything other than what it was.

It was Eden, Mr. Figueras.

For nearly 50 years,

I walked naked in the garden.

And then one morning,

I woke with a pain.

Here.

It was nothing.

Indigestion.

But it reminded me of the serpent.

The serpent that lurks in all our gardens.

One day, Jerome Debney...

will be no more.

And the world, as you so astutely put it,

will come rushing in.

You burned the villa.

I wish you could've seen the colors,
my dear.

The flames feeding on the paint.

It was quite lovely, I assure you.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Now...

every morning...

I take the palette, the brush,

and I paint.

Without the paint.

I have become my own cave.

A deep breath, young man, it will pass.

You're a thief.

Your work belongs to the world,
the entire fucking world,

and you've stolen it.

It's despicable.

I think somehow you might be right.

The blue, it does seem a little off somehow.

- Along the bottom, no?
- Right.

You have an excellent eye.

There's writing on the back.

When I'm truly finished,

I scrawl the title,
the date and my initials.

For posterity's sake, you understand.

"The Burnt Orange Heresy."

- A favorite.
- What does it mean?

It's a bone tossed to the critics,
those ravenous dogs.

They can wear themselves out chewing on it.

Searching for meaning where there is none.

I'll wait outside.
I'm sorry, sir, but I... I...

I lack the stomach for this.

James.

Leave him. He has wounds to lick.

I'm afraid I must part ways
with you here, my dear.

If I tarry much longer,

the widow will have gone to sleep.

I wish you much happiness, my dear,

and a long life in which to enjoy it.

It's been an honor
and an even greater pleasure.

I know you're an unhappy young man
right now.

But I believe in time, you will understand.

Yeah.

Good night.

Still friends, partner?

Hey, I'm sorry, but that was a shock.

Got your scoop, didn't you?
It's not the one you thought.

Fuck.

- What?
- I forgot my bag.

- Oh, I'll come with you.
- No, no, no. Wait.

Go pack and meet me by the car.

The car?

Listen, I need to write this now,
and I can't do that here, so...

- Are you serious?
- Yes, I am serious. Please, do it.

Promise, I'll make it up to you.

Okay?

What?

Hey, train's leaving. Get on it. Come on.

Embers, ashes, afterglow.

Into the good night. Into the gentle night.

Debney. Embers, ashes, acceptance.

Demurral and acceptance.

Debney. Demurral and acceptance.

Acting a little strange, boss.

How long have you known me?

A few days.

So how can you possibly say
what's strange and what's normal?

Home sweet home.

- Where are you going?
- Gotta get writing.

Now?

Well, when the muse calls...

Come on, be a good girl.

Mr. Cassidy.

It seems there's been a fire
on my estate, James.

Yes. Yes, sir. That... That's right.

- That is right.
- Debney's studio?

Yes. Yes, I'm afraid so.

Will you please assure me that this happened
after you procured the painting?

It did. It did.

So my painting is the only Debney
in existence, then. Right?

Yes, I suppose
you could say that, sir, yeah.

And Debney, he's...?

He was away for the evening.

I mean, how much more
can he really paint? I mean, he's old.

- He is old.
- Oh, send me a text of it, can you?

No, no, no. I can't do that. It's in my car.

It's hidden, and I can't risk taking it out.
Ms. Hollis is still with me.

Well, can you describe it to me, then?

Well, it's... It's kind of hard to describe,
to be honest.

Well, it's your bloody job
describing pictures, isn't it?

James?

It's called The Burnt Orange Heresy.

It's orange?

It's burnt orange.

Like the sun.

Like the setting sun.

It's a self-portrait, really. It is.

It's...

the artist, alone in the empyrean,

descending toward a final horizon.

In full acceptance.

That's fantastic, James. Fantastic.

Thank you, sir.

Thank you.

Tell me why this isn't a terrible thing.

- It's not what it looks like.
- What does it look like?

What does it look like, James?

Listen to me for a second.

That lecture for those tourists, right?

I do that 20, 30 times a year,
200 euros a pop,

in Milan or Florence or Rome,

and it's the same blank-faced
American tourists

with the same stupid fucking questions
every time about Raphael and da Vinci,

as if no one else ever painted anything.

Debney is stealing from me. Yes, he is.
And from you and from everybody.

This isn't who you are, slick.

Pumpkin, you haven't
the slightest idea who I am.

You know what we need to do.

What?

We need to get rid of that awful painting.

- No. Don't you dare.
- Let go, James.

- Don't you dare.
- You're hurting me!

Have you any idea how valuable that is?
That's the only Debney in the world.

Why is he paying you?

Who?

- Cassidy. To spy on me?
- That was a dream.

- You said that was a dream.
- Please go tell him. Tell him.

He won't believe you because
he wants it to be real. And it is real.

Do you know what's gonna happen now?

You're gonna get out of my apartment.

You're gonna get out of my life and go back

to your cheap whoring
and sucking and fucking your...

- We're through here.
- Motherfucker!

Fuck.

No, no, no. Come on.

Easy.

Easy.

No, no, no.

I'm really, really sorry.

It was an accident, okay?

You...

You scared me.

I know. I'm sorry.

You hurt me.

I didn't mean to.

It was an accident, okay? It's over.

Okay? It's over.

I'm so, so sorry.

Can you stand up?

Get you back to the apartment.

Okay?

Give me your hand.

I'm so, so sorry.

Come here.

We're okay?

Come on.

You can do this.

It's gonna be fine.

I'm sorry.

You do know that, right? How sorry I am.

I could buy you a plane ticket.

How will that sound?

First class, anywhere you want to go.

He's paying you. Cassidy.

Oh, no. No, no, no, it's not like that.
He's letting me write about it.

It's actually the opportunity of a lifetime,
to take a Debney, to be allowed...

It's not real, James.

It is so real.

Please get dressed.

You can't even see it, can you?

I can help you.

We're wasting time.

Will you let me help you?

Please, we need to get you
to the airport, and I...

Where's the fly?

Shouldn't there be a fly?

Oh, I need you to be quiet now,
Ms. Hollis, please.

- Do you understand?
- Or is that you?

- Be quiet...
- That's why you tell the story, isn't it?

- I'm... I'm not...
- You're the fly, and you fucking know it.

Please be quiet.

You're a fraud, a fake. Buzzing about.

Be quiet, please.

It's not real, James.

You're not real.

Legendary artist Jerome Debney
has died at the age of 84.

Debney reportedly suffered a heart attack

at the estate of art dealer Joseph Cassidy
on Lake Como.

The empty frame represented freedom.

It represented a new way to see.
It opened up a way to see.

Reclusive painter Jerome Debney
has died today of a heart attack.

The artist had just turned 84.

It's like that,
the disappearance of the act.

The essence of Debney's,
I would say, greatness as an artist.

Debney's long career was blighted
by a series of accidental fires,

destroying a gallery in Paris,
his villa in the south of France,

and most recently,
his studio on the Cassidy estate.

Art critic James Figueras,
who recently visited Debney's studio

and is the only critic to have examined
Debney's late work, says that:

"Both as a man and an artist,

Debney possessed the sincerity, depth
and unflinching directness of a prophet.

He was a voice calling out in the desert."

Thank you.

- Thank you so much. Bye.
- Thank you.

Well done, James. Good work.

Excuse me?

Your essay, the real thing.
I mean, so rare nowadays.

I sent an invitation to your friend.

- My friend?
- Yes, you know, Berenice.

Yeah. Oh, yeah.

I had to get a professional acquaintance
to do a bit of research

because she seems to have disappeared.

Difficult thing to do, really, disappear.

- Usually, you need a bit of help.
- What do you mean?

Well, you know, with anything complicated,
you need a bit of assistance.

Bloke I know tried it years ago.
Got into a bit of a scrape.

- Not quite as easy as you think.
- No.

- Lost touch with her, have you?
- Yes. You might say that, yeah.

Yeah. Young love. So volatile.

Yeah. Suppose you had
to sacrifice her to your work.

Art can be such a harsh mistress, can't she?

Oh, she can.

Let's mingle a bit, shall we? Come.

Duluth seemed a bit unlikely,
didn't it really?

In which way?

Well, you know, that's where
she was from, really. Just like she said.

Tiny town south of the city.

Lived with her mother and an aunt.
Taught school, if you can imagine that.

- Do you want a drink?
- No, thanks.

No, thanks very much.

I think he might have sent her a drawing.

- Who?
- Debney.

What do you mean?

Her mother said she received
a drawing of Berenice, postmark Italy.

I was a bit upset about that,
as you can imagine.

Yeah.

Till I found out it wasn't signed
and so it's bloody worthless.

- Such a shame.
- Oh, yes. What a shame.

Such a shame.

I wouldn't worry too much. I mean, she'll
float back into view one of these days.

I mean, they always do. Yeah.

Here we are.

The jewel in the crown.

You can't smoke in here, James, sorry.

Oh, I almost forgot.

This was found in Debney's desk
after he drowned.

I thought he died of a heart attack.

Take a pick, one of the two.
I mean, he was in the pool anyway.

Was he swimming?

Well, he fell in somehow.
I mean, Rodolfo found him.

He was all bloated and blue in the face.

A bit upsetting, really. Hang on a minute.

Just gonna take this
from The Guardian. Hello?

James Figueras. Evelina Macri from ARTnews.

Hello.

First of all, brilliant job.

Your restraint is what I found
most extraordinary.

It's as if you wrote an essay on the solar
system and refused to mention the sun.

A lesser critic would've hung
his whole thesis on it.

But you chose to leave it for us
to discover.

To be shocked by, even.

- Thank you.
- The ultimate mark of Debney.

Hidden right in the center of things,
as the truth always is.

Almost as if he imprinted the mark of Cain
on his own forehead, don't you think?

Or is that too big a reach?

Excuse me?

The fingerprint.

James.

James. James, come meet Philip Ricciardi.

From the Tate Modern.
You'll really like him.

- You know, don't you?
- Know what?

- Just say it.
- Say what?

The truth.

- The truth, James?
- Yes.

The truth. Come on.

- Philip. Oh, hello.
- Joseph.

- You know James?
- James. Of course.

Evelina.

Mr. Figueras.

Thank you.

Over the weekend, really at worst,

we're gonna have
just a nuisance round of flurries,

particularly in Central Minnesota,

with the real snow starting
either late Sunday night

or in the predawn hours of Monday.

It'll be a heavy, wet-consistency snow,
accompanied by wind,

coming out during the day Monday,
gusts at 30 or 35 miles an hour.

And this type of storm track favors

a narrow swath of 8 to 12 inches of snow.

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