All language subtitles for The.Burnt.Orange.Heresy.2019.1080p.WEBRip.x265-RARBG

JAMES:
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, ahem,
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--
Ha, 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' 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.

Ahem, this painting
was Nils' last painting.

With Nora dead,
he, uh, 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
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, um...

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?

Ha-ha, 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., um...?

Hollis. Berenice Hollis.

Are you interested in art,
Ms. Hollis?

I just came here
for the 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.

Hm.

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, um, 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 write your articles

and you sip champagne
with your high-class friends.

For love. Mm-hm.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.

Ciao.

Come in.

Want an upper?

Sure.

What are you doing this weekend?Heh.

What?

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

Ever heard of Joseph Cassidy?The art dealer?

Mm-hm.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.

Hm.So, what do you say?

You'll be my chauffeur?Share the driving?

LOUISA :
James, hi. Um...

It's Louisa, Louisa Prentes.

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

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

Um, 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 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.

Ha-ha, 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?Oh...

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.Know those big banners they hang

outside the museums
for special exhibitions?

Mm-hm.

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.

Oh...

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.Uh-huh.

I bet you
he overpaid for these.

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

CASSIDY:
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?Mm-hm.

Joseph Cassidy.

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

Aperitivo,anyone?

CASSIDY:
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, uh-- 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 yesterday,
you would've found the place

swarming with people.
I mean, children, grandchildren,

dogs, cats, nannies.

They 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.

Um...
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?Mm-hm.

CASSIDY:
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?

Uh...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.Mm.

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.
Uh, 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.

JAMES: 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.

Uh, Rodolfo?Sir?

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

Flash Art,sir.
The March issue.

Mm.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.

CASSIDY:
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.Mm-hm.

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.

Mm. 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? Hm.

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, uh...

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.Hm.

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, uh, 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.
Mm!

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.Oh.

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

Thank you.

JAMES: 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.
Mm-hm.

Uh, heard someone whispering,
so I went to the door,

cracked it open...Mm-hm.

...and there you were,

down the corridor
in a robe with Cassidy,

and he gave you an envelope,
a thick one.

Hm. 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.

DEBNEY:
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, um...?

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?JAMES: 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 his 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.

Hm. 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.

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.

Oh! Almost time
for our boat ride.

Hm?

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.

DEBNEY:
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.

Uh-huh.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.

Ah.

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.

Oh! 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.

Could you...?

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.

DEBNEY:
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.

Mm. 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.

Oh, he's such
an earnest young man.

To speak so seriously
of such foolish matters.

Oh, nothing could be
less foolish.

Huh. 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.

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

Too much blue?

I don't understand.Those are finished.

Uh, 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.

Uh, 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.JAMES: 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.

DEBNEY:
When I'm truly finished,

I scrawl the title,
the date and my initials.

For posterity's sake,
you understand.

"The Burnt Orange Heresy."

DEBNEY: 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.

Uh, I'll wait outside. Um...
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. Um...

Go pack and meet me by the car.

The car?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.

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

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

That is right. Uh, 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, uh, the only Debney
in existence, then. Right?

Uh, yes, I-- I suppose
you could say that, sir, yeah.

And Debney, he's, uh...?

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?

Uh, 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?

Um...

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, um...

the artist,
alone in the empyrean,

descending
toward a final horizon.

In full acceptance.

CASSIDY:
That's fantastic, James.
Fantastic.

JAMES:
Thank you, sir.

Thank you.

BERENICE:
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

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.Oh! 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.

Shh...

No, no, no.

Shh...

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?

Mm-hm.

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.Mm.

I'm sorry.

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

Mm-hm.

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?

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.

NEWSMAN: 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.Thanks.

Well done, James. Good work.

Excuse me?Your essay, the real thing.

I mean, so rare nowadays.

Um, I sent an invitation
to your friend.

My friend?Yes, you know, Berenice.

Yeah. Oh, yeah. Her. Mm-hm.

I had to get
a professional acquaintance

to do a bit of, uh, research

because, uh, 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?Uh, yes.

You might say that, yeah.Yeah. Young love.

Heh-heh, 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.Mm.

Let's mingle a bit, shall we?Mm-hm.

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.Mm-hm.

Lived with her mother
and an aunt.

Taught school,
if you can imagine that.

Do you want a drink?Uh, no, thanks.

Uh, 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,
postmarked Italy.

Oh.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.
Heh.

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

Such a shame.Mm-hm.

I wouldn't worry too much.

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, ah! 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, uh, bloated

and, uh, 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.Ha, ha, ha.

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.

CASSIDY:
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.PHILIP: Joseph.

You know James?James. Of course.

Evelina.

PHOTOGRAPHER:
Mr. Figueras.

Thank you.

WEATHERMAN :
Over the weekend, at worst,

we're gonna have
a 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...