Goodness, what a film. Like the Usual Suspects, it needs to be watched a second time.
Very much under the radar; tucked away into the VoD menu like one of the artworks portrayed in it. I thought Geoffrey Rush would forever be the Tailor of Panama, but here he is in the most exquisite form as his more neurotic and successful cousin. The cleverness of the script is in how the viewer is fooled as elegantly as the protagonist, experiencing his disbelief. You can see it coming, but you don't want to believe it - just like him. We thought we were watching a sensitive biopic about two people helping each other to overcome their separate phobias, only to discover you were watching a profoundly targeted and flawless forgery.
There's also something regal about the underrated Sylvia Hoeks, even if it is difficult to categorise: a maturity for her age, or a perfectly-cast "old soul" vibe that works perfectly for the older man theorem. It's a subtle, robotic simplicity that could so easily be overdone, but is masterfully held back.
On one side of the mirror, we have an auctioneer - an expert in detecting forgery - breathing life into his greatest artistic work: bringing an agoraphobic heiress back to life, whilst healing himself.
On the other, we see another artist creating the perfect forgery: renting a mysterious house with an even more mysterious inventory from a dwarf savant, in order to draw his mark into madness so he can steal the most personal, priceless collection of artwork.
But the final reveal is the painting supposedly obsessed over our heiress, apparently of her mother. The grand revenge scheme has been orchestrated by the protagonist's embittered partner-in-crime and shill-bidder, who was the artist. Before Virgil leaves London, Billy announces he's sent him one of his paintings, almost as if they were never going to speak again. When Virgil returns to see his emptied collection, all that is left are the remains that allow him to connect the dots: after a lifetime of being patronised and criticised by his friend for his supposedly meagre talents, Billy has co-ordinated the elaborate heist involving the girl and the robot, and rubs his friend's nose in his cleverness by signing and leaving Claire's special painting, with his thanks and admiration.
Structure is everything in screen writing, and this script was beautifully constructed in itself as a piece of art, complete with eccentricities, contrasts, and its own signature. There is no reconciliation, just denouement. Perhaps a little more exposition would have been useful, but like all art, it was made to make you wonder what the artist's inspiration and plan were.
Very much under the radar; tucked away into the VoD menu like one of the artworks portrayed in it. I thought Geoffrey Rush would forever be the Tailor of Panama, but here he is in the most exquisite form as his more neurotic and successful cousin. The cleverness of the script is in how the viewer is fooled as elegantly as the protagonist, experiencing his disbelief. You can see it coming, but you don't want to believe it - just like him. We thought we were watching a sensitive biopic about two people helping each other to overcome their separate phobias, only to discover you were watching a profoundly targeted and flawless forgery.
There's also something regal about the underrated Sylvia Hoeks, even if it is difficult to categorise: a maturity for her age, or a perfectly-cast "old soul" vibe that works perfectly for the older man theorem. It's a subtle, robotic simplicity that could so easily be overdone, but is masterfully held back.
On one side of the mirror, we have an auctioneer - an expert in detecting forgery - breathing life into his greatest artistic work: bringing an agoraphobic heiress back to life, whilst healing himself.
On the other, we see another artist creating the perfect forgery: renting a mysterious house with an even more mysterious inventory from a dwarf savant, in order to draw his mark into madness so he can steal the most personal, priceless collection of artwork.
But the final reveal is the painting supposedly obsessed over our heiress, apparently of her mother. The grand revenge scheme has been orchestrated by the protagonist's embittered partner-in-crime and shill-bidder, who was the artist. Before Virgil leaves London, Billy announces he's sent him one of his paintings, almost as if they were never going to speak again. When Virgil returns to see his emptied collection, all that is left are the remains that allow him to connect the dots: after a lifetime of being patronised and criticised by his friend for his supposedly meagre talents, Billy has co-ordinated the elaborate heist involving the girl and the robot, and rubs his friend's nose in his cleverness by signing and leaving Claire's special painting, with his thanks and admiration.
Structure is everything in screen writing, and this script was beautifully constructed in itself as a piece of art, complete with eccentricities, contrasts, and its own signature. There is no reconciliation, just denouement. Perhaps a little more exposition would have been useful, but like all art, it was made to make you wonder what the artist's inspiration and plan were.