by Tim Gordon
Steven Soderbergh has always gravitated toward stories about schemes and secrets, the elaborate dance between order and chaos. In The Christophers, his latest collaboration with longtime screenwriter Ed Solomon, he trades casinos and conmen for the art world, delivering a darkly witty meditation on family dysfunction, greed, and the murky line between genius and forgery. It’s a black comedy that mixes elegance with venom, as beautifully staged as the paintings at its center, and just as deceptive.
At the heart of the film is Julian Sklar (Ian McKellen), a once-revered painter whose unfinished canvases are now worth more as commodities than as works of art. Enter his estranged children, Barnaby (James Corden) and Sallie (Jessica Gunning), who see an opportunity to cash in. Their plan is simple: bring in art forger Lori Butler (Michaela Coel) to finish the paintings and sell them under Julian’s name. But nothing in a Soderbergh film is ever simple, and as the scheme unfolds, Lori’s own agenda quietly emerges, reshaping the story in a third act full of sharp reversals.
McKellen, as ever, is magnetic. He gives Julian both grandeur and frailty, playing him as a man equal parts tyrant and tragic relic, looming over his children even when he’s not on screen. Corden dials back his usual bluster to embody Barnaby’s insecure buffoonery, while Gunning sharpens Sallie into a portrait of bitterness and desperation, a woman who knows she’s complicit but can’t quite stop herself. Together, they make a pair as pathetic as they are believable.
Yet it’s Coel who steals the film outright. As Lori, she is polished, poised, and utterly in control. What Soderbergh usually brings to his films is that effortless cool and sense of precision she embodies in her performance. Lori is razor-sharp but enigmatic, her every move suggesting calculation beneath calm. She isn’t just painting over Julian’s canvases; she’s rewriting the dynamics of the family, exposing their greed, and positioning herself as the true artist of the con. Coel’s magnetic presence gives the film its pulse, elevating the material and ensuring that every scene she inhabits crackles with tension.
Soderbergh directs with characteristic efficiency, blending his trademark coolness with a satirical edge. He uses tight frames and muted palettes to evoke both the claustrophobia of family conflict and the sterile beauty of the art world, where value is less about creativity and more about perception and branding. The humor is sharp and dry, sometimes cruel, highlighting how art, family, and legacy are all subject to commodification. The question isn’t just whether the paintings are “authentic,” but whether anything about these characters is.
The film isn’t flawless. At times, the con itself feels like an intellectual exercise more than a thrilling puzzle, and the pacing occasionally dips under the weight of its cleverness. But that almost feels intentional: The Christophers is less about the mechanics of the scheme than about what it reveals about the lies we tell ourselves about legacy, talent, and worth.
Ultimately, The Christophers succeeds as both a biting satire and a showcase for Coel, who proves she can carry a film with grace, wit, and steel. While McKellen lends gravitas and the ensemble hums with dysfunction, it’s Coel’s performance that lingers with the calm precision of a woman who knows the game, plays it better than anyone else, and leaves everyone else scrambling in her wake.
Grade: B