‘The Christophers’ Lets Two Great British Actors Cook

Two quick questions: What makes great art great? And: When does Steven Soderbergh sleep?

That first query is the quietly thrumming engine behind The Christophers, a dual character study that, at any given moment, threatens to swerve down the side streets of an art-world thriller, an odd-couple buddy comedy, and an off-the-cuff theater piece. In this corner, we have an incorrigible, politically incorrect painter of the old guard — a bad-boy archetype who thrived in the Swinging Sixties and isn’t above dropping famous names for effect. (He used to hang with Ringo, “but not the Ringo you’re thinking of.”) In the other corner, a young artist whose ambition was smothered and has entered his orbit under false pretenses. The raging immovable object will butt up against the cool, collected irresistible force. The fight is over quaint philosophical concepts such as legacy, standards, inspiration, talent, and whether any of those things actually play into channeling the divine onto a blank canvas.

As for the second one, well, your guess is as good as mine regarding a definite answer. But the ridiculously prolific cineaste has mastered the art of quality quick ‘n’ dirty filmmaking in a way that makes you feel like he’s not getting a helluva lot of REM time. How else to explain the rapid-fire manner of his constantly expanding filmography, or the sneaking suspicion that you’ve no sooner finished watching one Soderbergh movie than being informed that another is coming soon to a theater near you?

Yet a new work from the guy who gave you Sex, Lies and Videotape — and Traffic, and Erin Brockovich, and Out of Sight, and Magic Mike, and Black Bag, and literally dozens of other movies that run the gamut from intriguing to flat-out brilliant — is still worth clearing your schedule for. The hit-to-miss ratio continually favors the former. And with The Christophers, he not only pokes at the notion of who gets gallery shows, Sotheby’s auctions, and small fortunes from every brush stroke. Along with screenwriter Ed Solomon, Soderbergh also constructs the ideal showcase for two separate generations of British actors to cook. It’s not news that Ian McKellen and Michaela Coel are extraordinary performers. What’s surprising is the way that this particular duo turn a wonky art-world story into its own distinctly wonderful work of art.

Coel is Lori Butler, an art restorer with a gift for mimicking others’ styles. It’s a skill that comes in handy for the occasional side gig as a forger, which is why Butler suddenly finds herself inside the inner sanctum of a legend. Once upon a time, the great enfant terrible of the British art-world Julian Sklar (McKellen) was renowned for a series of portraits he did that were centered around a young male muse. These were known as “the Christophers,” and they cemented his reputation. Now the reclusive Sklar rests on his laurels, collects residual checks from a former career as a reality-TV show judge — think Simon Cowell, but for painting — and films Cameos for quick cash.

Except Sklar’s estranged grown children (played by James Corden and Baby Reindeer’s Jessica Gunning) know that their father has an abandoned series of Christophers stashed away in his attic. Heartbroken, he never completed them. The two want to hire Butler to find the canvases, finish them herself in secret, and return them to the house. When their elderly dad eventually dies — he may or may not be terminally ill — his offspring will “find” these “undiscovered” masterpieces. They will them sell them for millions, and give her a cut.

Michaela Coel in ‘The Christophers.’Claudette Barius/NEON

Butler gets a job as Sklar’s assistant, all the better to sneak into the attic at will and locate the hidden treasures. She also has a personal stake in this gig that goes beyond a hefty payday, which Soderbergh and Solomon don’t reveal (or at least fully confirm) until late in the game. As for Sklar, the elder statesman still gets off on pushing buttons and pretending he’s keeping barbarians from crashing the high-art gate. The longer the two of them tool around his townhouse — kudos to the production design team, who’ve turned this residential Xanadu into a bohemian enclave equally cluttered with faded dazzle and fresh debris — the more Sklar tests his new hire. Sometimes he’s traipsing around partially undressed. (“Weinstein ruined the robe for the rest of us,” he gauchely laments.) Sometimes he’s corrosively caustic in his criticism of all work, including his own. Other times he’s simply, eloquently abusive. “‘You made me want to be an artist,'” Sklar says, parroting the starstruck young fan he imagines Butler to be. “No, your fucked-up childhood made you want to be an artist. I’m just what you tripped over as you scurried to freedom.”

Soon, this ex-peer of David Hockney and Lucien Freud begins to suspect something’s afoot. Butler tries to keep her secondary agenda a secret. Meanwhile, the siblings are getting impatient. Tables are bound to get turned, all in good time. But whether or not the good are rewarded, the greedy get their comeuppance, or old creative sparks are rekindled soon become beside the point. If the idea of questioning what makes great art great merely becomes fodder for first-rate bickering, bantering, and buffet of food for thought, it also provides the foundation for two massive talents to sync their strengths. You can feel the second-hand thrill of McKellen having a crack at someone like Sklar, laying on the thick bluster and letting occasional notes of sorrow — over lost loves, wasted potential, selling his soul for celebrity and selling out for late-act relevance — waft through the toxic fog. As for Coel, there may not be a better practitioner of the art of silent acting working today. So much of her take on this artist in perpetual waiting revolves around sizing situations up, keeping cards close to vests, masking intents, letting tiny ripples in deceptively placid surfaces stand in for big displays. Coel’s casual readings have the right amount of bite. Her death stares speak volumes.

Put these two together, let them thrust and parry like Olympic-level fencers, and give them each the chance to strut and fret through a tale of creative frustrations — right there, your moviegoing dollar is well spent. Soderbergh still loves derailing expectations and avoiding “easy” dramatic payoffs, and as with so much of his stuff, you find yourself being nudged into detours that end up enhancing the overall story. Had The Christophers just been a cross-generational punch-up, the sort of flinty showdown designed to throw off pleasurable sparks, you’d still walk away content. It remains a conduit for two of the best performances you’ll see all year. But Soderbergh and his two stars want to concentrate on the embers, what fans them and what keeps them burning.