The Christophers, a film by Stephen Soderbergh

This 2026 film starring Ian McKellan and Michaela Coel examines art, fame, legacy and greed in an insightful way. McKellan plays Julian Sklar, a top-tier artist in his waning years. He hasn’t painted in a decade or more, and keeps money coming in by doing a version of Cameo recordings (as a famous person, recording a scripted message). His pair of adjoining London townhouses are crammed with art and memorabilia from a long career in the limelight. One of his gigs was a TV show called Art Fight, where, led on by the host, he eviscerated some young artist’s work for laughs. 

Into his life come his estranged children, Barnaby and Sallie, out to make money on a set of 8 paintings he made decades earlier then refused to complete, show, or even discuss. These paintings, the Christophers, are portraits of a lover. They’re stored in a bathtub on his third floor. Barnaby and Sallie are desperate to get their hands on those paintings – at £3.5 - £5 million apiece they’ll compensate for failed careers. Julian, no fool, won’t even admit the pair to his home. So they hire Lori Butler (Michaela Coel), an artist with a reputation as a forger. Ostensibly Julian’s assistant, she’ll get her hands on the Christophers, finish them, and spirit them out of his house. “He never goes up there,” Sallie and Barnaby assure her. 

Lori and Julian have some history, that she has more cause to remember than he. She wants the money, a chance to humiliate him, and maybe convince him that she’s a real artist. In one wonderful scene, after she’s considered then copied the Christophers, she tells Julian what they reveal about the progress of that love affair. The self-regarding cynic tries to dismiss her analysis, but viewers know she’s right, and that he knows it too. 

Their battle of wits, complicated by Barnaby and Sallie’s underhanded ways, comes alive through crackling dialogue and sharp visuals. Ed Solomon, who scripted the film, and Soderbergh, who shot and edited it, have made a compelling statement about art and artists. 

I was reminded of La Verite, Hirokazu Kore-Eda’s 2019 film starring Catherine Deneuve as an aging diva who brings her star power to even a bit part. She’s recently published a memoir, and her daughter Juliette Binoche, son-in-law Ethan Hawke, and granddaughter Clementine Grenier, have come to visit her in Paris. Binoche, who played second fiddle to her mother’s career, reads the memoir and finds no trace of herself. Deneuve without apology admits her vanity, touting its importance in her ascent. She, like McKellan’s character, used egotism to great effect. 

From their lofty perches at the top of their professions, they don’t want to hear about those they trampled. They’ve achieved greatness, as their adoring public affirms. Whether the pressure of age can knock a chink in their armor, or teach them something new, remains to be seen.

The Taste of Things, a film by Anh Hung Tran

What a beautiful film! Every frame is sumptuous, steeped in a different time. The background is not a musical score but ambient sounds: a woodpecker, a peacock screaming, birdsong, and naturally the sounds of cooking – searing, boiling, chopping, stirring, assembling. We see patience, timing, meticulous attention to every detail, creation of complex sauces and rich dishes. All this occurs in the kitchen of a country manor owned by Dodin (Benoit Magimel). He is a “Napoleon of cuisine” according to his friends, four men who join him to dine. But the love of his life, his cook, is Eugenie (Juliette Binoche), the genius behind the food, in yet another role in which she fairly glows with inspiration and joy. 

They have a bountiful kitchen garden, neighbors, open land where hunters provide the birds of different seasons – the dappled grace of the French countryside. It is an idyll unmarred by invented conflict. Because of the film’s calm demeanor, we see depth of love expressed through cooking, a shared breakfast, a stroll in a sunny meadow. The drama of creating remarkable food is all the thrill we need – we only wish we could take our places at the table when the friends gather to dine. 

The only thing that made no sense to me was – no bread? My introduction to French food was my husband working the oven at a French bakery, hauling over a thousand baguettes out every night. To me, these crackling-from-the-700-degree-oven loaves are the epitome of French food. But there was not a baguette in sight, nor a batard. The closest we get is a boule filled with vegetables in a dense sauce – but the boule is more packaging than a food in its own right. How is this possible? 

I wept at the end. Perhaps this was due to the beauty and richness of long-developing love – or maybe it was the evocation of my own long-term love, of a man with whom I share the pleasure of good food, especially French, and the creativity manifested in the making of marvelous soups, roasts, fish in cream sauce, the meticulous efforts going into the perfection of each flavor, coaxing its finest form from every ingredient.