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Scott B. Smith / Genres Action / Directed by Giuseppe Capotondi / Review The Burnt Orange Heresy is a movie starring Elizabeth Debicki, Claes Bang, and Donald Sutherland. Hired to steal a rare painting from one of most enigmatic painters of all time, an ambitious art dealer becomes consumed by his own / / Italy.

September 7, 2019 12:00PM PT Claes Bang and Elizabeth Debicki have fizzing chemistry, but Giuseppe Capotondi's watchable art-scene noir doesn't take enough pleasure in it. Watching “ The Burnt Orange Heresy, ” you may find yourself wishing one of two things: that Claes Bang and Elizabeth Debicki had been around to make elegant little mystery capers with Alfred Hitchcock in his prime, or that Hitch were around today to direct this one, a marble-cool art-fraud thriller that begins lithely and sexily before, somewhat mystifyingly, it takes a terminal turn for the dour. The first film in ten years from Italian genre stylist Giuseppe Capotondi, who competed on the Lido in 2009 with his sharp, twisty neo-noir “The Double Hour, ” this adaptation of Charles B. Willeford’s 1971 novel — about an art critic desperate to uncover a reclusive painter’s secret works at any cost — is considerably more intriguing in setup than in anti-climactic follow-through, which rather squanders the film’s best asset: the smart, hot, mischievous chemistry between Bang and Debicki, two actors who could sell you just about any Old Master knockoff. If it’s never less than watchable, “ The Burnt Orange Heresy ” nonetheless works best as a kind of screen test for a star pairing in search of something friskier: Any enterprising casting directors with a script like “Duplicity, ” or an updated “To Catch a Thief, ” on their books should be first in line to see it. Distributors, meanwhile, will be drawn by the film’s name appeal and glamorous trappings — as if the leads weren’t soothing enough to the eye, Capotondi throws in some verdant Lake Como scenery for good measure — though it feels like once its festival run is complete, this year’s Venice closer will be seen mostly in ancillary platforms. Enterprising marketing folk, meanwhile, may draw some kind of wavy connective line between Capotondi’s film and Ruben Östlund’s Palme d’Or winner “The Square”: The films are hardly alike, but make similar use of Bang’s lightly ruffled elegance as a performer, both casting the Danish star as a debonair art-scene aesthete increasingly in over his head. (Hey, as typecasting niches go, it’s a classy one to have. ) With a Cary-Grant-on-vacation wardrobe and a silky, unplaceable English accent, his character James Figueras exudes an air of slightly chipped polish from the first frame, which sees him delivering a well-rehearsed, glibly clever lecture on the power of the critic to a gormless group of American vacationers in Italy. Using false historical context to talk his audience into admiring an unremarkable painting, he then pulls the rug out from under them: “I singlehandedly made you believe this was a masterpiece! ” he crows, to awed applause. Less impressed in the back row is wry, enigmatic drifter Berenice (Debicki), who playfully challenges Figueras over his lecture afterwards, and falls into bed with him not long after — though whether she’s merely a beguiling chance acquaintance or a femme fatale with more of an agenda is the first of the film’s various enfolded question marks. In any case, the spark between them is sufficiently electric that we don’t question why Figueras immediately invites her as his companion on a trip to the swanky Lake Como estate of renowned art collector Joseph Cassidy (Mick Jagger, overplaying to jarring effect), who has a potentially career-enhancing proposal for the jaded critic: an interview with cult artist Jerome Debney (Donald Sutherland), who has been out of the public eye for half a century. The catch: he has to acquire one of Debney’s unexhibited, fiercely guarded new paintings. Needless to say, as Figueras’ opening lecture helpfully foreshadows for us, nothing that ensues is precisely as it seems — least of all Debney himself, played with a worn, wily twinkle by Sutherland, who blithely disagrees with the critic’s assertion that he has “a duty to posterity. ” Relocating Willeford’s novel from Miami to Italy, the script by Scott B. Smith (“A Simple Plan”) blends simplified art theory with more general quippery, giving Bang and Debicki a surfeit of flirtatious banter to volley early on, before the tone takes a darker, nastier turn. Halfway through, however, the air goes out of the shaggy-dog plotting: a climactic pileup of unfortunate events is both rushed and unsurprising, leaving the actors with little room to dart and play. Capotondi’s direction, so ahead of his wild, joyriding narrative in “The Double Hour, ” feels a tad televisual here: Save for the chilly, brittle mood set by Craig Armstrong’s piano-based score, the filmmaking feels subservient to the script’s shifting demands. Indeed, at 98 minutes, “The Burnt Orange Heresy” is the rare film that could stand to be a little more indulgent, teasing out its bluffing narrative with more of a wink, further drinking in the louche allure of its milieu — David Ungaro’s lensing is strong on shadow, but could use a dash of lurid oil-paint gloss — and letting its two delicious stars enjoy each other’s company a bit longer before the fix is in. Nice as it is of Capotondi’s film to acknowledge the art of the critic so generously, there’s no making anyone believe this is a masterpiece: The pleasures it has to offer, though, merit a bigger, more gilded frame.

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Una obra maestra Free full article. Average rating 3. 90 · 739 ratings 68 reviews | Start your review of The Burnt Orange Heresy The best Willeford---better even than Miami Blues, which is fun and clever but familiar and makes me think way too hard about the utter furriness of Alec Baldwin's chest hair c. 1990. What I love about BOH is what I love about the best of literary pulp: it finds a way to erase the high culture/low culture divide. Suffice to say, the hero here is an art critic, ambitious, underhanded, entirely comfortable with his greedy-seediness. The story makes you think how much more fun and interesting.. I remember reading this book because the poet Michael Weaver (not the well-known poet Michael Weaver but another Michael Weaver from San Diego) spoke so highly of the author. So I read the book. Then I too spoke highly of this author. When a really smart writer takes on a genre populated by mostly cloneish writers, magic happens. This author makes magic and over. Dark. Brill. Great summer reading. I read Charles Willeford’s four Hoke Mosely novels many years ago and thought they were among the best crime novels I’d ever read and, in the case of ‘Sideswipe ‘ simply one of the best novels. So, I decided to catch up with some of his other books. This one was interesting but somewhat disappointing after his detective novels. It’s about a young art critic and his obsession with a mysterious French avant-garde painter. Most of the book consists of conversations about art and artistic movements... The book starts out a little slow. A lot of the first act is the narrator/protagonist, an art critic trying to break into the big time, musing on the nature of art criticism and the role it plays as a service, not just to consumers and patrons of art, but the artists themselves. It’s not as boring as it sounds. He takes a pretty dense piece of subject matter and breaks it down into pretty simple lay terms, even using sports analogies. I wasn’t entirely sure if he was satirizing critics or.. A nasty, little gem. As much a commentary on criticism and art as a character study and dark thriller. A lot of times when a writer attempts to delve into an exotic arena (in this case, the art world), even with research, the setting can come off more as how the writer wants the art world to be or how he/she thinks it is (This is best illustrated by the "punk rock" episode of "T. J. Hooker". The 50 year-old writer had obviously read an article in time on "punkers" and used that as the entire basis.. Willeford wrote this noir about an art critic trying to advance his career by taking advantage of a hermetic artist. The artist has built a juggernaut reputation on rarely exhibiting his work. The elements are goofy but the tone is dark deadpan. Instead of guns, dames, drugs, and jewels, Willeford's characters jockey for galleries, graduate school grants, art history articles, critical and artistic reputations with the intensity of mobsters and PIs. The book reminded me of Pynchon, though with.. An odd book. Jacques Figueras is an art critic willing to do pretty much anything to rise in the art world. When he gets a chance to interview a notoriously reclusive painter (so long as he can steal of his painting), he more than jumps at the chance, but that interview doesn't turn out quick like he though it would, and some strange events follow it. Could have been good, though I was not very interested in the parts of the book about this painter's history. You can see where it's going, but.. Not really a four star masterpiece in all respects, maybe, but nonetheless a very interesting novel for my particular tastes, for this turned out to be a Jamesian artist tale filtered through the language and outlook of 50s American pulp literature — the genre Willeford started out in. The story can easily be read as a combination of Henry James’ The Aspern Papers and The Figure in the Carpet. After all, the narrator protagonist is not called James (actually Jaime) Figueras for nothing. He’s a.. Willeford is a talented writer but the first 2/3rds of the book sort of bored me. I get the appeal of art and art criticism but I don't have much interest in reading books about it, even short ones like this. But that final 1/ Once things get set in motion, Willeford's set up about what nihilistic surrealism is and how it functions with regards to the story and what he's trying to say as an author pays off in an enormous way, right up to the thrilling conclusion. I will be thinking.. This is the first Willeford book that I've read that was a bit of a dud to me (not counting the collection of posthumously published short stories). It starts slow, the middle is slow, the end is sort of exciting for like 3 pages, and then it's all slow again. I could not stand the narrator. And unlike with most of Willeford's other protagonists (none of whom are all that likeable) I couldn't find one aspect of Figueras that I could tolerate. I would not ever want to be in the same room as that.. This a very clever little book about what happens when you become fixated on acquiring social position. Unlike in B. E. Ellis' American Psycho, this is not an attempt to imagine the inner world of a textbook psychiatric category. We are not in a world where all empathy and moralising is alien and absurd. Willeford creates the more believable scenario of someone who is drawn towards their goals with such focus and ferocity of speed, everything else falls out of view, including the autonomy of.. Been meaning to read this one for a while. It fits in my back pocket, so I thought it would be good to take on my trip to Monterey/Big Sur. Charles Willeford is continually fascinating as a writer. There is nothing flashy about this book at all, but it is fantastic. His characters can always rationalize any ridiculous or insane action. This book's protagonist is no exception to that rule. Perhaps the most interested thing of all to me in Willeford's late writings (say this one and the Hoke.. This is my first exposure to Charles Willeford's work and what I read is not exactly a crime novel. Oh, there's a murder victim here, arson, theft. But what it is is a take on the art world: critics, artists, collectors, and their sphere of existence. Jacques Figueras is the art critic pushed into stealing from a reclusive painter. First Willeford, but not likely my last. I felt a little foolish about halfway thru because I was a little bored and expecting more treacherous characters and more mystery... hey! the protagonist is an art critic. so there is as much detail of art and philosophy as a clever safe cracker or jewel thief would share. the tension was remarkable when you break down the basic plot. exciting and I'm looking forward to more Willeford. An art collector hires an art critic to steal a painting from a reclusive artist. It sounds like an allegory about the role of art and commerce in society. It's actually a swift, brutal dissection of a man driven by pride and ambition. A masterpiece of a crime novel. eh. Willeford sounded intriguing from some review I stumbled upon, and this was described as "his best book. " I hope not. “If she got away, everything was over for me – everything. ” A short, anti-climatic, shaggy dog story featuring a very believable art critic voice and some plot turns I didn’t buy. Imagine a young Brian Sewell trying to interview and then whooshing up a fake Banksy by way of furthering his career and you have “Burnt Orange”. Of course, nothing like this would happen in the real world… would it? A year after Patricia Highsmith’s 1970 “Ripley Under Ground” Charles Willeford presents Jaime Figueras,.. the 11th from willeford for perback burnt orange heresy, 1971 dedication for the late, great jacques debierue c. 1886-1970 memoria in aeterna nothing exists. if anything exists, it is incomprehensible. if anything was comprehensible, it would be incommunicable. --gorgias part one: nothing exists story begins: two hours ago the railway expressman delivered the crated, newly published international encyclopedia of fine arts to my palm beach apartment. i signed for the set, turned the thermostat of the.. In this book Charles Willeford takes us into the world of Art Criticism. His protagonist, James Figueras, is a fairly accomplished, ambition young art critic out to make a name for himself. The story is fairly absurd, (Figueras becoming an authority on the "Worlds Greatest Living Artist" an artist who has no work to speak of! ) It could be read as a critique on the ridiculousness of Modern Art (or some modern art "movements"), and more specifically Art Critiscim. IMHO it's not up there with his.. Willeford, to me, it like the perfect intersection of high and low brow like an article in Playboy from the late 70's about some social issue facing the nation. He is always playing to the cheap seats, but lovingly, dispersing just enough of his insights and psychology to guide the reader along into seeing the bigger picture. Juxtaposing this with the usual sensationalism of crimes or noire femme fatales always leaves me giddy and elated while reading. What can I say, I'm a simpleton. But here,.. As other reviewers have pointed out, most of this book is back story on a fictional artist and conceited, grating commentary on art criticism. There are elements of humor here and there - The whole thing feels like hyperbole, more so than other novels of this type - so much so that you sometimes find yourself wondering if Willeford is just writing a satire of noir novels. (The famous French Série Noire makes an appearance here, as if to remind you. ) All of that aside, I think the real point is.. I have been reading early Charles Willeford novels and trying to do it chronologically. I had just finished "Whip Hand" and it was a terrific story about kidnapping and a whole lot more. A dark twisting piece of crime fcton. Chronologically the next novel was this one. What a change. I almost put it down in the beginning because of the long and deep discussions about what it meant intellectually and emotionally to be an art critic and art itself. I'm not that interested in art but I eventually.. deep within the text there is a paragraph that describes the French artist's delusion about frozen vegetables reigning supreme over fresh. that graph is priceless. also the recurring descriptions of our hero's wisconsin girlfriend is downright salacious and seductive. true, the leadin to the action is somewhat longwinded, but given that the novella takes roughly 2 hours to read negates that silly objection. ultimately, i'd recommend this pile of words for the fact that our dear writer selects.. Crime novel (not a mystery or detective novel) centered on an art critic, Figueras, who sees a chance for a big boost in reputation when he gets the opportunity to interview a reclusive and eccentric French artist who doesn't allow his work to be exhibited--though he has allowed individuals access now and then. The catch: the guy who gets him access to the artist wants Figueras to steal a painting for him. Frankly, the crime aspect of this is the least interesting part. What kept me reading was.. Let down by this one, after having it hyped up as Willeford's best. Far too much inside baseball of the art world, and no real momentum until the latter part of the book. Rampant misogyny from multiple characters was also a bit of an issue. Predictable but fun. It stalls a little when Figueras has his head up his own ass (by Willeford's design), but it fits the theme. I prefer The Shark-Infested Custard in terms of this era of Willeford but it's still worth breezing through. Classic. Read in the 80s. Gift from Elizabeth I believe. One of those books that makes you love reading. This was an unputdownable 2-day read for me. I loved it Interesting villain and unique story telling. Mystery-like but goes well beyond your typical crime novel. It’s brilliant. My coworker found this book, the only library copy of it in the State of Massachusetts, and loved it. The plot, about art critic James Figueras who sets out to meet and criticize the work of a mysterious artist told in a detective noir style, sounded interesting enough. It’s a short 190 pages, and I’ve always wanted to read a Charles Willeford book. So I read it, waited for something to happen, and nothing does. It’s not easy for me to hate things, but this books is the easiest to hate. It’s..

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