The Christophers, directed by the great Steve Soderbergh and written by Ed Solomon, is a film of two halves. The first is an odd miss-step involving awful, awful casting that nearly sinks the entire picture. The second is a pair of brilliant casting that saves it. Just as you think you're safe, Soderbergh reminds you of the awfulness lurking around the corner. It's a maddening experience in an otherwise splendid movie.
The bad parts need to be highlighted first. Like the shark in Jaws, they're omnipresent, always lurking in the background even when they're not on screen. It's the casting of James Corden and Jessica Gunning in horribly written parts that do nothing for the film and, at worst, threaten to go right into some dated and offensive fatphobia and body shaming.
It doesn't help that Corden is a void of charisma or that Gunning – brilliant in Baby Reindeer – seems hopelessly lost here. Put them against a fully alert Ian McKellen and it's like watching a lion toying with its prey. Sure, it's fun for a moment, then you just start feeling bad for the supper.
Luckily, about twenty minutes into the brisk hundred minute runtime, The Christophers finally focuses on the main act. Michaela Coel is stunning as Lori, a talented but dispirited artist who now makes a living forging the works of others. McKellen, who is always a treat, is in fine form as Julian, a reclusive and bitter former celebrity who pissed away his legacy due to heartbreak and regret.
Lori is hired by the gruesome twosome to steal and finalize the lost masterpieces that Julian never finished, the titular Christophers. Enamored by who Julian once was, Lori takes the job, and almost instantly finds that Julian sees right through her act. As the two verbally joust and trade bitter truths about each other, they discover how much they have in common. Even if that particular revelation is a bitter pill to swallow.
It's here The Christopers finds its footing and becomes something truly special. Solomon's sharp writing allows for McKellen and Coel to flex their considerable acting muscles, effortlessly bouncing from witticisms to unspoken admissions told entirely through avoided glances or retreats into the safety of their personal ateliers. It is wonderful to experience, like an intimate play set just for you.
Then, sadly, the illusion is broken as Solomon can't resist but push Corden and Gunning back into the spotlight. It's brief, but it happens more than once, and each time it's like someone interrupting a concerto with a Vuvuzela.
Soderbergh is a fascinating filmmaker. He works impossibly fast, often finishing multiple projects in a single year. Earlier in 2025, he released Black Bag, which is a fantastic comedic thriller that effortlessly messes with the genre. By comparison, The Christophers is a completely different beast. It's far more traditional, almost quaint, yet no less accomplished. Either film would be a worth a celebration on their own. To have both six months apart feels miraculous.
It isn't a perfect film, and we can easily point fingers at the culprits. But even with its faults, The Christophers is a finely tuned, often impeccably acted, and thoroughly compelling chamber piece that works like intellectual comfort food. It's a delight to spend time with.
It leaves you with a warm, cozy feeling like a good hug. And that's enough.
