The Big Fake (Il falsario)

IN THE '70s AND '80s, A FORGER WHO LIVED IN ROME

CROSSED PATHS WITH EXTRAORDINARY CHARACTERS, POWERS AND SECRETS.

THIS IS HIS STORY.

OR AT LEAST ONE OF THE POSSIBLE VERSIONS OF IT.

The day I died, we were supposed to meet.

But I didn't make it.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

Well… I didn't see shit.

I wanted to be a free man,

but I paid a hell of a price for that freedom.

Because the question is always the same.

To get to where you want to go,

what are you willing to do?

DUCHESSA LAKE, THREE YEARS EARLIER

It was always the three of us raising hell as kids,

growing up wayward in our town.

But who wants to live in a place where everyone fits on a small canvas?

Not me.

Guys, I'm telling you.

I'm not just late. I'm super late.

Well, now you can wait till I'm done.

- Aren't you putting anything here? - I'll draw fog.

- Just like the last 30 years. - And?

Well, I'm fucking sick of drawing fog, you know?

Let me draw our town for you.

In a hurry to get to the steel mill?

Guys, please. There's an important mass. The bishop will be there.

- Oh, the bishop. That's the hurry. - Yes. Of course.

Fine. I'm going. The car's mine anyway.

And I'm still begging you.

- Aren't we going? - Yes. Let's go.

Will this old banger get us to Rome, or will it break down?

- Of course it'll get us to Rome. - Really?

Immacolata has never let me down.

Anyway, whether you like it or not, Tertium non datur .

- What did he just say? - How the fuck should I know?

Who's gonna stop us?

Who's gonna stop us?

- Who's gonna stop us? - Come on!

Come on, Vittorio!

A priest, a worker, and an artist go to Rome.

Sounds like the beginning of a joke, right?

But we were about to make history.

What a shithole.

Back then, Rome was one big party.

Popes, bishops, artists, criminals, politicians, commies, fascists.

There were all kinds.

And there was me.

I wanted to become the best painter in Rome.

There wasn't a big enough canvas for this city.

Those first few months, I remember the smiles

I put on people's faces when I painted them.

Ma'am?

Then I remember the hunger,

and I remember the cold.

I'll do your portrait. Come here.

Hey, buddy.

You can't have them all.

- What the fuck? - You've got plenty.

Let's share a little. I need to eat too. Go on, sit down.

And I remember the bodies in the streets, the bombs.

But what did I care?

I knew that Rome would come looking for me.

- Hello. - Hi.

Let's go to my place.

The thing about this city was that you just had to be patient.

Sooner or later, it was going to drag me to that party too.

Whose house is this?

They call him the "Artist."

They call this guy an artist? Yeah, we're screwed.

That's him.

The one stoned on the couch.

THE BIG FAKE

Donata, it's cold.

Hey.

It's cold.

It is cold. Get in bed.

It's always cold in this city.

If only you knew how cold it is in my hometown.

Donata, my love, come here.

My beloved.

I can't always end this way.

Here I am.

What else did you take?

Is all this stuff his?

Everything in here is his.

Just think how much money he'd make if he knew how to paint.

- So you know about painting? - I'm an artist.

I'm an art dealer.

Then I can bring you some of my work.

Look, if you're better than him, I might find the time.

How would you sign your work?

Toni della Duchessa.

But Toni with an "I."

Not like that runt Little Tony.

Or Tony Curtis. Or Tony Renis.

- Can I give you some free advice? - Go on.

"I" or no "I," it's a name that doesn't sell.

It's got no pull.

You've convinced me. I'll change it tomorrow.

Okay, and?

Are you going to show me your paintings or not?

- So where's your car? - My car?

Now that's an insult.

I'm taking you on the finest ride in Rome. Come here.

What's that in your hair?

I don't know. What is it?

- There's something weird in your hair. - Take it off.

So someone else's finest ride.

Are you a thief or an artist?

What difference does it make?

Always quick with a comeback, huh?

The others are just too slow. Hop on.

- Hop on, where? - Come on. Hop on.

- Where do I sit? Wait! - Hop on.

- Wait. - Attagirl.

- You've got me? Give me a push? - Yeah.

- If I don't, I'll fall too. - Easy!

You have to slow down, Toni with an "I."

I apologize. I don't know what to say.

The cleaning lady must have taken the day off.

- Right. - Yes.

Toni, what can I tell you.

I'm sorry, but this stuff won't sell.

There's no market for this kind of stuff.

These days, it's all symbolic, abstract, conceptual.

And you… you strike me as more figurative.

What?

Did that upset you?

What, you expect me to take it well?

You've got talent though.

Your anatomy work is remarkable.

- That's it, nudes. Nudes... - Nudes.

They sell if they're not too conventional.

Really?

Do you have an original… nude?

Original, how? In cubes, like Picasso?

Yeah, you'd like that.

- No, I wouldn't. - Oh, really?

I liked him, but then he became commercial.

- Really? - I like you.

Can I start with a nude of you?

You're not the first one to ask me, but I've always said no.

Is that so? Because you were waiting for me.

- I was waiting for Toni della Duchessa? - Yes.

If you wait until tomorrow, you'll find out my new name.

With cream for me.

A cream-filled croissant.

Or a brioche.

I told you, you're more of a thief than an artist.

How did you get this?

Bernini's self-portrait.

How did you get this?

It's a copy.

- A copy? - A copy.

It's perfect.

Where did you find it?

Found it? No, I made it.

Yeah.

- No way. - Suit yourself.

Right. Where did you see the original?

In this book.

You don't believe me?

Toni, look at this one.

- Could you reproduce this one? - This one?

- Look closely. I don't believe... - I'd make it more real than the original.

Copying has always come easily to me.

This is a piece of cake.

The lines are so simple.

The brushwork is a bit more personal.

What's this?

If you pull it off, come see me.

Every time my life changed,

I knew it right away.

I'd get this feeling in my neck, like an itch.

It feels strange.

Every time.

Come in.

The problem was that life wasn't just changing for me.

Is this you?

- What, no hug? - No way.

- Really? - No. Get out of here.

Damn, you're ugly.

Look who's talking.

I quit the steel mill.

Now that you've got a fancy coat?

The coat is so I blend in.

Who has ever cared about you? Why do you need to blend in?

What do you have to tell me, Fa'?

Remember all those nights in our hometown,

talking about kicking the bosses' asses?

- We talked a lot of shit. - It wasn't shit to me.

The Red Brigades is the only place where people like me can make a difference.

- And you too. - I don't belong to anyone.

- Yeah, I know. - Don't try to talk me into this, then.

But

I need a hand.

There's a safe with your name on it.

Back home, I did whatever I had to with my hands to get by.