An artist is suspected of selling a valuable painting to the Nazis, but there is more to the story than meets the eye.
On paper, Dan Friedkin’s “The Last Vermeer” is brimming with potential. It details the post-WWII investigation of Han van Meergren, the most successful art forger of all time — specifically, his alleged reproduction of Johannes Vermeer’s art and consequent selling of it to the Nazi elite. Sadly, there is little to distinguish this dry historical drama from similar Hollywood fare (see: “The Monuments Men,” “Woman in Gold”). Thus, ironically, the film itself resembles a forgery of the highest caliber.
The film takes place in the wake of the fall of Hitler’s Reich. Guy Pearce gives it his all as Meergren, a vivacious Dutch playboy, an artist who’s never managed to find his own voice but seems perfectly content replicating others’. Accused of selling priceless Vermeer art to Nazi scum, he’s placed under arrest. Investigating him is Captain Piller (Claes Bang, in an equally impressive — albeit less showy — performance), a Jewish man pursuing personal vendetta goals, which may involve his wife Minna (Vicky Krieps, wrestling with an underwritten part).
When Piller’s investigation is threatened by the sleazy Alex De Klerks (August Diehl, in his 200th role set in the WWII era), he breaks Meergren out of jail. His goal is to prove that the paintings weren’t real, that Meergren was in fact fooling the Nazis and profiting off of their imbecility. In its second half, “The Last Vermeer” morphs into a by-the-book courtroom drama (“You can’t handle the replicas!” one almost expects Piller to shout).
Friedkin’s film unfolds like a typical crime film, one studded with flashbacks and exposition — an enthralling story, told in the most conventional manner imaginable. The plot drags, coming to life intermittently — such as in the daring prison escape sequence, or some of the courtroom scenes — but not nearly enough to justify the lags. At almost two hours, and with so much exposition, it’s a wonder the audience is left knowing so little about its enigmatic central character, what truly drives him and haunts him; a deliberate choice, perhaps, but the foolishness of which is only accentuated by Pearce’s commitment to the role.
All the impeccable production values (Marvel at the war-torn Rotterdam! See soldiers march victoriously over an Amsterdam bridge!), and all the pseudo-philosophical rumination — What is art? Does its fraudulence lessen its impact? — can’t disguise the hollowness at the film’s core. It may mean well, and some may very well respond to what they might describe as its “classic approach,” but what could have been an edge-of-your-seat cerebral thriller ends up being just another glossy vehicle for an award-bait performance. Both Vermeer and Meergren would sneer at this depiction of their timeless talents.
In Theaters Friday, November 20th
