Why do people make tremulous films about artists? It’s a question I was close to screaming when I exited James Lucas’s film of the brief encounter between the supermodel Kate Moss and the super-duper painter Lucian Freud in the coke-stoked naughty Noughties.
Moss & Freud is well short of being the worst example of this failed genre. The bar here is spectacularly low and this toe-curler has some way to go before it reaches the pits of Frida, Salma Hayek’s stupendously silly telling of the story of Frida Kahlo, or Pollock, Ed Harris’s pool of perspiration masquerading as a film about Jackson Pollock. This is too much of a short story to fall to such Hadean depths.
