Dull but above all pretentious. Like us all, Forest watched "The Crown", which reminded him of the mini scandal surrounding Graham Sutherland's portrait of Churchill. The great man was so furious with Sutherland's depiction of him that his wife had the painting, commissioned in honor of his 80th birthday, quietly destroyed soon afterwards. Forest imagines the dialogues between the statesman, himself an amateur painter of some repute, and the artist, who may or may not have bonded over the fact that both had lost a child in infancy. Unfortunately, having realized that this material couldn't be stretched into a full-length novel, Forest pads the narrative with tedious reflexions about History and Theatre, all the world's a stage blablabla. This thing didn't deserve the light of print in the first place.