Is the art world really as shady as cinema suggests?

Cinema thinks the art world is shady. And it can’t seem to stop.

Confirming this is the 2026 Sundance Film Festival, where three of the most talked-about titles are set entirely within the art system. The Oligarch and the Art Dealer (2026), I Want Your Sex (2026), and The Gallerist (2026) do not use art as a mere backdrop, but as an operating environment—one where value depends on who owns it and who can sell it.

The art system thus becomes the perfect setting to chronicle ambition, addiction, and manipulation. As Brittany Rosemary Jones noted in Ocula, it is also one of the few environments where the precise moment value is decided can be observed. But when did this obsession begin, and how much of it is true?
To understand it, we went back 80 years.

The documentary chronicles the relationship between Swiss dealer Yves Bouvier and Russian oligarch Dmitry Rybolovlev, for whom Bouvier acquires masterpieces ranging from Leonardo to Rothko. Their partnership turns into a legal war when the oligarch accuses him of inflating prices and betraying his trust, triggering a billion-dollar scandal that shakes the international market. Moral: the price often depends on who speaks first.

Elliot gets a job with Erika Tracy, a famous and provocative artist played by Olivia Wilde. She chooses him first as her assistant, then increasingly as her muse and partner, drawing him into a relationship shaped by sex, power, and dependence. What begins as an ideal job gradually turns obsessive and dangerous. Moral: being indispensable does not mean being independent.

Natalie Portman plays Polina Polinski, a desperate gallerist trying to establish herself during Art Basel Miami. When a man accidentally dies after being impaled on a sculpture in her gallery, she decides not to remove the body and instead presents it as part of the work. Together with her assistant, played by Jenna Ortega, she constructs a narrative capable of attracting collectors, influencers, and dealers. No one seems to question whether it is real. Moral: if someone can sell it, it can become art.

Critic Morf Vandewalt (Jake Gyllenhaal) and gallerist Rhodora Haze (Rene Russo) discover hundreds of paintings in the apartment of a dead, unknown artist and begin selling them immediately. Advisors and collectors compete to acquire them as prices rise rapidly. The artist’s name becomes important only after the sale. Moral: discovery often follows investment.

Christian (Claes Bang), curator of a contemporary art museum, builds his image on values of trust and responsibility. After his phone is stolen, he reacts with aggression and paranoia, intimidating strangers and gradually losing control of the situation. The institution remains intact—he much less so. Moral: reputation is more fragile than it seems.

Virgil Oldman, a renowned auctioneer, manipulates sales to secretly build his own collection. When he meets a mysterious heiress, he becomes emotionally involved and ultimately falls victim to a scam built on the same mechanisms he has used for years. Moral: experience does not protect against trust.

Directed by Julian Schnabel and starring Jeffrey Wright, the film follows Jean-Michel Basquiat’s rise from graffiti to the galleries of SoHo in the 1980s. Dealers begin selling his paintings as soon as they leave the studio, collectors buy them before they even dry, and Andy Warhol, played by David Bowie, becomes his main ally. As demand grows, his work increasingly ceases to belong to him. Moral: a career can accelerate even against its author.

It is not set in galleries, but the art market appears clearly as an extension of 1980s finance. Gordon Gekko, played by Michael Douglas, collects artworks as status symbols and instruments of power, while young broker Bud Fox realizes that an object’s value depends largely on who owns it. Paintings appear in offices as visual proof of success, not as objects to be looked at. Moral: collecting can serve the purpose of being seen.

Nicole (Audrey Hepburn) discovers that a sculpture sold by her father and now on display in a museum is a forgery. To prevent it from being analyzed, she arranges for its theft with the help of a thief played by Peter O’Toole. Moral: a forgery works as long as no one verifies it.

Christopher Cross (Edward G. Robinson) paints as a hobby, but a woman and her accomplice begin selling his paintings under a different name. Collectors immediately buy them, convinced they have discovered a new artist. The painter remains invisible while his work gains value without him. Moral: the name may matter more than the work.

The art world is not inhabited only by gallerists, collectors, and artists. What keeps it running, according to the numbers, are mostly assistants, registrars, studio managers, technicians, and coordinators. They are the ones who install exhibitions, prepare fairs, write emails, accompany collectors, and hold the day-to-day logistics together. As in other luxury-related industries, the distance between those who sustain the structure and those who benefit from it is evident. Prestige is concentrated, while labor remains distributed. They are often precarious, often underpaid, and overwhelmingly women.

It is a system that requires constant presence. Opportunities arise in studios, at openings, at art fairs, at dinners, and through informal conversations rather than official selections. Being there matters as much as what you do—if not more—and this makes it difficult to step away, change pace, or interrupt continuity without risking disappearance.

The body also becomes part of this economy of presence: appearance, behavior, and social availability shape professional perception in ways that are rarely made explicit.

It is also a small, hard-to-access system where the same names reappear and the same dynamics repeat. This makes it immediately recognizable and, for cinema, particularly effective.

IIf we had to choose one scene from all the films mentioned that best captures these dynamics, it would still be the gala dinner in The Square. During a formal evening at the museum, a performer played by Terry Notary—an actor known for motion capture roles as monkeys and primates—enters the room. At first, the guests laugh, convinced he is part of the entertainment. Then he gets too close, sniffing people, climbing onto tables, breaking objects. He targets a woman and forces her to back away. The room remains still. Collectors, curators, and benefactors stay seated, looking at one another. At first, no one knows whether it is a farce, and therefore art, or something real. Even when the performer’s behavior becomes too real to ignore, no one intervenes. Everyone waits for someone else to act.

Moral: value and power exists because enough people choose to behave as if it does.