‘The Gallerist’ Review: Natalie Portman Tries to Sell a Dead Body in Uneven Art World Satire

In 2018, before directing DC’s “Birds of Prey,” Cathy Yan made her Sundance and feature debut with the lauded indie comedy “Dead Pigs.” Now, in 2026, she returns to Park City with a morbid critique of creative industries. “The Gallerist” plays like a contemporary riff on Roger Corman’s “A Bucket of Blood,” as Yan and co-writer James Pedersen question the ethics of egotistical fame-seekers who anoint themselves lawless mavericks of cultured taste. Success at any cost — even morality.

Before “The Gallerist” begins, a notable Andy Warhol quote flashes on the screen: “Art is what you can get away with.” In other words, artistic creation is about bucking norms, taking risks and reaping rewards. It’s a setup for Yan’s arthouse satire that suggests ultimate creative freedoms will be chased. It’s a somewhat false promise. 

“The Gallerist” poses a simple question: can an art gallery owner sell a dead body? Natalie Portman stars as Polina Polinski, a brash Polish divorcee trying to make a name for herself as a successful Miami gallery curator. Her nemesis, Zach Galifianakis’ obnoxious yet popular influencer Dalton Hardberry, demands a VIP tour before unknown artist Stella Burgess (Da’Vine Joy Randolph) reveals her Art Basel collection. Dalton snidely likens Burgess’ style to cave paintings, until he stumbles upon the centerpiece: “The Emasculator.” And, through a series of unfortunate events, the fixture gets a last-minute addition: a dead body.

Cue panic and scheming as the doors open. Floridian art appreciators fill Polinski Mayer Gallery, yet no one shrieks at the sight of a corpse spiked through Burgess’ gigantic statue of the cattle castration tool her father used. Patrons start snapping photos, celebrating the hyper-realism of the supposed silicone body. Polinski sees an opportunity, so she strikes.

Much like Dick Miller in Corman’s 1959 thriller about an artist who gains notoriety by selling dead bodies caked in modeling clay, Portman’s protagonist is incentivised by the attention of viral appeal. She’s a stylish narcissist in dagger-like heels, stomping around her failing gallery purchased with her separation earnings. Desperation fuels Portman’s shrewd and pitiless performance, as she manipulates coworkers and collaborators into becoming accomplices. Everything she does is based on some cockamamie crusade to become a worshipped gallerist deity, a personality that Portman indulges in both high-anxiety plotting and an unsubtle evolution into controlled mania.

It’s a humorous and stressful situation that thrives on its supporting ensemble. Polinski’s assistant, Jenna Ortega’s bookish Kiki Gorman, is this mortified girl who shines as Polinski’s nauseous yet resourceful partner in crime. Catherine Zeta-Jones is stunning as Marianne Gorman, Kiki’s aunt and legendary art dealer who acts as this Winston Wolf of a stone-cold fixer. Then there’s Daniel Brühl as mega-wealthy playboy Cristos, and Sterling K. Brown as Polinski’s tuna magnate of an ex, Tom Mayer, who engage in masculine dick-waving competitions as the two marks in contention for buying Polinski’s crime scene.

These players, fraudulent and easily influenced pawns in a high-stakes game of cadaver cover-up, help sell “The Gallerist” as an absurdist comedy. The problem is, execution never lives up to its conceptual promise. Satirizations of snobby, nose-turned judges of fine collectables are expected, but Polinski’s corpse in plain sight is the draw. In that regard, the film is never as tense or wickedly boundary-pushing as it wants to be. Everything goes more or less according to plan despite the inherent vileness of the situation, as flesh rots and decomposition kicks in. Yan lets Dan Gilroy’s “Velvet Buzzsaw” be the nastier approach to mortal sacrifices made in art’s honor, where her film loses steam as a genre-bendy snapshot of the ruthlessness required to achieve pop-culture infamy.

Randolph’s soulful, from-the-heart artist gets the best material, since her name as a Black creator is on the line thanks to Polinski. “The Emasculator” is rooted Burgess’ upbringing, richly influenced by intimate farmland visuals, and it’s her contemplation that cuts through Polinski’s willingness to chance being incarcerated for life.

Burgess remarks, about the now tainted “Emasculator,” who is art for? The buyers, sellers, camera snappers or gallery dickheads? In her dialogue — an artist reckoning with the intent of her work — Yan’s execution is biting. Polinski is no longer the mastermind, but a madwoman.

And yet there’s not enough of this introspective firepower beyond chic characterizations of Miami’s well-dressed, silver-tongued art scene elites. Little touches stand out, like how cinematographer Federico Cesca sways the camera as Polinski slips further into delusion, or cheeky fourth-wall breaks, but it’s almost too tidy an experience. Yan’s approach smacks of “Ocean’s Eleven” slickness, despite the grotesque spectacle of a bloody accident. It’s sharp at points, caught between the romanticism of creative endeavors and its cruel corporate realities, albeit blunt in restrictive ways.

Ultimately, “The Gallerist” gets by on its zippy pacing, committed performances, and a tinge of meanness that holds enough suspense. Yan clearly has opinions about filmmaking after leaping from the do-it-yourself nature of “Dead Pigs” to a Warner Bros. blockbuster like “Birds of Prey,” which comes out in this pointed industry commentary about marketable art. It’s far-fetched and diabolical in the right moments, claustrophobically contained within Polinski’s modernist gallery, however stunted the overall execution becomes.

Perhaps not the perfect score, but a nifty, noxious endeavor nonetheless.

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