Being an art collector is more than just owning beautiful objects — it’s a blend of personal passion, preservation, and sometimes financial investment. Collecting can be a way to tell your own story, connect with others, and safeguard personal and family heritage. By purchasing works — especially from emerging or underrepresented artists — collectors provide support and validation that can sustain careers and elevate the visibility of certain artists or styles.  The purpose is to curate a personal vision of art that resonates emotionally, contributes to cultural life, and may also serve as a lasting legacy.  

To others, it means pure power.  

American Night opens by introducing its many players—and there are plenty. Divided into three needless chapters, the film begins by presenting the key cast in order of appearance, which I’ll try to track as clearly as possible.  

Part 1: A narcoleptic courier named Shakey (Fortunato Cerlino) is sent to New York City by black-market art dealer Asia (Mara Lane) with priceless artwork to deliver. At this point, it’s unclear what the piece is—or who is meant to receive it—but we proceed, nevertheless.  

Stuntman Vinny (a Zen-like turn from Jeremy Piven) is drinking in a diner while explaining how to kill a man during a standard action sequence—using, for example, a golf club.  

Meanwhile, at the Rubino family compound in New Jersey, relatives and associates gather to pay their respects to the late Tony, the crime-family don who has left the business to his son, artist-gangster Michael, or “Mikey” — no, not Corleone, though we’re close. Emile Hirsch’s Michael is quiet, methodical, cold, and calculating from the start, his fury simmering over the disappearance of a prized heirloom: a rare Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroe portrait.  

Brooding with rage, Michael splatters a canvas with ketchup-red and mustard-yellow paint before riddling it with bullets. Typical afternoon, or typical Rubino art? Meanwhile, Shakey arrives in the city and jumps into a cab, only to realize he is being followed and targeted. A frantic highway shootout erupts before he manages to escape, slips into a gym, and stashes the canister containing the Monroe painting in a customer’s gym bag before leaving. So, who is the new “owner” now? Struggling stuntman Vinny.  

John Kaplan (the ever-handsome and intriguing Jonathan Rhys Meyers) is a well-known artist and lesser-known forger. He is also Vinny’s stepbrother, meeting him at the Dead Rockstars Diner to hand over some much-needed cash. The backstory remains unclear, but several subplots are already beginning to tangle as this two-hour, action-packed ride continues. Speaking of which, yes—the diner is suddenly shot up, sending a few of the main players scrambling out mostly unharmed and only mildly traumatized.

John is holed up in a sleazy hotel, carrying an engagement ring meant for Sarah while being haunted by flashbacks of a brutal beating at the hands of Lord Sam Morgan and his cronies—another wonderfully unhinged turn from Michael Madsen. Meanwhile, spoiled son Michael learns of the diner massacre before Shakey, captured by his henchmen, is dragged in for what appears to be a little “where is it?” torture session.  

There is also Sarah, John’s love-struck girlfriend and art restorer—a strong turn from Paz Vega—along with Asia’s dealer-sidekick and undercover troublemaker, Katie (Annabelle Belmondo). As the next segment begins, the major roles are in place, the chaos is fully underway, and we are no closer to understanding what motivates these key players.  

Parts 2 and 3 offer more of the same, as these characters collide, crash, and overlap through time-jumping twists meant to explain how everyone arrived at the present-day chaos. The result is erratic and difficult to navigate, leaving me convinced that the film would be stronger if several excessive story arcs were cut entirely.  

The standouts are Rhys Meyers’ John, a man caught between right and wrong, and Hirsch’s wildly unhinged Michael, whose crude, primitive, and conceptually violent art reflects the darkest parts of himself. It is fascinating to watch two such different men pursue beauty with the same hunger, fulfillment, and risk. A mirror can show you a face; art can show you your soul. That power is intoxicating—and, for one of these magnetic men chasing the holy grail, is worth any cost.