G. seemed to aspire to complete derivativeness—a work of total imitation. It nodded to Pulp Fiction (the gangster’s black outfit, dusty and tight), Lost in Translation (a woman staring at the city from the window of a villa in Gianicolo, holding her knees to her breasts with her arms), La Dolce Vita (conversations from one room to the other via baby monitor). It referenced The Usual Suspects, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Matrix, The Big Lebowski, Breathless. It had a complicated self-kidnapping plot (Fargo)—a long list of derivative shit. The jury, even dumber than Lorenzo, called it “ambitious, a bachelor machine of nods and winks.”