“Art Forever”. This turn of phrase, uttered by Willem Dafoe’s character Nemo in Vassilis Katsupis’ directorial debut Inside, is a confusing little proverb with many layers of meaning. It rattles in your brain like a pinball, in much the same way that Nemo rattles in the luxury apartment where he’s trapped after an art heist goes wrong.

“Art Forever” speaks volumes about how much we value art, and it’s also a cheeky taunt when Nemo feasts on million-dollar pieces of contemporary art in a wealthy collector’s penthouse. Later, this statement would haunt and even threaten Nemo alone, in an increasingly dire situation of survival, with only art to fuel him.

“Inside” by Ben Hopkins (from the concept of Katsupis) contrasts the most primitive elements of humanity with the most advanced written in order to reveal the contradictory and alienating nature of our present world. An astute cold-blooded camera is filming this wealthy collector’s apartment in Kazakhstan when Nemo bursts in, hacking into the security panel with codes given to him by his partner on the walkie-talkie. Unable to find a specific painting, he is short on time and attempts to escape, but the security system malfunctions and he is trapped inside the apartment, a heavy carved wooden door locking the vault.

It takes a certain suspension of disbelief to believe that there really is no way out. But this highly automated smart home, which plays “Macarena” when the refrigerator is left open for too long and is equipped with a full fire suppression system in case of a fire, is so technologically advanced that it doesn’t even have a phone, computer, or access to the outside. It’s a luxurious prison, a gilded cage filled with priceless works of art, whose value fades away in this agonizing survival situation – after all, art can’t be eaten.

But Katsoupis and Hopkins do not completely undermine the value of artistic expression. Nemo finds himself in this nightmarish quarantine – first adapting, then fighting, literally battling the elements as a buggy home automation system scorches him with heat, then frost. The water is off, and he resorts to collecting it from automatic room sprinklers and licking moisture from the freezer. He dine on caviar before starving to death, turning his hungry eyes on the exotic fish that swim carelessly in their aquarium high in the sky.

It’s The Survivor: Penthouse Apartment and it maps our experience of staying at home in 2020 during the pandemic (watch Nemo pretend to host a cooking show) and explores some of the trauma caused by this technology-enhanced isolation and alienation. which is designed to make our lives more comfortable, but most often divides us.

Nemo’s company consists only of works of art, but his desire for communication and self-expression does not die. He develops a parasocial relationship with the building’s staff on the security monitors, unable to call out to or contact them. He eventually transforms into a sort of primitive man, painting on walls, creating strange altars and structures, developing an almost religious fervor in his isolation.

Katsoupis questions the overvalued value of art by reminding us that self-expression is inherently human and elemental. He is closer to the top of our hierarchy of needs than we might think.

Katsupis asks these leading and provocative questions about humanity, but offers no clear answers or messages. Rather, he lets his muse, Defoe, simply live on this harrowing journey with his strange magnetism and sense of timelessness, in a performance that is both primitive and transcendent. Nemo becomes a figure straight out of Greek mythology, reckoning with the forces of creation and destruction, but it’s not clear if he is Sisyphus, Prometheus, or perhaps even Icarus.

Walsh is a film critic for the Tribune News Service.