Fate

Ian Bloom wrote Fate at age 34, returning from Tokyo, Frankfurt, Geneva, Zürich, and Milan—a man between centuries, walking like a ghost through freeports, tombs, and private airfields. A screenplay stripped to the bone, yet tectonic in consequence.

Fate is a sovereign thriller of art-world espionage, Nazi-looted paintings, and diplomatic immunity, all wrapped around the cold anatomy of trust and betrayal. From the catacombs of Switzerland to the vaults of Bel Air, Bloom conjures a postmodern samurai saga: Le Samouraï by way of Michael Clayton, if ghostwritten by Nietzsche.

Jean Barry is an American art dealer with customs clearance and a conscience on the line. When a Goya resurfaces from the ashes of history—blood-stamped, war-stolen, and insured by no one—Jean is forced into the underworld of masked power brokers, hollow estates, and off-ledger transactions. But this isn't about art. It's about leverage. And the deal is already done.

Written with Bloom's signature restraint and militarized style—cigarette pauses, gloved elegance, and dialogue like scalpel-play—Fate moves like a professional killer: silent, direct, cinematic. It is noir without the romanticism, espionage without the gadgets, and myth without the safety net.

This isn't a heist movie. It's a reckoning. A metaphysical finance thriller. A gospel of betrayal, forged in Cartier time and Swiss blood.

The rules are fixed. The players are masked. But Jean plays for keeps. And Fate has a return policy.