Rush is at the centre, of course, and he's more vibrantly alive than ever, embodying the ideal of free speech that refuses to give a fuck, no matter what. The stone walls of his cell, which he never leaves, can't stifle him - and Quills' greatest thrill is watching the effect his words have on his audience. If people want to read them, they get read, despite the efforts of the church, the system or the Emperor of France. Yet Quills is more than this simple, if eternal, truth re-affirmed. Each character tells a tale, ticking together like parts of a Swiss watch.
Phoenix excels again as a vulnerable coward, desperately clinging to an untenable position.
Even Michael Caine is good as the pantomime villain Royer-Collard, the censor who, naturally, is railing against what he's trying to suppress inside himself. He goes home at night to rape his young wife Simone, a beautiful orphan he bought from a nunnery - and right there is another deliciously spun little story, and another star turn from Amelia Warner as the wily Simone, almost dripping with sexy teenage mischief and guile. Quills is so well put together, it's tempting to go overboard on interpreting its myriad signifiers. Quills seems to have something to say about everything, and the perfection of its construction is confirmed by a triple-twist ending that's the stuff of screenwriters' dreams. It's a broader remit than that - Quills is a film for everyone who knows that the lunatics are running the asylum, and hopes to keep it that way.