2023 Top Ten List #4 Showing Up

Writer/director/editor Kelly Reichardt

Reichardt on the set with Michelle Williams

Reichardt and Williams at Cannes

 

 

 

 

SHOWING UP                      A-                                                                                                   USA  (107 mi)  2022  d:  Kelly Reichardt

The portrait of an artist takes an unusual turn, immersing viewers inside a defunct art school, the Oregon College Of Art And Craft in Portland, which shut down in 2019, one of the nation’s last remaining craft-focused degree programs, first opening in 1907 as part of a movement reacting against changes brought about by the Industrial Revolution.  According to a recent New Yorker article (The End of the English Major), “In 2022, a survey found that only seven per cent of Harvard freshmen planned to major in the humanities, down from twenty per cent in 2012, and nearly thirty per cent during the nineteen-seventies,” a pattern that is reflective across the national landscape, mirroring a society that denigrates art and literature as purely frivolous, having little to do with the economic realities of the future.  This film begs to differ.  Establishing an alignment within the artistic community, Reichardt takes us through the college from room to room, like a Frederick Wiseman exposé, offering a wordless commentary on the making of art, as this becomes the predominate focus of the film, filling the classroom spaces with Portland-based artists whose pieces are seen throughout the film, exposing viewers to more artworks in this brief timespan than they have likely seen in years, which is a remarkable accomplishment.  Working with actress Michelle Williams in their fourth collaboration, initially seen as a homeless woman trying to find her stolen dog in Wendy and Lucy (2008), then part of a wagon train heading west bound for the Oregon Territory in Meek's Cutoff (2010), and as a domineering matriarch hellbent on building that perfect home in Certain Women (2016), this couldn’t be a more unglamorous role, wearing no make-up, looking frumpy in colorless attire with an unstylized, pageboy haircut, exhibiting little flair or personality, strangely inhabiting the same desolate universe as Barbara Loden’s Wanda (1970), whose very character is personified by a lack of personal drive.  There’s not an ounce of artifice anywhere to be found on the screen, becoming an unflinching portrait of a dour woman who takes little pleasure in doing anything other than working on her art, which dominates every waking minute of her life, spending her time doing small ceramic sculptures of women in various states of motion, while colorful watercolor drawings decorate her studio walls, yet her only companion is a finicky cat who rules the roost with persistent meows.  Returning to Oregon, notably Portland for the umpteenth time, known for its DIY counterculture lifestyle, perhaps more than any film since Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye (1973) this perfectly encapsulates that West coast vibe, where there’s a chill about each of the secondary characters, as nothing is ever rushed, yet they exhibit something eccentric and individualistic about the West coast that simply doesn’t exist anywhere else in the country.  Despite her inestimable talent, Kelly Reichardt is not a household name, though her films can be overpraised to the hilt, yet some find it hard to engage with the lack of onscreen drama.  Still, she can always be counted on to make low-key, quietly naturalistic films in her own distinct style, using minimal plot devices to build contemplative, meditative spaces about ordinary people living life on the margins, where her vast catalogue of independent films also includes River of Grass (1994), Old Joy (2006), Night Moves (2013), and First Cow (2019).  Lizzy Carr (Michelle Williams) lives in a cramped apartment over a garage that she’s turned into a studio, renting space from a longtime friend and fellow artist who lives next door, Jo, played by Hong Chau, so good in Alexander Payne’s mystifyingly weird Downsizing (2017), who makes more dramatically eye-appealing collages of yarn, fabric, and metal that occupy greater dimension and space.  The two exhibit a passive-aggressive relationship throughout the film, not exactly rivals, as their work is so different, yet their approach couldn’t be more different.  Jo is a more celebrated artist-in-residence at the school, surrounding herself with a roomful of admirers, where her home can sometimes resemble a party atmosphere, releasing the tension after being cooped up in an art studio all day, while Lizzy struggles to find time after hours, working alone at home, where solitude works for her, undisturbed by outside forces as she embodies an unspoken ambivalence, where the fragility of her work resembles the intricacy of Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie.  While Jo earns money from the sale of her work, Lizzy does not, yet in something of a pleasant surprise, Reichardt is completely nonjudgmental about implying any instrinsic value, allowing viewers to decide.  In that sense, her observational style is diametrically opposed to the ostentatiousness of Ruben Östlund’s The Square (2017), which does nothing but make value judgments about class distinctions in a calculated contempt for art.  However, not since Rivette’s LA BELLE NOISEUSE (1991) has a film so comically dealt with some obsessional human eccentricities involved in creating art.

This is the sixth collaboration with Portland screenwriter Jon Raymond, while working with cinematographer Christopher Blauvelt for over a decade, developing a comfort zone working together with films unraveling in a relaxed pace, where there’s something calmly appealing about this film, with an underlying humor that’s often missing from her other films, yet it also carries with it a profound sadness.  Lizzy supports herself by working in an uninspiring desk job at a campus office (where a dog sits in the doorway) which is inexplicably run by her mother Jean (Maryann Plunkett), which allows her access to the facilities, seemingly existing in a state of personal dissatisfaction, where part of her frustration is designing posters for other featured artists, routinely seen sitting alone outside on the steps eating out of her tupperware container, just staring off into space, watching the “Thinking and Movement” class out on the grass, or roaming through the various rooms in an attempt to escape the drudgery of her job, where it’s clear this takes her away from doing what she’d prefer, which is working on her art.  Ironically, she’s surrounded by a multitude of student artists who are doing exactly that, as hanging out is an essential component to making art, each working at their own unhurried pace, where the filmmaker presents the panorama of their works as a kind of collective collage of creative inspiration, where stenciled onto one of the classroom walls is a sign that reads “Do Not Mix Chemical Dyes with Natural Dyes.”  Reichardt works with such a deliberately low-key approach that it resembles a documentary style with fictitious interludes, yet what’s immediately clear is just how ordinary the artists appear to be, as they could be anybody walking down the street, completely unrecognizable from the wide breadth of humanity, yet the extreme degree of focus in their work is as unique as it is exemplary.  With just a few days before an upcoming exhibition, Lizzy’s life is continually interrupted by unexpected events that take her away from what she needs to be doing, starting with her cat, waking her up in the middle of the night as she’s nearly mauled to death a captured pigeon, having already nibbled on one of the wings, leaving it incapacitated and unable to fly, quickly disposing of the bird by sweeping it up and placing it out the window on the end of a broom, leaving it to its fate somewhere else, but like bad karma, it comes back to haunt her.  Jo discovers the injured bird the next morning and immediately attempts a rescue, enlisting Lizzy to help her wrap the wing in a bandage, place the bird in a cardboard box, and leave it right back with a stunned Lizzy to look after before running off to her art studio, as she has two upcoming exhibitions, and a prospective buyer from New York, hilariously described by Guy Maddin in a wonderfully illuminating interview as “It’s almost like a Preston Sturges gag as directed by Kelly Reichardt,” (A Need to Focus: Guy Maddin Interviews Kelly Reichardt About Showing Up).  Meekly reminding Jo that she has no hot water, she’s alarmed at her dismissiveness, but it will have to wait due to more pressing needs.  This is what amounts to drama in this film, as the saga of the injured bird becomes the link between these two women, each passing it off to the other, with Jo expressing less and less interest, while Lizzy develops a certain fascination, alarmed enough to take it to the vet, who suggests there’s little else to do, reminding her that “it’s a pigeon.”  Babysitting duties create a dilemma, as she’s obviously forced to keep the cat away from the bird while she works in her studio, but we see the paws underneath the door, like an ominous reminder.  The quirkiness of the set-up, along with the instant likeability of Jo, who’s mind always takes her to places that demand our attention, like a force of nature, is something rare in film today, as this is a woman who steadfastly follows her instincts, in stark contrast to Lizzy, who seems to be on the short end of the stick most of the time, where this little saga only escalates the mounting tension between them, as Lizzy has no place to shower, becoming a grating nuisance that wears on her after a while, as she’s in a daily battle for basics like hot running water and a decent wage, remaining dedicated to her craft with no discernible financial reward in sight.  Yet we can’t help but be mesmerized by the diverse collection of her artworks that she readies for the exhibition, as each of her “Little Women” exists in their own space and time, exuding distinct personalities that their creator seems to lack.  She enlists the aid of Eric (André Benjamin, aka André 3000, co-founder of Outkast whose flute playing can be heard near the end), an amiable guy who runs the kiln at school, always giving her time to heat and glaze her collection, while others continually drop in to see her latest creations, where there’s a student-generated interest that’s much more enthusiastic than anything we ever see from her, which is one of the fascinating aspects of the film.     

An Artist-in-Residence in the Film Arts program at Bard College since 2006, Lizzy’s life resembles the director’s own, an undervalued artist struggling to make ends meet, writing, directing, and editing films on a shoestring budget while supplementing her income by teaching college students, which also provides her with health insurance, something she doesn’t have within the film industry’s Director’s Guild as she works so infrequently.  With claims that independent filmmaking has not been open to women in any way, Reichardt has spoken candidly about the reality of making low-budget films, saying, “It also just means that I’m not getting paid, and I’m in my 50’s.”  The opening title sequence is beautifully orienting, as it simply lingers on various paintings lining the walls of Lizzy’s studio, which has a way of imprinting the subject into viewer’s imaginations.  Lizzy’s intense fixation on caring for the injured pigeon is mirrored in her complicated family dynamics, as her parents are bitterly divorced, and she’s seemingly the only member of her family that’s consistently concerned about Sean (John Magaro, the gentle frontier chef in First Cow), her unstable brother prone to frequent bouts of paranoid conspiracy theories (described in Variety as a little like one of R. Crumb’s brothers), seen digging a giant hole in his back yard, clearly agitated that Lizzy doesn’t hear the voices that are speaking to him, “You have to listen to what’s not being said,” claiming she’s not listening hard enough.  She’s following in the footsteps of her father (Judd Hirsch), an accomplished pottery artist who’s now retired, yet she’s concerned that two nomadic bohemian guests have moved into his home with no indication of leaving, yet he’s not bothered, as he seems to enjoy their company.  The combined stress of caring for the bird, looking after her family, surviving without hot water, and trying to get her sculptures done in time takes an exasperating toll, leaving Lizzy thoroughly exhausted, yet for all her accumulated fatigue, her exhibition is rather inspiring, as her pieces are unique, like little pieces of herself, well-attended by the people who matter most to her.  While her parents get into a personal dispute that expose the family dysfunction, all is well with the world.  However there’s a beautifully designed sketch involving the bird that plays out through the entire film, often darkly humorous, though it takes everyone by surprise when it suddenly takes flight within the indoor exhibit, drawing the interest of the entire gallery who are spellbound by the unexpected turn, and flies away, with all the patrons moving to the outdoor sidewalk to watch.  It’s a liberating moment that feels effortless, but unusually refreshing, as this kind of thing never happens in a Kelly Reichardt film, as she never resorts to sight gags, but it achieves the desired effect, as there’s such a sense of relief afterwards, as all the built-up tensions are washed away, suddenly of little consequence.  Lizzy and Jo go looking for the bird in the trees, but never seem to find it, and go walking down the street chatting together as if they’re best friends, which they very well may be, while the camera offers a bird’s eye view from one of the tree branches overlooking it all.  It’s a magical moment that delivers, like a much appreciated wave of fresh air that has the effect of joyously cleansing our souls, eradicating all the unnecessary content.  Among her better edited films, viewers are left with a stream of artistic images of rotating art projects, almost like a video instillation, each capturing that moment of surprise when first seen, offering generous support for the creative student artists of the future, where a film like this elevates the cultural significance of art, which is typically among the first programs cut out of public schools, which only shortchanges developing lives.  To put it bluntly, no men are making films like this.  With a nation obsessed by the male-dominated brutality of gun violence and weaponized political views, quiet, contemplative films offer such a peaceful alternative, providing painstaking visual detail of people working on their art, offering a celebratory tribute to the work of rarely seen artists, including Jessica Jackson Hutchins, Michael Brophy, Chris Johanson, Storm Tharp, Johanna Jackson, and others, embracing the idea that artistic communities are a haven for friendship and for working, and that a lack of community, or an each man for himself scenario, is a bad idea, emphasizing what a difference a creative outlet can provide in establishing a human connection while strengthening the ties of any community.  Lizzie’s works are by CYNTHIA LAHTI, a largely unrecognized artist based in Portland, while Jo’s are by Israeli-American artist Michelle Segre, a MacArthur Fellow working out of a Bronx studio, while it’s notable that the uncredited Portland location scouting was done by Janet Weiss, the former drummer for the all-girl rock band Sleater-Kinney. 

Past Lives

 

Writer/director Celine Song

Teo Too, Greta Lee, and John Magaro

Celine Song on the set with Greta Lee

PAST LIVES              B                                                                                                               USA  South Korea  (105 mi)  2023  d: Celine Song

I feel so not Korean when I’m with him but also, in some way, more Korean—so weird.               —Nora Moon (Greta Lee)

Celine Song is a South Korean-Canadian director, playwright, and screenwriter whose parents are both artists, moving to Canada at the age of 12, currently based in the United States, having received her degree in playwriting at Columbia University, falling in love with the experimental theater of New York in the 1980’s.  Her play Endlings received its world premiere in 2019 at the American Repertory Theater, having its New York premiere in 2020 at the New York Theatre Workshop, but closed early due to the Covid pandemic, while her first feature-film premiered this year at the Sundance Film Festival to near universal acclaim.  Drawing from her own experience of reuniting with a childhood friend after spending decades apart, the film is ostensibly a study of self-divided identity, a contemplation on love, fate, and the choices we make, following two deeply-connected childhood friends, Nora and Hae-sung, who are each other’s childhood sweethearts who lose touch with one another after Nora’s family abruptly emigrates to Canada from South Korea, where their lives take distinctly different trajectories.  Two decades later, following a series of social media connections that also grows strangely silent, they are inexplicably reunited in New York for one fateful week, where watching Wallace Shawn in Louis Malle’s MY DINNER WITH ANDRE (1981) seems to have been a prerequisite for making this film.  The opening of the film is right out of David Fincher’s The Social Network (2010), taking place in a darkened bar where unseen voices are heard commenting on the imagined connections between an Asian woman and two men, one Asian and one white, trying to figure out their relation to one another, expressing a snide condescension toward an Asian-American woman in a potential relationship with a white man, with Song deliberately toying with the audience’s expectations.  In much the same way, this film offers a similar exploration, ultimately becoming a love story between the girl and each of the two men, as the film effortlessly captures the yearning, heartache, and tenderness through a self-reflective, romantic drama ruminating on the dreams and possibilities of what could have been, quietly exploring how people are tied together, including those we leave behind in order to embark on something new, clearly announcing its intentions when we hear the melancholic anguish of Leonard Cohen’s Leonard Cohen - Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye (Audio) YouTube (2:58).  While some have compared this to the yearning romanticism of Wong Kar-wai or Richard Linklater’s haunting truthfulness, that’s a bit of a stretch, feeling more like hyperbole, as this might have more in common with Lee Isaac Chung’s Minari (2020), another semi-autobiographical take on the director’s own upbringing, or perhaps even John Crowley’s immigrant tale of exile, Brooklyn (2015), with Song envisioning a smaller film that achieves a heavily romanticized intimacy with little to no physical contact, where in the words of the director ('Past Lives' Director Celine Song on How She Made ...), “It’s a movie about ordinary people doing something that is extraordinary but mundane.”  Shot on 35mm by Shabier Kirchner, actually written in 2018, this feels more like an overly calculating first feature, bookended by two departures, with smaller moments and very specific observations, posing philosophical what-if questions that feel workshopped, existing in a netherworld where characters wander in and out of what might have been, where it never really comes to life, feeling more like an escape from reality, or an existential quandary consumed by self-doubt, which is then transferred to the audience.  One supposes that nearly all immigrants are left with a looming question about the person they might have become if they’d never left their home countries.  The film begins with Na-young (Moon Seung-ah) and Hae-sung (Yim Seung-min) as children, best friends in every respect, overly competitive in school, where their first date is supervised by their mothers, playfully taking place in a sculpture garden, where Na-young’s mother reveals, “If you leave something behind, you gain something too.”  Living nearby from one another, they always part ways where she ascends up a hill, reminiscent of that steep staircase in Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Nobody Knows (Dare mo shiranai) (2004), which becomes emblematic of their separation once she emigrates, leaving Hae-sung behind.  As an aspiring writer, she is looking forward to new horizons, choosing a new name for the journey, the more English sounding Nora Moon, informing her friend, “No one from Korea wins a Nobel Prize for Literature.”  Of course, at that time no Canadian had received one either, rectified by short story writer Alice Munro winning the coveted prize in 2013.   

The film jumps ahead twelve years to Nora as a young adult living in New York City, where most of the film takes place.  Somewhat out of the blue, Nora (American actress Greta Lee) and Hae-sung (German-South Korean actor Teo Too) connect over Skype calls, with its familiar ringtone and inexplicable freeze-ups, while checking their wall of postings on Facebook, where it’s been over a decade since they’ve had any contact, as initially he couldn’t find her because she’d taken the Western name of Nora.  He’s served his mandatory military service and is now a student while she’s embarking on a career as a writer, acknowledging that she only speaks Korean with her mother and Hae-sung, so it’s a part of her that’s underutilized, but everpresent, an intrinsic part of who she is.  While many may commonly associate with these nostalgic social media connections, it may come as no surprise that watching people on their phones and their computers is not what anyone would call a good time, and using it as a vehicle to carry the narrative action is hardly cinematic.  Though it’s completely understandable, especially considering our overreliance on technology today, many may feel not just a lull, but an emotional void at having to watch this play out onscreen in a movie theater, wondering if this is what it has come to in movies today.  While there is an obvious connection between them, it’s also clear they’ve chosen substantially different paths, where he’s seen drinking heavily with friends, downing shots of soju, complaining endlessly about his sorry love life, wanting to learn Mandarin while pursuing a career in mechanical engineering, while she has amusingly shifted her goals to winning a Pulitzer, and later a Tony, as her goals become more provincial.  After speaking to one another at all hours of the day and night, always in a tone of quiet reserve, without a trace of confrontation, where politeness and remaining as inconspicuous as possible appears to be a key aspect of Korean culture, Nora makes a surprising choice, abruptly breaking away from the calls, complaining that she’s losing her focus, as the calls have caused her to stop writing.  Pursuing her own career comes with a price, as she’s forced to shut down a part of her past in order to facilitate her future, recommending that he watch Michel Gondry’s ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND (2004), a film about erasing past lovers from your memory (which we see him watch).  Escaping instead to a writing retreat in Montauk (where the lovers meet after the memory wash in the Gondry film), she’s the first person to arrive, so gets the best choice of rooms, striking up a conversation with Arthur, John Magaro from Kelly Reichardt’s First Cow (2019) and Showing Up (2022), and before that David Chase’s Not Fade Away (2012), appropriately enough the last to arrive, yet his affable and easy-going nature is a counterpoint to her more ambitiously high-strung temperament.  As fate would have it, Nora explains to him the concept of In-yun, a fairly commonplace phrase in Korea, which roughly means destiny or fate, supposedly connected to the Buddhist concept of reincarnation, revealing how fate brings two people together based on countless connections throughout their many previous lifetimes, though she jokes that it’s a classic pick-up line.  Apparently the connection works, as Nora and Arthur are married and living in the East Village of New York, where he has a successful book release while she’s seen in rehearsals workshopping Song’s actual play, Endlings, a reflection of the interplay between narrative and identity.  While the director never shows it onscreen, each of these abrupt exits has a devastating effect on Hae-sung, who obviously spent a great deal of time and energy trying to find her after all these years, but his disappointment is only hinted at through his remorseful drinking sessions, where he is subjected to merciless ridicule from his buddies.  It’s a curious choice, as his vulnerable persona is so much more interesting, as there’s a lot to like, showing substantial humility and emotional depth, where the film is just as much about his loneliness and longing for someone, but Song instead focuses her attention on the more self-centered Nora, who has all the advantages, always thinking of herself first, leading a life of American privilege that borders on arrogance, with both men exhibiting far more self-reflection and sympathy, while she’s simply a much less compelling figure, hardened and more impenetrable, even bossy, necessities perhaps in adapting to her New York surroundings.      

While the Charlotte Wells film Aftersun (2022) revisits the past searching for missing clues in trying to figure out what went wrong, this film scours memories in search of what could have been, as Nora and Hae-sung promised to visit each other, but never did.  Jumping ahead another twelve years, Nora is a successful New York playwright living with Arthur in what appears to be a symbiotic relationship, while Hae-sung can be seen planning a weeklong trip to New York, where his friends needle him about the stormy weather forecast, as he’ll be arriving in a downpour of rain.  While Nora has moved on with her life, it’s clear Hae-sung still has an obvious affection for her, clinging to a distant memory, yet there’s something unspoken between them, which this film would have you believe is In-yun, yet neither one is Buddhist or in any way remotely religious, so this discussion is not organic to the characters, feeling more like a writing exercise.  Yet what this film does well is showcase how easily one can assimilate into a different culture, learn a different language, even master the art of writing in that language, yet it’s harder still to acknowledge how one actually feels, carefully dissected in a scene anticipating Hae-sung’s arrival to New York, Past Lives Movie Clip - When Is He Leaving? (2023) YouTube (1:32).  When the two finally meet on the streets of New York, there are long stretches of awkward silences as they stroll past the Brooklyn Bridge and ride a ferry encircling the Statue of Liberty taking selfies, but as Arthur predicted, he has clearly come to see her.  While she recognizes this, her feelings are less clear, immersed in a kind of homesickness, longing for something that may no longer exist, yet it’s connected to a language and culture she left long ago, something she doesn’t share with her husband, yet is the essence of who she is, becoming a study of cultural displacement and transformation, as she feels like a changed person when she speaks Korean, completely different than when she speaks English.  Looking backwards and forward at the same time, this is less about the longing for someone you left behind, and more about that part of yourself you left behind with them, discovering there are no easy answers, yet the loneliness is acute, reflected in Hae-sung’s solitary existence stuck in a hotel room during the first few days of his trip.  Perhaps the most exasperating sequence takes place at that aforementioned bar in the wee hours of the morning, as Arthur has joined Nora and Hae-sung for a conversation that almost completely excludes him, speaking only in Korean, with the camera never finding him, as if he doesn’t exit.  The way this sequence is shot is intentionally alienating and disturbing, as the director is choosing to avoid her American connection and instead focus entirely on this Korean relationship, accentuating what both left behind.  Song frames the story where the two men are not pitted against one another, but exist in their own light, with Hae-sung finally acknowledging at one point, “I didn’t think it would hurt so much to like your husband.”  Arthur, to his credit, has been completely supportive of this longtime reunion, realizing it will make his wife happy to reconnect with something he can never be a part of, with his magnanimity defining the breadth of what they do have together, a loving bond, where trust is an inevitable aspect of that.  Still, the way it’s filmed, without offering any translations to her husband, seems particularly rude and places Nora in a less sympathetic light.  Part of what’s so compelling here is that Hae-sung never really gets over that childhood connection, that first love, which seems to have a power of its own.  Clearly, at least to the audience, they have so much more in common, and their soulful conversations are much more intense, so many may feel a tug at the heartstrings when he reveals that for him Nora is someone who leaves, but with Arthur, a fellow writer who feels like a safer choice, she is the one who stays.  Is this the right decision?  The same could be asked at the end of CASABLANCA (1942), or that devastating finale of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (Les Parapluies de Cherbourg) (1964).  None of the scenes on the streets of New York feature natural sounds, with the audio done in the studio, while also exhibiting no spontaneity whatsoever, as it is all clearly choreographed and staged, so there is a lack of naturalism in the film, yet the indie music by Christopher Bear and Daniel Rossen from the Brooklyn rock band Grizzly Bear is outstanding, providing needed texture.  Despite all the critical acclaim, however, this lacks the emotional urgency of much better films on the subject of migration, culture shock, alienation, and a changing identity, namely Davy Chou’s Return to Seoul (Retour à Séoul) (2022), Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation (2002), Ann Hui’s Song of the Exile (Ke tu qiu hen) (1990), and most especially Peter Chan’s Comrades, Almost a Love Story (Tian mi mi) (1997), the latter two both starring the incomparable Maggie Cheung.