The Mastermind

 

Director Kelly Reichardt

Reichardt on the set with Josh O'Connor

Reichardt and O'Connor at Cannes 

THE MASTERMIND            B                                                                                                        USA  (110 mi)  2025  d: Kelly Reichardt

Weird times, huh?                                                                                                                          —James Blaine “J.B.” Mooney (Josh O’Connor)

About as minimalist a film as you’re going to find, while also moving away from the filmmaker’s familiar Pacific Northwest mindset to the East coast of Boston and the Midwest of Ohio, where something is decidedly different in the water, as this has a darker edge, even going over the brink into unfamiliar territory, drenched in period detail, literally immersing viewers in the early 1970’s when America had just expanded its operations in Vietnam to Cambodia and the country was rife with anti-war protesters, so instead of a suspense-filled heist movie, this is more of an unglamorous, anti-heist, psychological study of a criminal on the lam, immersed in his own guilt and regret, mirroring the draft dodgers of the 1970’s who left the country for Canada in a time of great turmoil.  With a war still raging and a corrupt President Nixon mired in a cesspool of his own lies, circumstances that are clearly intended to be relevant today, they had to keep looking over their shoulders until the election of President Jimmy Carter at the end of the decade, offering those fleeing Americans amnesty to return home.  While all about the attention to details, showing a keen eye for what is almost unnoticed behind the everyday façades of people, in style alone Reichardt forces viewers to watch more closely, to see what’s underneath the characters, yet ultimately this is a Dostoyevskian Crime and Punishment movie, a film about wrestling with your conscience, with an art heist at a Boston museum taking place in broad daylight where security is scant, with everything going according to plan, that is until it all starts to unravel.  During the filming of the art heist scenes, an actual art heist occurred at Bard College, the college where director Kelly Reichardt teaches, and just a week before the film was released, burglars broke into the Louvre in Paris and stole $100 million dollar historic crown jewels in a daring daylight heist at 9:30 in the morning that took just seven minutes, conducting their getaway on scooters.  Inspired by the 1972 robbery of the Worcester Art Museum, where two Gauguins, a Picasso, and a painting initially attributed to Rembrandt, now believed to be the work of one of his students, were stolen (eventually recovered at a Rhode Island pig farm), shooting a security guard on their way out, the first time in history that art was stolen at gunpoint, while also borrowing liberally from Robert Bresson’s blank character in his crime study Pickpocket (1959), this is largely an introspective mood piece with little to no action, painstakingly taking us back to a time before the Internet and cellphones, eliminating any hint of thrill or suspense with the theft coming early in the picture, as the film instead defies the conventional heist genre and turns on its ear what passes for action in the films of today, offering a quiet condemnation on the rapidly growing culture of instant gratification.  More low-key and character-driven in tone, filled with quiet moments, devoting herself entirely to the dynamics of the small and inconspicuous, this may remind viewers of Reichardt’s Night Moves (2013), existing primarily under the surface, probing deeply into the restless psychological territory of a group of radical environmental activists, also reminiscent of the dysfunctional South Florida lovers-on-the-lam in her debut feature River of Grass (1994), while others have claimed it’s in the tradition of Jean-Pierre Melville’s LE CERCLE ROUGE (1970), darker and more abstract than his earlier work, yet in the tradition of French film noirs where fate prevails and the demise of the main character is established at the beginning.  This is Reichardt’s second minimalist heist film, as First Cow (2019) revolves around two friends in early 19th century America stealing milk by moonlight from their neighbor’s cow in order to bake doughnuts with it, yet even Michelle Williams in Wendy and Lucy (2008) was forced to shoplift due to her dire economic circumstance.  Bleakly funny in spots, particularly the sheer ineptitude of the participants, shot on 16mm in muted colors by longtime cinematographer Christopher Blauvelt, which provides a grainy, lo-fi charm, evoking films of the 70’s, with Reichardt co-writing and editing her own films, yet what stands out most is the extraordinary jazz soundtrack by Rob Mazurek from Chicago Underground (jazz ensemble), a jittery, propulsive-driven counterpoint to the otherwise slow moving cinema of Reichardt, becoming the underlying engine that subversively propels the movie forward, providing positively thrilling, Whiplash-like percussive rhythm and texture. 

Reichardt’s second straight picture premiering in competition at the Cannes Film Festival, it’s significant to note that this is the first film since River of Grass that was not written by source material from Portland novelist Jon Raymond, or in the case of Certain Women (2016), three short stories by Maile Maloy, so it’s fair to say Reichardt’s pictures have a literary air about them, delving into the interiority of the characters.  For the casual viewer, nothing much happens in this picture, filled with all the monotony of suburban life, as it’s an excruciatingly slow and meandering existential journey, with the camera relentlessly following James Blaine “J.B.” Mooney (Josh O’Connor), an out of work college art-school dropout and failed architect doing odd jobs as a carpenter, finding his place in a comfortable middle class family compromised, coming from an affluent family, where his father (Bill Camp) is a circuit court judge and his wife Terri (Alana Haim) has a white-collar job, raising two young boys, yet he hasn’t yet found his place in the world, seemingly existing in a state of paralysis.  We never learn how his life came to such a standstill, suggesting he has seen better times, but the title is purely ironic, as is the driving jazz soundtrack, which is completely at odds in a film using silent imagery that couldn’t be less exciting.  J.B.’s nickname is perhaps a reference to the mysterious D. B. Cooper, who hijacked a plane in 1971 before parachuting and disappearing into the Pacific Northwest woods with $200,000, never to be seen or heard from again.  While there’s a Vietnam War raging, constantly heard in radio reports or footage seen on television, there’s also a counterculture anti-war movement going on that challenges the status quo, where there’s a whirlwind of social change in the air, yet James ignores all that, exuding a blank expression on his face and is pretty much defined by his indifference.  While we see the family visiting an art museum, James seems overly detached, lost in his own little world, easily ignored and separated from the rest of the family, where he goes through a practice run, stealing a small wooden figurine, placing it in his wife’s bag, yet that success emboldens him to think bigger, The Mastermind Movie Clip - Stealing from the Museum (2025) YouTube (1:56).  Completely unpretentious and unembellished, like all Reichardt films, it’s the small details that stand out, like the cars, clothing, news broadcasts, and old buildings, feeling more like a slice-of-life picture, where a listless James is depicted as just an ordinary guy, with nothing special about him, yet with his background, more is expected of him, sort of a rumpled Elliot Gould figure from Altman’s The Long Goodbye (1973), becoming a portrait of malaise and unfulfillment.  He borrows money from his philanthropist mother (Hope Davis), seemingly for an important architectural project, yet he uses it to hire two petty criminals, Guy and Ronnie (Eli Gelb and Javion Allen) and a getaway driver Larry (Cole Doman) to steal four obscure abstract paintings by early American modernist Arthur Dove (Arthur Dove (1880–1946)) from a fictional Framington Museum of Art in the Boston suburbs, perhaps due to some misconceived belief in outsmarting the establishment.  On the day of the heist, James forgets that his kids are off from school that day, so he drops them off at a bowling alley and hands them some cash to get by, only to learn that his driver Larry has inconveniently quit on them as well, yet even with these hiccups, the plan goes off as intended, where masked thieves wearing nylon stockings grab four targeted paintings off a wall, stuff them into bags, and literally walk out the front door, except that an adrenaline-pumped Ronnie waves a gun at a young female student witnessing the event while working on an assignment from school, forcing her under a table as they simply run out of the building with the paintings in tow, with luckily no one getting hurt.  James takes the stolen goods to an isolated location, hiding them in the hayloft of a barn at a remote pig farm, where a good five to ten minutes are spent watching him perilously climb up and down on an unsteady ladder to get up there with wooden-enclosed, framed paintings, one at a time, moments that are typically left out of other movies, as we’re thoroughly expecting some disaster to happen, only to return home afterwards with the police already questioning Terri.  Outed by Ronnie, who was caught the day before, as the mastermind behind the operation, James plays dumb, using his father’s name and influence to get the police off his back, at least for the moment, but he has a target on his back. 

While we never really learn what James was planning to do with these paintings, it’s clear the dam has broken on this shoddy operation, while we’re also beginning to suspect he hasn’t a clue what he’s doing, with Guy demanding more money or he’ll inform on him as well, so he agrees to meet, only to be surprised by mob figures who simply take what they stole, casually informing him, “Honestly, I don’t think you thought things through,” sarcastically questioning his ability to put a trustworthy group together, leaving him with nothing to show for it, but now his name and photo appear in all the newspapers and TV reports, requiring that he go on the lam to avoid arrest.  This may be the least engaging of all the filmmaker’s movies, lacking the emotional impact of her previous work, as viewers may find it hard to find an entry point, something that makes all this matter, becoming an examination of male entitlement that features a frustrated, screwed-up guy who has squandered away all of his opportunities.  Seemingly an excuse to escape from his banal, bourgeois family life, it’s the aftermath of the crime that gets the most attention, as James slides into exile from his family and friends, literally dropping out of society, seeking sanctuary out in the rural countryside with old art school friends Fred (frequent collaborator John Magaro) and Maude (Gaby Hoffmann), with Fred excitedly rummaging up memories of their more youthful indiscretions, urging him to flee across the border to a Canadian commune filled with American “draft dodgers, radical feminists, and drug fiends - - you know, nice people,” but Maude is less than enthused.  In fact, it is the women in this picture who quickly see through his smokescreen of illusions, as Maude doesn’t want any part of him, while Terri has no patience left for whatever predicament he finds himself in, offering no sympathy whatsoever, left to clean up the mess he left behind, angrily refusing to wire him money, hanging up instead, where he may as well be lost to them, finding himself isolated and alone, backed into a corner, and completely alienated from a society in flux.  But what do you have left when you increasingly damage the trust of your loved ones, and what world can you expect to live in when you’re not an active participant, where your own passivity allows stronger and more malicious forces to intrude?  Set in a time when America was passionately expressing a social consciousness, when opinions on issues mattered, and people were willing to put their lives on the line to bring about change, this is in stark contrast to our protagonist who doesn’t believe in anything, a man unmoored from his generation, taking his privileged affluent advantages for granted, ultimately allowing more zealously-driven forces to prevail.  An ambiguous commentary on the responsibility of the individual in a society marked by social injustice, the parallels between Nixon’s and Trump’s America are not accidental.  Never afraid to look at the dark underside of American failures, it goes without saying that Reichardt is referencing the political maelstrom we’re experiencing today, suggesting we’re all responsible for the world we live in.  What goes through the head of James is predictable, as survival instincts kick in, willing to do whatever it takes at any given moment, even the unthinkable, like stealing a purse from an elderly lady, running off afterwards where he blends into a crowd of marching anti-war protesters, watching a few get knocked in the head by locals who want no part of them there, evidence of a moral divide in the country, but James is a man defined by an entitled arrogance who has lost any moral connection.  Completely alone and adrift, no longer a part of anything, he’s beyond redemption, and beyond disillusionment, finding himself part of a self-imposed hellish damnation as the world closes in on him.  Throughout the film, the sheer existence of activist people of color, social unrest, and the radical energy that defined 1970’s America is deliberately omitted.  That erasure conveniently reinforces the privilege of the characters’ own ignorance, where his capacity for narcissistic self-absorption and lack of depth defines who he has become, recklessly moving from one bad situation to another, aimlessly drifting through time, engulfed by the emptiness that surrounds him, eventually finding himself cornered, like a rat in a maze, with no way out.  

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.