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. 

First Cow

Director Kelly Reichardt

Reichardt with actors John Magaro (left) and Orion Lee (right)

FIRST COW                  B        

USA  (121 mi)  2019  d:  Kelly Reichardt

The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.

—William Blake, Proverbs of Hell, from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, 1793

This is an entirely different kind of film, even for Kelly Reichardt, who specializes in minimalist, low-budget productions coming from literary sources, unraveling like short stories, the picture of restraint, yet veering into near wordless depictions.  Very much in the same vein as her previous film, Certain Women (2016), yet transported to the era of early Western settlers in the Pacific Northwest, just barely scraping out a story, deconstructing the rugged John Wayne and Clint Eastwood stereotype of Western masculinity, expressing a quieter and more genteel presence, yet holding little tension or drama whatsoever, while releasing viewers at the end into a state of ambiguity, as there’s really no beginning or end to this story, it’s more of a brief window into an untold history, revealing only fragments, like a broken memory, not really leading anywhere, but using cinema for instructive purposes as a power of suggestion, offering a visualized alternative to the mythology of Western lore.  What’s most peculiar is an opening shot of a barge floating down the Columbia River, clearly shot in the modern age, followed by a woman and her dog sifting through a riverbank, discovering the bones of human remains, then quickly retreating back into a different time period, perhaps revealing something about the history of the bones, telling a story history has forgotten, finding ourselves in the earliest 19^th century settlements in the Pacific Northwest, an era with no existing photographs, with no signposts or indications – we are simply there.  For nearly all of her films, Reichardt has collaborated with Portland author Jonathan Raymond, setting her films in Oregon, in fact all but two, River of Grass (1994), with Reichardt co-writing her own screenplay set in the Florida Everglades (where she grew up), and Certain Women (2016), adapting several Maile Meloy short stories set in Montana.  This film is an adaption of Raymond’s 2004 novel The Half-Life, which tells two parallel stories on different continents in different time periods taking place 160 years apart, but this version includes only the earlier period.  Shot on digital by Christopher Blauvelt, Reichardt’s principal cinematographer since Meek's Cutoff (2010), this is the director’s fifth film shot in Oregon, using the box-shaped 4:3 aspect ratio preferred by fellow Oregonian Gus van Sant, set in the deep woods during the fur trapping days of the 1820’s.  The film relies almost entirely on an established rhythm and meticulous detail, countering and defying Western stereotypes of virile men against hostile forces, depicting Indians as savages who need to be wiped out, actions supporting the Manifest Destiny doctrine that American was founded upon.  In contrast, Reichardt’s film has little to no action at all, with Multnomah Indians blending into the landscape, not as hostile forces (they were eradicated from the region anyway not long afterwards by military force to make room for the arrival of legions of white people), but working as domestics, or simply acting on their own, selling or bartering their trade, the same as anyone else, trying to get by.  

Few characters are introduced, with a noticeable scarcity of women, but one figure is Otis “Cookie” Figowitz (John Magaro), signed on as a cook for the rowdy fur trappers who show him a fair share of abuse, following their movements throughout the Oregon Territory, seen searching for natural ingredients in the forest, something edible, like mushrooms, where his foraging is a silent adventure, perhaps accompanied by quiet guitar strums, where the music written by William Tyler is completely unobtrusive, only appearing periodically, never interfering with what appears onscreen while complimenting the overall quietness of the picture.  When he discovers a naked man hiding in the brush, shivering in the cold, King Lu (Orion Lee), a Chinese immigrant on the run from some Russians who mean to kill him, his reaction is to shelter and protect him, offering him food and safety.  Even then the Columbia River was a major avenue of transport, people and goods, where a view from the shore often finds people floating downstream, including an absurdly surreal picture of a barge transporting a cow, bringing her ashore, the first in the territory, hearing talk that other cows were lost en route.  As we walk through a makeshift shantytown with a saloon and trading post, basically streets of mud with people living in shabby huts, the instant comparison is Robert Altman’s McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971), especially when seeing actor René Auberjonois (who recently died in December) living in one of those shacks, a man who appeared in Altman’s film.  Few words are exchanged, as it’s all about establishing mood and atmosphere, eventually arriving in a saloon, where the soft-spoken Cookie tries to nonchalantly order a whiskey, seemingly out of place in a Wild West scenario, as is a giant mountain man who steps next to him carrying a basket with an infant baby (again defying the myths), getting ridiculed and viciously needled by a fellow patron, drink in hand, eventually handing the baby to Cookie while assaulting the agitator, both tumbling out onto the streets never to be seen again.  Out of the darkness steps King Lu, now attired handsomely, re-introducing himself, offering to share a bottle of whisky if Cookie would like to join him, as he lives on the outskirts nearby.  And this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, where little from the past is explained, or even referred to, as much of the story is simply left untold (like what happens to the baby).  Nonetheless, the two men hit it off, seemingly complimenting one another, where Cookie helps sweep and spruce up the place, gathering wildflowers, and eventually offering to cook, where he has a sudden urge to make biscuits.  When the idea for milk is matched with that image of a cow, only one thought springs to mind, milking her surreptitiously under cover of the night.

The pair are basically a couple of luckless drifters, but Cookie’s baking skills actually lead somewhere, concocting a batch of oily cakes, which are muffins fried in lard, very tasty to a bunch of outdoor frontiersmen only too happy to pay for a taste, rapidly selling out, returning the next day, and it happens all over again.  A successful partnership and enterprise, Cookie makes the cakes while King Lu, with the shrewdness of a con man, sets the price and collects the money, developing a certain notoriety in the territory, as word spreads quickly.  In no time, one of their customers is a local governor (Toby Jones), a dapper English gentleman (the owner of the cow, charging him double the price) who finds them delicious, eventually frying them in a pan right onsite, dripping honey and cinnamon on top, like actual bakery goods.  An apprentice to a baker in Boston, Cookie has learned his trade well, with King Lu thinking of taking their services to San Francisco, but they’d have more competition, where the question is whether they’re willing to push their luck.  As King Lu says, “History hasn’t gotten here yet,” however they’ve become extremely successful entrepreneurs in a wild and lawless region, so renowned that the governor would like their services at an upcoming tea party, where he intends to baffle and perplex a British Captain (Scott Shepherd), who finds the region backwards and without any culture, never hearing the end of it, hoping to put him on the spot.  The difference between wild American frontiersmen and cultivated British officials is the wild men of the frontier eat and simply walk away, while the British officials ask questions, curious how something so patently delicious arrived on these uncultivated shores.  Despite the success of their treats, lingering questions remain unanswered, drawing unwanted attention to them, and one thing leads to another, placing our duo in potential jeopardy, leaving their fates to the winds.  Yet the means of communication at the party may be the most curious aspect of the film, countering the myth in Westerns that Indians are dangerous and hostile, as the governor’s wife (Lily Gladstone, Blackfeet and Nez Perce) is an Indian, both surrounded by Indian servants as well as a venerable Chief, Gary Farmer (Aboriginal Canadian) from Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man (1995), an invited guest, with the wife interpreting the back and forth conversation, where Indian culture becomes an integral part of a civilized discussion in this backwoods territory.  Using Indian linguists and historians from Grand Ronde, the film aspires to authenticity, though not to the extent of Jarmusch’s film, where Farmer is a lead character (along with Johnny Depp), mysteriously transposing not just Indian language and culture but the mystical spiritual elements into the storyline.  Here the mix of Indian culture into an American independent film is compelling, but Jarmusch makes the First Nations culture the centerpiece of the film.  Despite plenty of laudatory critical acclaim for this film, it may be one of Reichardt’s least engaging efforts, and the story is so sleight there’s almost no narrative at all, largely driven by chance encounters, dramatically inert from start to finish, yet this buddy movie counters the notion of Wild West masculinity and certainly accentuates the luscious green landscapes from the natural splendor of the region.