The exquisite and sublime journeys of Oregon-based filmmaker Kelly Reichardt are arguably, more or less, incidental or oblique political statements about survival in America, often focusing on two or more friends, usually outsiders, and their struggle to endure. “Wendy And Lucy,” about a destitute woman and her soulmate canine companion, was overt about human inequity and hardship; “Meek’s Cutoff” depicted the unbearable burden of living off a hostile, unforgiving land; and “First Cow” presented the warm, but sad futility of two friends trying to sustain themselves under the grueling rigors of nascent American capitalism.
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Like the care, patience, and attention to minute detail that Reichardt puts into her work, Reichardt’s films demand patience, care, and close observation to understand their intention that so often feels indistinct and muted but mostly just doesn’t care to be obvious. So, although Reichardt’s latest film, “Showing Up,” about the eccentric world of art and artists in Portland, Oregon—an outsider-y milieu if there ever was one—may not seem political or about survival at all, one might argue that all art is political and art itself is a form of persistence. And in an unspeakably horrible America, seemingly only getting worse by the day, the defiant act of art, and creating something beautiful in the face of such ugliness, is not only a superb statement but its own act of survival. Most artists don’t make art because they want to, but because they’re compelled to, because they must, and because it gives them a reason to get out of bed every day.
These pretentious ideas are arguably not explicitly interrogated in the guileless, subtle, and unpretentious “Showing Up,” one of Reichardt’s most playful, warm, sweet, and funny works, relatively speaking. But like the discreet, uncluttered canvass of her works— minimalist, spare, and with just enough inviting details to inspire your curiosity—Reichardt leaves generous space and room for the viewer to contemplate. And I would argue the captivating and delicately considered “Showing Up” leaves much to consider about why we make art and what we’re trying to say while making it.
“Showing Up” centers on Lizzy (a luminous Michelle Williams), an artist and sculptor who makes evocative ceramic portraits of doll-like female figurines, beautiful, imperfect, gnarly, and entrancing. Lizzy seemingly makes art like she drinks coffee; it’s a necessity and part of every waking routine. The plot, such as there is one, is incredibly spartan: a woman prepares for her upcoming art exhibition, but in doing so, she must navigate life, and the daily dramas that are seemingly there to distract her from her work. But in Reichardt’s intimate film, these minor comedies are almost like a redistribution of energy; like the world is trying to absorb the attention, Lizzy is trying to put into her art and pull it elsewhere.
“Showing Up,” about the dynamic push-and-pull tension between ourselves and the world around us, and who we show up for in those trying moments of need, demand, urgency, and empathy, recalls “Certain Women” a little bit, and its interconnected stories of women and all they have to endure by merely existing in America. Sometimes, that’s coping with one another.
Co-written by longtime artistic partner Jon Raymond, the embroidered intricacies of friendship is the resplendent faint light he and Reichardt are often drawn to, and in “Showing Up,” there’s much tension in the vital but complex friendship between Lizzy and her best friend Jo (Hong Chau, also naturalistically terrific). Her friend, colleague, but also Lizzy’s landlord and more successful artistic peer, their power imbalance creates terrific passive aggression, of the kind that’s comical, wry, and sometimes mysteriously feminine—like when you, the male dummy, can’t fathom the sophistications between two female friends that love each other, but well, that history is complicated and beyond you (these sections might be like a dog watching a play written by cats about cats).
Reichardt’s latest is also a more dynamic film than usual, with tracking shots, zooms, and splendid cinematography by naturalist Christopher Blauvelt, who studied under the tutelage of the late great Harris Savides and seems to treat light with the same reverence. “Showing Up,” at some points, especially around the art college at is center, seems as if it might transform into a Robert Altman-eque “Nashville,” only about the Pacific, Northwest art communal, itself a comment on the nature of community and their shared spaces. A colorful cast of characters seemingly moves in and out of these micro galleries, including André Benjamin, Heather Lawless, James Le Gros, Larry Fessenden, Amanda Plummer, and more, all of them seemingly pulling at the seams of Lizzy’s last nerve.
Neurosis and narcissism are two familial byproducts of artistry, and Reichardt mines that for all its worth. Much of the time, that’s affectionate ribbing at the self-importance of artistes, but also the draining anxiety of it all, with compassion in sections containing Lizzy’s brother (John Magaro) who struggles with his mental health, her self-absorbed father (Judd Hirsch) and her overbearing mother (Maryann Plunkett).
“Showing Up,” is almost like gearing up for war, which could just be a metaphor for everyday life in the U.S. As Lizzy prepares for her show, she has to wage a million little wars, fight every tiny battle in the name of her art, perhaps fueled by the tensions in these conflicts. One could argue it’s even an absurdist thriller; Reichardt counting down the doomsday clock until Lizzy’s final hour in the spotlight and all the interpersonal indignities she must withstand on the journey there.
Regardless, the supple, nuanced brilliance of “Showing Up,” intentional or not, is the “my kid could paint that” simplicity of it all. To the philistine, the “Showing Up” canvas is but an unassuming speck of ice on a vast, silent ocean where nothing happens. To the patron of the arts they’re delighted by the tempestuous iceberg underneath the surface and the vibrant life below the water. It’s possible I may have zero clue what “Showing Up” is really about—it’s a beguiling film without a story, that still has so much to say about art, our identities in making it, and the effervescent communities that band around it, maybe for reasons even they don’t understand. Consciously, as Reichardt slowly, quietly, gently plies the clay of her tensions and emotionally sophisticated subjects, there’s at least tactile warmth to it all. Its unconscious mind, however, contains multitudes that may absorb like a great piece of art you may not fully comprehend but are mesmerized with nonetheless. [A-]
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