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Showing Up

"Lots of people are creative."

Kelly Reichardt’s Showing Up is a film about careful thumb-strokes in damp clay. It’s about process, especially process as mundane repetition. What is practice, after all, but the decision to keep showing up?

The plot, such as it is, follows sculptor Lizzy (Michelle Williams) in the run-up to her show at a local gallery. It’s a somewhat harried time, with problems of various sizes and severities presenting themselves and, for the most part, not really resolving. Houseguests are mooching off her easygoing father (Judd Hirsch). Her brother (John Magaro) may be schizophrenic, and his hold on reality is getting looser by the day.

Her breezy, charismatic landlord, Jo (Hong Chau), is too wrapped up in her own art—and her own carefree life—to fix Lizzy’s hot water. She’ll do it when her show is done, she promises. Prickly and defensive, Lizzy points out that she has a show too; Jo’s not the only one. “Yeah, but I have two shows, which is, like, insane,” Jo says. Jo has also saddled Lizzy with caring for an injured pigeon, a distracting task that, as Lizzy reluctantly comes to care for it, becomes one of the movie’s emotional focal points.

By the end of Showing Up, the pigeon situation has resolved itself, but everything else—even Lizzy’s hot water—is still pending. That’s the right decision on Reichardt’s part. This movie needs to be all middle, a slice of artistic life about simply continuing the work.

Lizzy is also the right character for all this. It’s a carefully uncharismatic performance from Michelle Williams, with all her movie star presence stripped away: Lizzy is glum and cranky, slouching her way across the screen in what doesn’t feel like depression so much as a perpetual bad mood. It’s a telling detail that while we see a lot of characters at the Oregon College of Art and Craft (now defunct, alas) engage with each other’s art, showing mutual attention, Lizzy is mostly a compliment sponge, soaking up praise without returning it. (When she expresses a fondness for someone’s deserts right before the credit rolls, it feels like a window has finally opened to let in some fresh air.) It’s easy for me to feel what Lizzy is feeling—weary irritation and frustration, mostly—but it’s also exhausting, and sometimes I want to shake her. I know you’re only doing office work at the school, Lizzy, but look at these beautiful surroundings! Look at these fellow artists you could be talking to! Life has things to give you!

But even at her most Eeyore-ish, Lizzy is absorbing some sense of life and beauty, and she is giving it back—maybe in the only way she can. Her sculptures are like large clay dolls, women painted in fractured rainbows and caught mid-motion. Lizzy plods; her “girls” dance. She frowns; they despair. They capture emotions and extremes she doesn’t fully express any other way, and they work outside of the realm of her annoyance: one of her pieces is recognizably Jo, caught in a moment of exuberant play. It’s an excerpt of an actual movie scene, one where Jo was already grating on her, but there’s no trace of that in the clay.

Lizzy’s art is Lizzy at her best and most generous, and she gets it not through any ecstasies of inspired creation but through the ordinary accumulation of hours of work. She doesn’t have Jo’s electric energy. She’s not all that vivid or interesting on her own. She can’t market herself. No one would look at her and says she’s destined to make it big. (In fact, one of the movie’s rare missteps is the attention a more prominent visiting artist pays Lizzy even before she’s seen her work: it feels clumsy, like she’s simply responding to the fact that Lizzy is the protagonist. I like to think she sees Michelle Williams, undeniably a looker even when dressed in the frumpiest clothes imaginable, and thinks, “Eh, I could work with the personality problems.”) She just goes on, making her own distinctive pieces and caring enough to craft them as well as she can.

Discipline, persistence, and commitment have their own peculiar beauty. This is the art life as marriage, tending towards continuation rather than consummation. To drive the point home, Reichardt intersperses Lizzy and Jo’s scenes with other, more minor characters at OCAC also doing the work: weaving, dancing, painting a nude (who’s just getting back from a run to the bathroom), working out fiber arts compromises of Velcro over zippers. They’re all doing what they want to do, working individually but as part of a community. Maybe this film cheers me up so much because it reminds me a little of what we do here.

Showing Up is streaming on Max.

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