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Fancy Dance

Call and response.

Famously, characters in TV and movies rarely say goodbye at the end of conversations. This jars some viewers so much that it breaks their suspense of disbelief: who are these rude assholes, they wonder, who just hang up the phone?

Screenwriters, on the other hand, seem to feel that while these kinds of pleasantries may be necessary social lubrication, they’re boring and unnecessary on the screen. Trim pointless verbiage. Let’s keep it moving.

Erica Tremblay’s Fancy Dance does not, so far as I noticed, linger on hellos and goodbyes over the phone. But what it includes with striking frequency—what it clearly doesn’t consider pointless at all—is an exchange that’s just as simple and just as often elided, or at least half-elided. Time after time, this melancholy, bitter, and joyful film makes time for “Thank you” / “You’re welcome.”

It happens so often that it begins to feel like a key part of the social fabric of the Seneca-Cayuga reservation community and ethos. Lily Gladstone’s resilient, heartsore Jax scrapes together a living by shoplifting and boosting cars, and the rez life is so hard that she’s still always broke and desperate; the film correctly has zero interest in assigning any moral blame to what Jax does to get by and provide for her niece, Roki (Isabel DeRoy-Olson). Instead, it sees her—again correctly—as being woven into a living exchange of generosity that’s both offered and accepted. There’s a constant acknowledgment of mutual entanglement.

It’s in how Jax insists on paying her stripper girlfriend for a lap-dance delivered on the clock. It’s in how she thanks an elder who led a search party for her sister. At one point, Jax’s quest to find the missing Tawi leads her to a trailer camp occupied by white oil workers, most of them meth-twitchy, trigger-happy, and furious at any questioning; she’s terrorized and molested in a search for a wire, and she knows there’s every chance she won’t get out alive. But when one oil worker, feeling bad about all this, follows her out into the dark and gives her a tip after all, Jax, no matter how rattled she is, still thanks him.

He doesn’t know to say, “You’re welcome,” though. What he says instead—“I hope you find her”—is compassionate, but it doesn’t have the same give-and-take. It’s not relational. It’s a farewell from someone who knows he won’t see her again. It’s a wish that she’ll have good luck on this quest he, nice or not, has nothing more to do with.

“You’re welcome” is a recognition that some real service has been done1, and the oil worker knows, in essence, that while he’s given Jax intel, it’s cost him nothing. It’s literally no problem. “No problem” is my own preferred way—a Millennial habit, I’ve been told—to answer a thank-you; I reflexively feel rude even alluding to the idea that what I did took any effort or meant anything. It feels polite, and I’m sure it’s generally received as polite, but Fancy Dance makes me see how it’s also, in a way, a rejection as well as a denial. Instead of fulfilling the exchange, it cuts it off. It’s not “yes, and” but “actually, no.” At its harshest, “Actually, what you’re feeling is inappropriate and invalid.”

Fancy Dance finds a better, more communal way of acknowledging what people do for—and to—each other. It’s a film that’s about connection and the horror of severing it.

While Jax is looking for Tawi, she’s taking care of Roki, Tawi’s daughter. Gladstone and DeRoy-Olson have a warm, naturalistic chemistry that makes them deeply convincing as auntie and niece. (The film’s biggest flaw is that whenever one of them isn’t on-screen, the movie is far less interesting; Ryan Begay, as Jax’s brother in tribal law enforcement, gets shouldered with resolving a big chunk of plot at one point, and things instantly feel a lot sleepier.) But Jax has a criminal record, so the white authorities of Child Protective Services remove Roki from her aunt’s custody and place her instead with the white grandparents (Shea Whigham and Audrey Wasilewski) she barely knows. Jax, desperate to hold her family together, spirits Roki away to take her to the powwow Roki has always danced at with her mother.

The plot gets a tad too busy and forced at times—a gun gets involved, and it sticks out like a sore thumb—but the film shines whenever it’s concentrating on Jax and Roki and on what Jax owes Roki and Tawi. It can be funny, especially when Roki’s natural exuberance comes into play—her breakfast order after her first period is one of the most endearing movie scenes I’ve ever seen—and it can be heartbreaking. No matter what mode it’s in, though, it’s always attentive to the nuanced appreciation and devotion between its two leads. As much as cultural practices and traditions connect us to the past and to our communities, they also connect us to each other; they let Jax make Roki feel cherished and celebrated, and they let Roki define what she needs from this relationship. Ritual—even when it’s a simple conversational exchange—provides a structure for mutual acknowledgment.

It is fitting, for all those reasons and more, that the film concludes with a yearly powwow dance for the missing and murdered. There may be nothing Jax can do for her sister, one of the tribe’s elders effectively says at one point, but if Jax calls for her, Tawi will answer. Even if the question—this outpouring of ongoing love, grief, and care—is infuriating in its annual necessity. Even if the answer only comes in the transcendence of all those feet pounding together. The relationship is still there, no matter what happens.

Fancy Dance is streaming on Apple TV+.

  1. My thinking on this is definitely partly inspired by David Graeber’s Debt:The First 5,000 Years. You can find some of those thoughts excerpted here, and Graeber’s book also goes into detail about how cancelling debts can also be construed as ending a relationship. Anyway, read Debt. ↩︎
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