Whether a creator or observer, one’s relationship with art dictates a host of qualities: values, ambitions, fantasies, etc. That umbrella term – art – can be composed of so many practices, each with their own idiosyncrasies and standards. The three films outlined in this dispatch dissect the arts (music, fine art, and theater) as mirrors of culture and self.
Perhaps this year’s buzziest premiere, Aidan Zamiri’s mockumentary “The Moment” stars hyperpop diva Charli XCX as a semi-fictionalized version of herself, navigating the boom of mainstream stardom, a sold out tour, and the commercialization of her own success.
No one in the world (not even presidential candidate Kamala Harris) could outrun the lime green, bad bitch charm of brat summer. It was the hottest thing in pop culture for everyone. It motivated people to do everything from hitting the clubs to healing their jealousies. For Charli XCX, it took a successful career with a relatively niche fanbase and shot it out of a cannon of global stardom. And monumental success ushers in more than just fans. It brings brand deals, new expectations, a “what’s next” mentality (from self and others), leeches and starfuckers, and good old fashioned exhaustion.
Amidst endless vapid Zoom calls and lengthy rehearsals, Charli and her team are hounded by a condescending director, Johannes (an always funny Alexander Skarsgard), who is filming a brat concert movie for Amazon Music. If the sirens of the script’s leering eyes toward capitalism aren’t already ringing, Charli’s label (run by Rosana Arquette) pushes her into a brand deal for a “brat” credit card marketed to the LGBTQ+ population. The goal of all of this? To make brat summer, the titular moment in the zeitgeist, last forever.
“The Moment” makes great use of its mockumentary format: Charli’s doesn’t stray too far from her public persona, making the private moments, like creative sessions in dimly lit hotel rooms and backseat-of-the-car breakdowns feel all the more authentic. The neon-splattered kinetic editing style is coded in the style of the album, but so is the confusion she sings about over heavy bass and synths: Charli grapples with whether she even wants to immortalize this point in time. Zamiri’s film is at times a moving portrait of an unready star (because how can you ever prepare) and a riotous comedy about the corporate talons that puncture holes in the point of art.
Another film that surveys the parasitic role profit plays in the art world is Cathy Yan’s “The Gallerist.” Polina Polinski (Natalie Portman) is the titular gallerist, who, desperate for a big opening at Art Basel in Miami, will do just about anything to draw more eyes and more dollars. When she attempts to enlist the internet clout of snobby art-influencer Dalton (Zach Galifianakis) to bring attention to the work of up-and-coming artist Stella Burgess (Da’Vine Joy Randolph), he instead ridicules her, her gallery, and her legacy. Then, due to a puddle caused by a leaky AC unit that Polina’s assistant (Jenna Ortega) tried to flag, Dalton slips and falls, impaling himself on one of the sculptures.
There’s simply no time to clean up the body, so Polina draws on years of art history to come up with a compositional masterpiece, maneuvering the sprawl of his corpse in the most pleasing way. In just enough time to get him posed, the doors open, and the piece (of course) is the star of the show, winding up at the center of a multi-million dollar bidding war. But how long can the charade last?
The script, penned by Yan and James Pederson, is pretty straight forward. It’s a bumbling comedy of errors intended to critique the cannibalistic tendencies of the high-art world. The ensemble cast has a fun time floundering through the ridiculousness of their circumstances, and there’s certainly a few laughs to be had. What is present, though disappointingly not further explored, is the racial undertones of Stella (a Black, female artist) having her work and name at the center of Polina’s scheme.
The film isn’t quite sure what to say about the role people of color play in the white-dominated landscape of high art. Polina’s ex-husband and absent co-owner of the gallery (Sterling K. Brown) is more of a plot device than a character, perhaps a showcase that people of color also contribute to the problems woven in the industry. To be frank, I’m not sure, and I wish I was. But as far as the social-climbing and “money makes the world go round” philosophies of the group’s wiles, Yan delivers. The increasing absurdity of the hijinks required to keep this story rolling will be riotously pleasurable to some and grating to others, and this film’s beauty, like all art, will be subjective.
Death and art go hand in hand. It inspires. It sells. And to the central motive of NB Mager’s “Run Amok,” it can be a vehicle for catharsis. Lincoln High School is approaching the ten year anniversary of a devastating school shooting that claimed six lives. With a decade in their rearview window, the school is hosting a commemoration ceremony showcasing the dedicated artwork of current students.
Dedicated freshman student and harpist Meg (Alyssa Marvin) lost her mom, an art teacher, in the shooting. She’s too young to remember the tragedy, but the echoes of her loss reverb in her mind to this day. After a visit to the library introduces her to the word “catharsis,” she decides the best way for everyone to achieve it is through an elaborate musical re-enactment of the attack. With wavering support from the school’s music teacher (Patrick Wilson) and vehement pushback from the principal (Margaret Cho), Meg and her cousin (Sophia Torres) search for the meaning of artistic release.
Mager’s film may run a bit too long, but it delivers its thesis with the gall of an ambitious filmmaker unafraid of their voice and instincts. What buoys “Run Amok” more than anything is Marvin’s incredibly affecting performance. Meg is a teacher’s pet; she’s awkward and smart as hell, and is unabashedly pursuing the art of healing. Marvin is touching, delivering her sheepish but assertive disposition with nuance, crafting a protagonist we root for (even when we sometimes err on the same cautionary side as her elders).
“Run Amok” meditates on the act of art as freedom, especially in a country that is increasingly letting the walls on liberty and safety close in. It also points an adoring eye to our society’s youth, giving them a credit that is generationally looked over.
As Meg starts to grow closer with the outcast mother of the shooter (Elizabeth Marvel), she starts pondering the boy’s own humanity, and what led him to commit the atrocities of that day. Aside from the unnerving nature of her project, the questions she begins to raise cause further discomfort in those around her. The ostracization of the shooter’s mother, and the trauma of the school’s woodshop teacher (Bill Camp) tell just as much about our response to horror as the principal’s desire to replace the show with a rendition of the generic, unrelated (and perhaps terribly ironic) “Amazing Grace.”
In many ways, the combination of curiosity and unease penned in the script is a mirror to our culture’s own approach to fear in the face of moving forward. Mager doesn’t lean into any propositions, and sometimes dips a toe into cliches and hamfisted representations, but her intent is clear and incisive. “Run Amok” is a gusty first feature, showing promising style and an astute cultural eye.
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