Art Work — Showing Up review

A version of this appeared in The Scotsman.

A movie about artists doing the work of artists, Kelly Reichardt’s new film Showing Up is as finely wrought as the figurines its protagonist spends most of the movie trying to complete. Which is to say, it’s delicate and unassuming, and when it eventually comes together, it packs a subtle emotional punch — the way art you sometimes can’t explain often does. 

Finally arriving at a handful of UK cinemas after making its Cannes debut in 2022, it stars Michelle Williams as Lizzy, a sculptor preparing for a small show in her hometown of Portland, Oregon. The city itself is positively fizzing with creative energy, though Lizzy is more reserved and controlled in her own art. The opening credits show her ceramic sculptures in the planning stages: she’s got dozens of meticulous sketches and paintings pinned to her studio wall. When we later see her working, she’s frequently poised over her desk, altering and adjusting her textured clay figures to ensure they match up. 

Lizzy also has an abrasive manner around others, though not in the self-important, egotistical way generally found in movies about artists. She just has a lot going on. A day job and various high-maintenance family members make demands on her time when she really needs to focus on her work. The lack of hot water in her apartment, meanwhile, has become a constant source of ire, not just because she can’t take a shower, but because her landlord-slash-neighbour (played by Hong Chau) is a fellow artist whose ability to submit herself to her work is a stark reminder to Lizzy of her inability to do the same. 

In the grand scheme of things, all of this might seem like nothing, but Reichardt has built a career out of using the mundane minutia of everyday life to create quietly compelling characters that movies often ignore or keep on the fringes. Here we get a sense that Lizzy’s practice is helping her keep the chaos of her life in check, but her exactitude might also be holding her back creatively. When one of her pieces is damaged in the kiln, she’s not sure if it might not actually be better. 

Reichardt plays around with these ideas, letting them percolate in the background without having her characters make declarative statements about what makes good art. As the title suggests, a lot of being an artist is just showing up and doing the work — but doing it in a way that makes sense for the artist. 

What little plot there is (Reichardt doesn’t really do plot) takes shape around an injured pigeon that finds its way into Lizzy’s studio. Despite her annoyance, she can’t help but look after it. The same goes for her family and friends. As hard work as they can sometimes be (especially her bipolar brother, wonderfully played by John Magaro), she can’t shut herself off from them. She’s not a carefree artist in this way; she’s an artist who cares deeply. 

It’s this that gives her life meaning and ultimately gives her work meaning too. Williams — working with Reichardt for the fourth time — may never crack a smile, but when this unspoken realisation dawns on Lizzy, it infuses this low-key film with hard-won joy.