At the beginning of Erica
Tremblay’s
(“Little
Chief”)
“Fancy Dance,” Jax (Lily Glad-
stone, “Certain Women”) and her
niece Roki (Isabel Deroy-Olson,
“Three Pines”) steal a car. It is
the calmest auto theft I have ever
seen. Roki takes the keys while
their owner fishes and Jax dis-
tracts him by washing her shoul-
ders across the river. The water
sparkles. The sun is bright and
lazy.
But with this sunny, low-effort
theft, Tremblay begins a master-
ful escalation of tension. Jax’s
sister (Roki’s mother) has been
missing for several weeks; if they
don’t find her, child protective
services will permanently take
Roki away from Jax and their
home at the Seneca-Cayuga res-
ervation to stay with her semi-
estranged grandparents. For a
film centering on the injustice
of the so-called “justice system”
and a search that takes aunt and
niece into dangerous places with
hostile people, it remains rela-
tively calm and quiet, even when
the characters’ worlds are break-
ing.
Rather than diminish the
film’s
power,
this
quietness
allows the film to be personal.
The character dynamics are
prioritized over shocking the
audience — while danger and
injustice are ever present, vio-
lence is only implied. When a
character is found dead, we don’t
see her body, only witness the
phone calls to her family. With-
out the distraction of horrifying
images, the viewer notices what
they otherwise wouldn’t: the
development of Jax and Roki’s
relationship, Roki’s coming of
age and Jax’s internal wrestling
with her role as a caretaker.
Gladstone’s performance is
stunning, internal and personal.
With few words, we see her love
for Roki, sadness and buried
anger when the people meant to
help her — the police and child
protective services — don’t care
about finding her sister and want
to take Roki away. With Trem-
blay’s gentle touch, the film steps
back and lets Jax’s actions speak
for themselves, pulling the view-
er close to her until we tap into
the film’s emotion. That’s when
the film grabs them, takes con-
trol and wraps them in its arms
so it can break their heart.
The film ends on a note of
joy shrouded with imminent
destruction
and
heartbreak.
Once again, Tremblay avoids
showing us something truly vio-
lent and terrible, instead only
implying what is to come; the
camera focuses on a scene of the
family and happiness that Jax
and Roki have fought for. The
colorful lighting, reminiscent
of lighting under a street lamp,
and movement as they dance in
this final scene convey the film’s
heart, the bond between them.
For a moment, we turn our eyes
away from themes of injustice
and toward those of family.
“Fancy Dance” doesn’t let
you return to reality and leave it
behind. That final scene doesn’t
stay in the theater. It works its
way like a thorn into your heart.
When the characters’ world is in
peril, it is heartbreaking. I cried
in the theater and walked out in
a daze. As I walked across the
parking lot, I reflexively put in
my AirPods, ready to move on
with my day.
I walked for five minutes in
silence, unable to choose a song.
There was nothing I could listen
to. I tried to convince myself to
pick one, maybe a happy song so I
could pull myself out of the heart-
break. But the film remained
with me, and I didn’t want to stop
feeling it, to stop thinking about
it, to let this movie go. I took out
my AirPods and put them away.
The Michigan Daily film writers love to watch and discuss films at the cutting edge of storytelling and there is no place better to do so than the Sundance Film Festival. After two years
attending the festival only online, writers and editors for the Film Beat have trudged through snow and taken planes, trains and automobiles to arrive at Park City, Utah. Our coverage will
include the premieres of dramas, romances, documentaries and everything in between. Welcome to our discussion on films made with Oscar winners and first-time filmmakers alike.
The true god of rock ‘n’ roll in ‘Little Richard:
I Am Everything’
ZACH LOVEALL
Film Beat Editor
ERIN EVANS
Senior Arts Writer
Elvis Presley’s appropriation
of Black artists’ work has long
felt like a fact everyone knows.
Few, however, know the history,
details and names behind the
work — it might be mentioned
during conversations on the
history of rock ‘n’ roll with no
further discussion about the
personal effects this had on
Black creators. “Little Richard:
I Am Everything” seeks to
change this narrative.
Learning
about
rock
‘n’
roll musician Little Richard’s
life was like riding a roller
coaster — hit repeatedly with
ups, downs, twists and turns.
The
documentary
keeps
an
energetic pace, informing the
viewer
about
Richard’s
life
while
staying
colorful
and
fast-moving.
Richard
Wayne
Penniman was born in 1932 in
Macon, Georgia with a limp. He
was mocked for dressing in his
mother’s clothing and hated by
his own father, a pastor at the
local church. He started singing
in his church choir, inspired by
Sister Rosetta Tharpe, whom
he saw perform at a young age.
After his father kicked him out
of the house, Richard traveled
the Chitlin Circuit during the
late 1940s, meeting performers
like Billy Wright, an openly gay
musician, and Esquerita, an
energetic piano player. These
artists inspired Richard, and
he synthesized their work into
his own flamboyant style of
open queerness, a flashy stage
presence and erotic topics for
his songs; around these artists,
he was comfortable accepting
his queerness.
Richard
started
seeing
success in the ’50s when DJs
played
his
music
on
radio
stations. Then he was hit with a
major music industry roadblock:
white
musicians
like
Elvis
and Pat Boone were outselling
his music as their own. The
documentary is quick to draw
attention to the racist reality
of a black man having his work
stolen
by
white
performers
for their profit. Despite this,
his Richard’s genderqueer act
continued to draw attention,
leading to financial success
which, in turn, led to drug use
and a love of orgies. Then, in
1957, he turned to Christianity,
declaring his music and gayness
sinful. From then on, Richard
flipped
between
his
music
career and Christianity, trying
to balance both with years of
trauma incurred as a Black,
Queer artist in the segregated
south.
There are many things we
can learn from Richard’s life,
many of which aren’t inherently
wrong. He was a man of
contradictions: a religious zealot
that constantly sinned, a gay
icon that turned his back on the
community and an originator
of an entire music genre that
wasn’t properly recognized for
nearly half a century.
However, the documentary’s
editing
feels
uncomfortable,
letting
Richard’s
story
tell
itself. Instead of giving each
person
who
knew
or
was
influenced by Richard time
to contribute to a cohesive
story,
sentence
fragments
from different speakers are cut
together to form a new phrase
on
multiple
occasions.
The
pacing of these moments is
jarring and distracts from the
story. A barrage of stock photo
images occurs not once, but
twice, in a misguided attempt
to elevate the story by showing
how deeply in love Richard was
with life. This attempt utterly
fails,
making
them
acutely
aware of the documentary’s
presence in the story, instead
forcing a disconnect between
Richard and the viewer and
making them acutely aware of
the documentary’s presence in
the story. Deep emotions would
rise up from my stomach while
watching a recorded speech of
Richard chastising the music
industry, only for the poorly
timed editorializing to squash
those emotions.
This is not to say that the
commentary from modern-day
Black and Queer artists was bad
throughout the documentary.
Spotlights on performers who
Richard
inspired,
like
Billy
Porter, were moving. Interviews
with Richard’s bandmates were
funny. When Black historians
presented
testimonials,
they were eye-opening. The
documentary
presents
such
a depth of knowledge and
admiration for Richard that
by the end of the film, my
annoyance at the editing felt
less like a stab wound to the film
and more like a mosquito bite.
“Little
Richard”
ends
not by focusing on the dark
parts of Richard’s life, but on
the beautiful. We see only a
fraction of the artists inspired
by Richard, from David Bowie
to Prince, all the way to Harry
Styles. While we are told in
no uncertain terms that the
appropriation
of
his
work
by
non-Black,
non-Queer
performers can be tantamount
to the erasure of his work,
Richard’s
influence
will
be
felt for generations to come.
We just have to not forget the
man himself, Richard Wayne
Penniman, along the way.
MAYA RUDER
Daily Arts Writer
Watch ‘Fancy Dance’
and have your heart
quietly broken
Photo Courtesy of the Sundance Institute
“Infinity Pool” is the stuff of
nightmares — a totally bizarre,
completely whacked-out fever
dream that somehow manages
to be a horrific achievement
despite
its
directionless
premise.
Brandon
Cronenberg
(“Possessor”),
the
son
of
“Crash” director, is known for
his affinity with body horror.
Like father, like son. “Infinity
Pool” does not deviate from the
expectations of his graphic and
disturbing filmography, but it
is easily one of Cronenberg’s
most unusual and inventive
films to date. He forsakes any
restraint and allows himself to
swim in the seemingly limitless
depths of his imagination to
transform an idyllic vacation
spot into pure hell.
Despite
what
you
might
expect
from
Cronenberg,
“Infinity Pool” is not the
head-spinning,
nauseating
two hours of senseless chaos it
was marketed as. It frequently
took on a sedative storytelling
rhythm. Cronenberg attempts
to isolate his main character
from
the
outside
world,
causing the film to feel bleak
and
sterile,
even
during
scenes that aim to thrill or
shock the audience. Save for
a psychedelic, erotic montage
and semi-frequent sequences of
bloody violence, this film does
not rely on grotesque visuals
as much as Cronenberg’s other
films to tell its story. While, in
Cronenberg fashion, this film
goes heavy on gore, “Infinity
Pool” is less sickening than it
claims to be. Cronenberg lets
his characters take more of
the wheel, focusing less on the
horror-sci-fi and more on the
feral behavior of his human
subjects. That’s not to say this
isn’t a depraved film.
At a resort on the fictional
island of La Tolqa, James
Foster (Alexander Skarsgård,
“The Northman”) and his wife
Em (Cleopatra Coleman, “A
Lot of Nothing”) enjoy a slow-
paced vacation meant to cure
James’s writer’s block. When
the Fosters meet mysterious
couple Gabi (Mia Goth, “Pearl”)
and
Alban
(Jalil
Lespert,
“Dreamchild”), things take a
devastating turn after a joyride
ends in a fatal hit-and-run. To
his horror, James discovers the
sci-fi consequences of La Tolqa
island: murder is punishable
by execution unless a clone
stands in your place — only
the rich survive. After James
is initiated into this mind-
bending secret, he joins Gabi
and Alban on a bender that
descends into sadistic violence
and hedonism. Hidden beneath
the horror are conversations
on
privilege,
morality
and
overindulgence,
though
Cronenberg’s point is largely
lost among the chaos.
Cronenberg
wastes
no
time revealing La Tolqa law
enforcement’s
futuristic
operations, leaving little time
for the viewer to bond with
James. We root for him and
hope he finds his way back
home, but we don’t actually
feel
much
for
this
bland
man
with
no
personality.
Skarsgård, who is known to
excel in dark roles, is able to
switch dexterously between
vulnerable victim and deviant
barbarian, responsible for any
sympathy we feel for James,
while the story itself does not
allow this character much.
All the backstory we’re given
about James is that he’s a tall,
handsome freeloader who once
wrote an unsuccessful novel —
contents unknown. James is
rarely caught in emotionally
vulnerable moments, his only
states of being limited to fear,
misery and euphoria. Near
indifference for James must
be an intentional choice by
Cronenberg, as it is hinted that
the James we see for most of
the film is not the man to whom
we
were
first
introduced.
This potential plot twist is
quickly dropped, and rather
than caring for James or being
interested in the implications
of this possibility, we are left
feeling nothing but terror and
occasional disgust.
This film is not difficult to
follow, but simply aimless and
shallow.
Cronenberg
misses
an opportunity to create a
compelling science fiction tale
by prematurely dropping the
“cloning” bomb and letting it
fade into background noise.
What should be the central
plot
point
is
lost
to
the
exposition, and “Infinity Pool”
is simplified to a “for a bad
time, call…” film.
Though
“Infinity
Pool”
lacks weight and purpose, this
doesn’t feel like a particularly
bad thing. Beyond privilege
and morality, there’s nothing
more profound to understand
about this film — it is an
experience meant to probe
and invade the viewer’s mind.
And it does. Cronenberg colors
outside of the lines and rejects
the idea that his films have to
be anything but the ride he
wishes to take us on. Goth and
Skarsgård — both commanders
of
the
horror
genre
—
deliver
unsurprisingly
epic
performances
and
shoulder
Cronenberg’s creative freedom
unapologetically.
“Infinity Pool” is an uncut,
unforgiving
peek
into
the
extraordinary,
preternatural
mind of Cronenberg. Like it or
not, love it or hate it, such wild
imagination is a rare sight to
behold.
Brandon Cronenberg begs no pardon in sci-fi nightmare ‘Infinity Pool’
Photo Courtesy of the Sundance Institute
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