Dusty Wright's Culture Catch - Smart Pop Culture, Video & Audio podcasts, Written Reviews in the Arts & Entertainment

A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 20 May 2025 15:16:37 +0000

A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester Robert Cochrane May 20, 2025 - 11:16

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Music Review

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concert review

Gaelynn Lea and James Holt

The Band On The Wall, Manchester

17 May 2025

Manchester is the recipient of sunshine, not rain on a mid-May Saturday. The streets buzz with the clink and chatter of an almost European ambience, as people make the most of the driest stretch of days in many years. The Band On The Wall, however, maintains an inviting darkness despite the change in the weather.

Waiting to be served, I am approached by a small lady in a wheelchair as she glides past potential obstacles with an easy confidence. She smiles, "Are you the support act's father?" Just as I begin to explain that I'm not, the woman beside me announces that she's the mother of James Holt and introduces her husband, the true father sought in the question. Gaelynn Lea, in her motorised chair, immediately scoots across to them. This composer, violinist, and singer I've never seen live, but this almost introduction makes me relish the prospect of the afternoon's performance with an added frisson of anticipation.

The support act, the previously mentioned singer-songwriter James Holt, specialises in confessional, articulate pop maladies. An engagingly relaxed presence, his songcraft is immediately evident. There are shades of Dylan, Emitt Rhodes, and the cohesion of fellow Mancunian troubadour John Bramwell ( I Am Kloot). It's easy to discern why he's garnered admiring plaudits from many, including Brian Eno. The songs are reflective and complex, with sixties sway and swagger, and by his admission, they aren't always the happiest, but therein lies beauty. "The Wedding" fillets his sorrow over a failed love interest who marries another guy, a surprisingly up-tempo affair given the loss attendant in its subject matter. This elicits a playful heckle from Gaelynn, who is perched at the back of the venue, as she berates him for enjoying a good wallow in despair, which he manfully agrees is true. I would recommend his "Sanguine On The Rocks" release to those in search of new aural delights, a treat that will not disappoint, nor indeed will any of his work.

When Gaelynn takes the stage with her guitarist Richard Carter, there's a faint ripple of anticipation. Because of her small stature, she plays her violin like a cello. It is a perfect arrangement, an inspired compromise. Her sound builds via loops and pedals, and with a knowing nod to her accompanist, with whom she shares an eloquent rapport and fluency, the show begins. The songs are unique confections that enter the heart and haunt the soul. At times her voice fuses with the violin, as though it, the instrument, and she are as one. The sound has a gypsy baroque element, neither country or folk but a beguiling hybrid of both with a sense of refined classicism. An enchanting and mesmerising energy pervades. As she performs, an expressive reverie is present in her eyes. There's an element of Cyndi Lauper to her voice, along with the dedicated concentration of an artist in perfect fusion with her evocative creations.

Lea is promoting the music she wrote for Daniel Craig's Broadway portrayal of Macbeth, and introduces these pieces a little apprehensively on account of them being aired out of context, but she needn't have worried. They are beguiling and work above and beyond their initial purpose as incidental motifs to complement a revered drama. Their pathos and musicality become extraordinary. She expresses her disappointment that many of her favourite musical moments were cut from the play, but is grateful that she got to hear them, albeit once, from a Broadway stage, in an empty, darkened theatre.

Her haunting ballad "Some Day We'll Linger In The Sun," written about her husband, a beautiful gesture she only confessed to much later, is one of the afternoon's highlights. At times, I felt tears rise as the music soared and flowed. Later, she even whips the crowd into an audience participation sing-along. All too soon, the magical reverie is over, the moment flown. Her intrinsic artistry is slowly reaping the recognition her diligent efforts deserve. Collaborations with Low have raised the stakes in her favour, as did her Tiny Desk win (video at top) in 2016. Her first visit to the UK in several years, these shows are a timely reminder of her unique gifts. This Manchester gig is the Minnesota natives' first matinee performance, a uniqueness she is happy to experience and embrace.

Afterwards, Gaelynn mingles with her audience for a chat, a captivating soul with an infectious giggle. On the metro, I was deflated to realise her compact discs had slipped out of my not-quite-sealed rucksack. Beyond the initial sense of loss, a faint hope rose that they'd be found by someone who'd take them home and discover moments of grace from my lost tracts of musical delight. Perhaps matinees, though a thing of the past, might have a bright future. A new kind of afternoon delight in Manchester, Minnesota, and beyond.

Gaelyn Lea revue

What a superb revue , totally captures what was a magical concert.

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Labors of Love

Chet Kozlowski — Mon, 19 May 2025 22:15:31 +0000

Labors of Love Chet Kozlowski May 19, 2025 - 18:15

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Film Review

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drama

The family in the new Portuguese film Autumn is close. Maybe a little too close. Mom is cupping Dad's balls when interrupted by a call from their Son, who's packing for college. Mom leaves Dad hanging, so to speak, to go help Son find his bongos.

Later, Mom will lament that her son "was raised in my belly. Closer would be impossible. But since he came out, he's just been getting further and further away. Sometimes I wish he would come back inside me." Yikes.

Dad is a man-child, a self-professed "adventurer," who doesn't appreciate Mom's angst. But even he reacts to the coming separation when wrestling with his grown Son. Their coupling goes into slow motion, and the camera lingers as he holds the boy, smelling him in.

Then there's Sister. She, too, is touchy-feely and makes goo-goo eyes at her brother. (Dad won't see Sis as a woman until she is half-dressed and in distress. Again, yikes.)

Maybe it's how they do it in the country. The family is isolated and has spent a life in close proximity, their only contact with the outside world being those who come off the occasional train.

Autumn (more literally translated from the Portuguese as My Little House) is the debut feature of Portuguese director António Sequeira. It's a first film, and the choice of subjects in first films can be revealing. Is it wrong to see a sexual subtext running under these scenes? Does Autumn simply display the joys of being in a demonstrative family? All we can safely assume is that the film is a labor of love.

Dad Octavio (Miguel Frazão) is a burly Zorba type, singing and dancing, and expecting everyone to join in. To him, life is all happy-happy joy-joy. He is given to racist jokes, wrasslin', and hunting gifts on birthdays. Mom Susana (Elsa Valentim) is the family’s soul and dutiful center. Son Tomas (Salvador Gil) is ambivalent: he'll leave to start a new life, but also doesn't mind having his feet rubbed (and kissed) by his doting Mom. And Sister Belinha (Beatriz Frazão) has plans of her own to escape. She aspires to attend fashion school in Germany. She presents her brother with a shirt she has sewn, and is put off when she sees Son’s new girlfriend sporting it.

Autumn bursts with color. The family home is a glorious mess, a riot of tapestries and tchotchkes. You want to live there yourself. Autumn is fast. It zips along, flashing subtitles and riding a score of pop-ish songs that overexplain easy emotions.

But speed doesn't mean substance. No one in the family has been bruised by the ways of the world. For all the commotion, viewers may realize that they're not seeing much. The characters, with the notable exception of Mom, don't really ripen or mature. They get older, yes (in one of the film's more fun flourishes, young Mom and Dad stroll along the beach, Dad in front pontificating. Matching shots of Mom have her holding a baby, then an increasingly older child, until she is old and is burdened by a fully-grown Son on her back.

That's not to say Autumn isn't entertaining. Its zest can be contagious. It's a stylish exercise, reminiscent of other joie de vivre movies, and you might well get swept up in the ruckus. Even so, Autumn has all the elements of an impending storm, but the storm never comes.

______________________________

Autumn. Directed by António Sequeira. 2023. Portuguese with English subtitles. 114 minutes.

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But You Can Never Leave

Chet Kozlowski — Thu, 08 May 2025 13:19:19 +0000

But You Can Never Leave Chet Kozlowski May 8, 2025 - 09:19

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Film Review

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film noir

A man wakes up in a cheap motel room. A woman lays next to him bathed in blood. He tries to wake her but she’s dead. He can’t remember what happened but does recognize her as the half naked woman who knocked on his door earlier, claiming to be pursued, and ran into the bathroom.

We are clearly in Film Noir territory.

Over the next 100 minutes or so, the intriguingly titled Cinema of Sleep will switch us back and forth between past and present, terror and regret, substance and style. We’ll track the man’s effort to vindicate himself. But hey, he’s on his screen too: in a cutaway, we see that the man sits in a darkened movie theater, watching himself waking up. Shadowy figures surround him and accuse him of murder. As they lead him out, the man pleads for someone—anyone—in the audience to help. But everyone in there is asleep in their seats.

Cinema of Sleep takes place mostly in that motel room. It’s the tale of refugees. The man, Anthony, is from Nigeria. He’s looking for a job, planning to bring his family to the US. He and his children are inveterate movie-goers. He assures them, “I will be invisible, but you will feel me in the cinema.” He speaks with them by cell phone when the reception is good, but they have their own problems and appear to be in imminent danger (when reception is poor, he rants: “This is America! I thought you always had cellular service!”). The woman, Abrihet, is escaping an abusive marriage. She’s from Ethiopia, an immigrant like Anthony. They are “stuck between two worlds,” she tells him.

Cinema of Sleep is in black and white, its aspect ratio, or screen shape, a tight square that confines the action and heightens the claustrophobia. Its handheld camera recalls Cassavetes’ Faces in some places, Ulmer’s Detour, even Lynch’s Eraserhead in others. Its characters bring up Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon, and its credits are superimposed over Charlie Chaplin’s 1917 film The Immigrants. And don’t forget the nod to Herk Harvey. An old TV set in the room is propped on a chair and tuned to a channel that shows silent movies.

Cinema of Sleep comes from writer/director Jeffrey St. Jules, whose other features include 2014’s Bang Bang Baby and 2024’s The Silent Planet (Cinema of Sleep was made in between those, in 2021, but is only now available on VOD). Mr. St. Jules made his bones as who The Globe and Mail has called “Canada’s master of the surreal short form.” In this film, Jordan Oram’s cinematography and Dev Singh’s editing are crucial to the aesthetic vision.

As Anthony, Dayo Ade commands the screen (the filmmakers know the visual impact of a very dark-skinned man in a very bright white shirt). He runs the full range of emotions, and his performance is intense and nuanced. Getenesh Berhe is an able foil as Abrihet, the woman of mystery, whose distress turns to warmth. The pair’s relationship grows and anchors the film, especially in their extreme closeups while recounting their pasts. Other notable cast members include David Lawrence Brown and Felix Montogomery as seedy detectives, Olunike Adeliyi as Anthony’s wife, and Jonas Chernick as Anthony’s neighbor Frank, a hipster who knows the score.

Speaking of scores, composer Darren Fung channels Bernard Herrmann, providing lush music that would make Hitchcock proud.

Cinema of Sleep touches on dislocation, family, connection, the illusion of film and its restorative power. The good news is that while it echoes other films, it does so with depth and affection. Cinema of Sleep is not just a genre exercise. It’s bold and original.

__________________________

Cinema of Sleep. Directed by Jeffrey St. Jules. 2021. Available on VOD. Runtime

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A Lifetime In A Night

Gary Lucas — Tue, 06 May 2025 01:16:50 +0000

A Lifetime In A Night Gary Lucas May 5, 2025 - 21:16

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Theater Review

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theater

By Róisín Nolan

We went to the premiere of Conall Morrison's engaging new production of Colin Murphy's The United States vs. Ulysses, which opened on April 3rd, 2025, at the Irish Arts Center on 11th Ave and 52nd Street in New York City, and highly recommend it if you're a fan of Joyce's novel.

I'm extremely partial to Joyce—my favorite guitarist after Groucho Marx—and Ulysses is my favorite ever book, now largely (sadly) more widely unread than ever (do most Gen Zers even read? Judging by the demographic of the audience last night, apparently not). A famously "difficult" novel that needs to be absorbed at least twice before the full richness of its poetic language and design kicks in, I first stumbled across a bootleg copy way up on a shelf in our house growing up in Syracuse—a copy that my father liberated from the Zeta Beta Tau frat house at Syracuse University.

James Joyce in Zurich 1917

Funnily enough, this kind of random encounter with a supposedly "smutty" book sure to corrupt the impressionable youth of America is exactly what the prosecuting attorney in this courtroom drama (a play within a play couched as a March of Time CBS radio show) warns the judge of in his argument to ban the book in America after its first publication in Paris in 1922. In the early '30s, publisher Bennett Cerf aimed to publish the book in America through his newly established firm Random House, and needed a test case to refute charges that it was "obscene" once and for all. His attorney more or less smuggled an imported copy of the book into the US in plain sight of customs officials, where it was seized as pornographic literature, thus setting up this trial.

In 1934, after the conclusion of this trial, Cerf successfully published the first authorized US edition of Ulysses. The ensemble cast, imported from Ireland for this production and juggling both American and Irish accents when acting out passages from the book itself, is superb, and really gives a flavor of the impassioned controversy this revolutionary novel sparked. A reverie during a five minute courtroom break in the trial turns into an extended riff on the phantasmagoric "Circe" episode set in Dublin's "Nighttown"—and there is plenty of Molly Bloom's (then) shocking sexually frank language from her "yes I said yes I will Yes" soliloquy counterpoised with the judge's long-winded delivery of his (happy for us) verdict near the end.

Bravo to the Irish Arts Center for bringing this first-class production to NYC. The play will run through June 1st, 2025.

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Mild Thing

Chet Kozlowski — Thu, 24 Apr 2025 14:37:20 +0000

Mild Thing Chet Kozlowski April 24, 2025 - 10:37

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Film Review

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horror

Call of the Void is billed as "cosmic folk horror." It's a genre mash-up, combining a cabin in the woods, demonic rituals, mind control, and warnings from Mother Nature. The film opens and closes with posterized images of twisted tree trunks accompanied by an ominous score. However, what’s sandwiched in between is a surprisingly conventional narrative.

The story centers on Moray, a city dweller who's retreated to the woods. She's there to heal from the recent death of her brother. Moray's solitude is interrupted when a group of young adults move in next door. Rather than being a nuisance, they play music (yet another recent rendition of the folk song Black Girl, Black Girl, which is renamed the more PC My Girl, My Girl), which attracts Moray, who takes a break from sketching to listen in. They are Lucy who is obliging and the only woman, Cole who is surly, Darryl who is the affable and the only Black person, and Sterling who is secretive and doing his doctorate on something called "psycho acoustics." Her neighbors share breakfast with Moray and invite her on a hike. She resists but is won over. "You guys are so interesting," she tells them. "You don't seem to care too much about the real world." They have a particular affection for another traditional folk ditty, The Cuckoo.

In the woods, Moray detects the group dynamics are a little off: Darryl appears to be odd man out, especially in a game of Marco Polo (Cole reminds him "You don't have to do this," even as he primes him. But for what?) Sterling, clearly the leader, keeps insisting everybody drink the water from bottles he supplies. But Moray has her own and is left in the woods after dark. Annoyed, she pokes around and finds evidence that more is going on than she bargained for.

First time director James B. Cox sets a creepy table. He builds tension well, without benefit of jump scares or gore. His pace is leisurely and confident (he works from his own script). Conspiratorial conversations seep through walls. Degrees of darkness guide scenes: shapes rise out, figures move in mirrors and behind translucent windows. The mystery deepens as the shadows do.

The cast is professional and their performances are solid, given what they have to work with. Caitlin Carver (Moray) has been in Chicago Fire, I Tonya, and Netflix’s Dear White People; Mina Sundwall (Lucy) in Netflix’s Lost in Space; Richard Ellis (Sterling) in TV series like S.W.A.T. and The Rookie; Christian Antidormi (Cole) in Starz's Spartacus and Netflix's The Lincoln Lawyer, and Ethan Herisse (Darryl) in Nickel Boys.

In the end, Call of the Void turns towards the personal. It won't spoil anything to say that the last thing the viewer sees before the closing credits is the dedication "For Mom."

_____________________________

Call of the Void. Directed by James B. Cox. 2025. From Nighthawks Entertainment. Runtime 93 minutes.

Thank you for watching and…

Thank you for watching and taking the time to review Call of the Void. I thoroughly enjoyed reading your thoughtful comments on our film.

Cheers, James

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Porcini, Fisticuffs, Pastis, and Murder

Brandon Judell — Sun, 20 Apr 2025 21:52:11 +0000

Porcini, Fisticuffs, Pastis, and Murder Brandon Judell April 20, 2025 - 17:52

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Film Review

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thriller

If you are of a certain age and blessed with an artistic bent, you just might remember the critically acclaimed thriller Stranger by the Lake from 2013. Directed by Alain Guiraudie, here is a lovely paean to French gay nudists who engage in fellatio, tanning, sodomy, the backstroke, and some friendly conversing about the silurus, an invasive species of catfish that eats everything, including ducks and fellow siluruses.

Oh, no! I feel a metaphor coming on.

Yes, there's also a queer, mustachioed murderer on hand, indeed a silurus of sorts. The hunky, tanned, noticeably endowed Michel (Christophe Paou) one day, when he believes all of his fellow bathers have left the beach, drowns his lover, which is an effective but not highly recommended way to end a relationship, especially if there’s a witness on hand.

And the sweet, attractive-with-a-low-fat-body-count Franck (Pierre Deladonchamps) is certainly a witness, but not the sort who discloses crimes to the authorities. Instead, he falls feverishly in love with Michel, and the duo have graphic sex with the aid of body doubles, no doubt to avoid upsetting their mères and pères when the old folks stream Stranger on Amazon Prime for the equivalent of $3.99 in euros.

Now you might be asking, "Why bring up Stranger by the Lake since this review is not focusing on that critically acclaimed, highly entertaining, tense, noirish exercise in gay outdoor-erotica?" Well, for three reasons.

One: The film changed my life. I immediately stopped dating LGBTQI+ serial killers after viewing it.

Two: Stranger's director, Monsieur Guiraudie, has a new offering that was featured at last year's New York Film Festival and is now hitting art houses.

Three: Misericordia has numerous similarities to the director's earlier work while still being quite dissimilar.

Well, for starters, misericordia is Latin for mercy. Relatedly, there's the "misericorde dagger," used to deliver mercy killings during the High Middle Ages, speeding mortally wounded knights out of their misery. Aha!

Anyway, Monsieur Guiraudie has explained: “The title came to me while I was writing the script. For me, mercy exceeds the question of forgiveness. It has to do with empathy, with understanding others beyond any morality. It's about reaching out to others."

However, the mercy strewn about in these two features is anything but selfless. In the former film, Franck is passionately in love with and continually aroused by his neck-slitting man-killer. In Misericordia, a horny, romance-hankering priest (Jacques Develay) is all too ready to absolve the object of his affection, an admitted one-time killer, from a future in a dank cell or worse.

This reminds me of Voltaire's statement: "God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh." In a Guiraudie offering, God's creatures might not be doubling over with merriment, but you do sense that several are ready to spout a smile . . . and the critics are ready to spout superlatives for Misericordia.

Playlist: "A Dostoevskian masterwork [by] one of the greatest filmmakers working today."

Wall Street Journal: "A sickly funny thriller."

Cahiers Cinema: "The best film of the year."

The antihero here is the thirtyish, not-unattractive Jérémie (Félix Kysyl), who's at that transitional stage of life when one slowly sheds off the bloom of youth while simultaneously displaying the shimmer of future middle-agedness: a transitional stage where men can still play the flirty fool and be forgiven.

Well, we first meet our Jérémie in his auto driving down an empty country road in southern France from his home in Toulouse. The foliage is already red and yellow, so winter can't be far behind. His destination: Saint-Martial, a small town with a population of 238 as counted in 2022.

Jérémie grew up there but has been away for quite a while with no immense yearnings to return. So why now? Circumstances. He's an unemployed baker of breads, his girlfriend and he are no longer an item, and of more significance, his mentor, the man who taught him all about yeast, has suddenly died, a heterosexual master baker he loved with all his heart, an affection that was not returned at least romantically.

Jérémie drives up to his old boss's home to pay his respects. There the new-borne widow, Martine (Catherne Frot), welcomes him into her home and asks the out-of-towner to stay in the old room of her son, Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand). Vincent, now married, used to be Jeremie's close childhood friend. He accepts.

Jump to the funeral where the priest intones: "Jean-Pierre left home early to learn his trade as a baker. He devoted his life to giving us bread." Do not mourn, he continues: "We Christians believe that death is not an end. We believe it’s simply a passage into the kingdom of love and light."

That's encouraging.

Afterwards, there's a dinner for family and friends, and folks wonder whether Jérémie will continue the now-shuttered baguette business that services the town and surrounding villages.

Won't the inhabitants just shop for gluten-filled pastries at grocery stores now that Jean-Pierre is dead?

No! No! No! There's no comparison, some insist. This is France, where people live by their bread.

Jérémie ponders the offer, but not before Vincent again and again angrily accuses him of wanting to hook up with his mother and orders the "interloper" to leave town. If Jérémie had, this would have been a very brief film.

What follows is much drinking of pastis; hunting for newly sprung-up porcini in the woods; a possible seduction of a rather heavyset villager; some physical wrangling; a murder; and a small-scale police hunt among the loveliest of landscapes.

Interestingly, when asked if Misericordia is a romance besides being an example of film noir, Monsieur Guiraudie replied: "At first glance, I'd say yes. There's a real love story underlying the whole film. But there are hidden ones as well . . . . Our hero is at the center of this circulation of desire, and little by little he finds himself a prisoner of the village."

Another question he might have been asked is, isn't it also a sly black comedy? One huge joke as intended by Voltaire's God? Of course.

(Misericordia is still playing at a few theaters, although it’s better appreciated with wine than popcorn. Fandango.com will tell you where. While still not streaming, Apple TV+ and Mubi seem to be announcing its forthcoming presence on their sites. Of course, you can always check out JustWatch.com for the final word. Also, I’m told Stranger by the Lake is available on the Criterion Channel, Strand Releasing Amazon Channel, plus a few others you can seek out on your own time.)

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Movement In Space

Jay Reisberg — Sat, 19 Apr 2025 21:03:08 +0000

Movement In Space Jay Reisberg April 19, 2025 - 17:03

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Theater Review

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dance

BODYTRAFFIC: This Reminds Me of You

The Joyce Theater, NYC

April 15 -20, 2025

BODYTRAFFIC is a Los Angeles-based dance company, and their current production, This Reminds Me of You, is a spectacular, over-the-top dance experience. Period. By turns exhilarating, poignant, intriguing, surprising, and captivating, it consists of three sequences created by the most innovative choreographers imaginable. Performed by eight dancers, their energy, presence, and finely-honed artistry inspires nothing less than continuous wide-eyed amazement. Each sequence generated the kind of rich wonderment for which audiences yearn.

The initial dance, "Mayday," includes the timeless music of Buddy Holly and explores how life might be cut short at any moment–and how we carry on regardless, as if "tomorrow" is guaranteed (while knowing full well we never possess such certainty). Throughout this dance, a bright red model airplane is prominently carried and handed off from dancer to dancer, always remaining aloft. Each Buddy Holly song has its own "dance," the choreography is decidedly on the athletic side, including marvelous solos and beautifully crafted ensemble work, concluding with a wistful note. "Mayday" was created by multiple award-winning choreographer Trey McIntyre, who founded his dance company, the Trey McIntyre Project, in Boise, Idaho.

next sequence, "I Forgot the Start," is choreographed by Matthew Neenan, whom the New York Times called "one of America's best dance poets." In a video, Mr. Neenan said this work is about our mental acuity, our mental awareness, self-love, self-discovery, and those arduous times in life when we struggle with just how we're going to hang on. "I Forgot the Start" takes place in an otherworldly atmosphere, in which the dancers are attired in loosely fitting diaphanous costumes designed by Márion Tálon de la Rosa. Above the bare stage is a huge rectangular screen with projected greenery, nature, sky, mountains, etc. The movements are slow and meditative and are accompanied by a fittingly dreamy soundtrack, which includes "In this Heart" by Sinéad O'Connor and "Paka Ua" by Ozzie Kotani and Daniel Ho. "I Forgot the Start" concludes as two male dancers remove their shirts and slowly commence an intimate dance, barely touching one another as they move to the sound of "Flint" by Sufjan Stevens. It seemed as though the audience almost stopped breathing at this point, moved to stillness by the penetrating presence exuded by this exquisite pair of dancers.

The concluding dance, "Incense Burning On A Saturday Morning: The Maestro," was created by choreographer Juel D. Lane, who found his inspiration for this sequence in the artwork of former football player Earnie Barnes. [You may recall the television show Good Times, in which the character J.J. Evans was a painter—but his paintings were actually the work of Earnie Barnes.] This sequence transforms the soul of Mr. Barnes' paintings into dance and is the most technically intricate piece in this dance concert. The entire performance is viewed through a scrim, onto which are projected brush strokes, views of Mr. Barnes' paintings, video clips, and still photos. It starts with black/grey brush strokes, with a male dancer in semi-darkness sitting on a stool with his back to the audience, engaged in painting. The wave of his brush strokes, or their erasure, is projected on the scrim as he moves his hand. The scene progresses with the whole dance company joining in, driven by the sound of intense percussion-driven Afro-Cuban music. The images on the scrim create an arch over the dancers, isolating them from the whole stage, and there are moments when the arch gets larger or smaller as the scrim projections evolve.

The costume designer for this sequence is Jarrod Barnes, loosely basing the dancers' attire on the outfits worn by characters in Barnes' paintings.

One of the key characters in the paintings is known as "the woman in the yellow dress." She comes to life on the stage—and I do mean life as she gyrates wildly to the pounding beat and is joined by the ensemble, giving the audience a high-powered, jubilant conclusion to this sequence and the entire evening's performances.

As an audience member, I have reached the point of ceasing to desire to be merely entertained. Instead, I want to be moved by what I witness, to possess a greater sense of our humanity and the possibility of compassion for others, all while seeking other merits that authentic art generates and bestows on an audience. The entirety of This Reminds Me of You is emphatically such an inspirational miracle.

It is appropriate to name and honor by name each of the dedicated, dynamic dancers who appear in This Reminds Me of You: Chandler Davidson, Donnie Duncan, Jr., Katie Garcia, Pedro Garcia, Anaya Gonzalez, Alana Jones, Joan Rodriguez, and Jordyn Santiago.

I further acknowledge and thank all the lighting designers, the costume constructionist, musicians, singers, videographers, those up in the "the booth," and of course, Tina Finkelman Berkett, co-founder of BODYTRAFFIC.

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Alchemical Romance

Millree Hughes — Thu, 17 Apr 2025 14:50:39 +0000

Alchemical Romance Millree Hughes April 17, 2025 - 10:50

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Art Review

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painter

Flame, 2024 oil on linen 44 x 31 ins.

"My spirit moves to tell of shapes transformed/into new bodies." - Ovid

PPOW gallery feels hushed by Judith Linhares's new suite of paintings. There's a chapel-like quality to the room; each painting gives off a subdued glow. But these are not windows; rather, each piece is like a slab of the material that this dimension is made of.

The painted subjects are occupying an impossible space. They defy the normal rules of perception. A motif of a knitted quilt appears under many of the figures and vases of flowers. However, frequently, their own perspective lines throw the vanishing point into the deep distance, even though the shadows on the wall behind the objects make them seem very close. At other times, the knitted surface tilts wildly towards us, pitching the objects out of the canvas as we fall into the "space."

The lighting is often both front-lit, top-lit, and sometimes side-lit too. A recurring double daisy image seems to have flower heads lit on one side and the other in shadow despite this hard light not affecting anything else in the space. The place that we, the viewers, are in seems to light the canvas and create shadows like Plato's cave that dance behind the flowers in an animated cartoony silhouette. This light appears to come from a fire or candles.

In one of the most spectacular paintings in this powerful show, "Flame," the quilt has been shrunk(relative scale also follows its own rules in this world), a figure, which may be the artist as a young girl holding a toy rabbit. We can't make out her expression.

A tiny votive candle on a red bandana casts unflickering shadows in four directions, like the spokes of a wheel. It reminds me of a pavement memorial that you might see in a Hispanic neighborhood. There are doublings and intimations of mortality throughout this show. The light will eventually go out.

Behind it is a disproportionate brass vase sporting dark flowers. Behind that, a double circle of radiating lines is either the apex of a circus tent without its pole or a new kind of nonlight casting a dark double burst.

Judy has always employed stripes. As backgrounds, wallpaper hinted at tents or otherworldly rays of light. They can be parallel or radiating from a single source or, as in "Backyard Bouquet," performing an impossible half zig zag under a vase of flowers.

Flower paintings have long been part of her output. In more figure-orientated shows, they've acted as less loaded images so we can step away from the psychic drama of the figure pieces and enjoy the bliss of her colors and forms entirely for themselves. But now the flower paintings are filled with loaded images. A drawing of two open hands in a book. An old photograph of a man. An image of a pregnant woman is a reminder that in her world, from girlhood to womanhood, women give of themselves and that even though they encounter dangers like narcissistic men, other jealous women, and angry lions, they do so without fear.

In this dimension, we have to accept the rules, whatever they are, or run the risk of having our hippocampus frozen by the contradictions in an unresolvable paralysis.

PPOW Gallery 392 Broadway New York, NY 10013, Tuesday - Saturday, 10:00 am - 6:00 pm

Tel 212-647-1044 (tel:212-647-1044)

info@ppowgallery.co

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Incident Report

Chet Kozlowski — Mon, 14 Apr 2025 14:37:44 +0000

Incident Report Chet Kozlowski April 14, 2025 - 10:37

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The Canadian film Darkest Miriam is a character study of a mild-mannered librarian whose life is defined by her low-key job. Miriam fields cryptic messages, unsigned screeds, and the unwelcome touches of lonely men. She wanders amidst rows of books and gazes out windows. She dresses in simple khakis and sensible shirts. She rides her bike through the Toronto city streets, her biggest risk being occasionally letting go of the handlebars. At home she doffs her clothes at the door and assumes a crouch in the shower.

The film is written and directed by Naomi Jaye, also known for 2013's The Pin. Darkest Miriam is based on a novel by Martha Baillie more aptly titled The Incident Report (the film's title can suggest something sinister). Ms. Baillie collaborated on the script, with Maureen Dorey. The reports in question become a narrative thread of disses, offenses, hopes, and dreams. Quirky characters abound: "Fainting Man," an immigrant who can’t afford health insurance, and so constantly faints and recovers; "Pale Female Patron," who won't give up the computer; and a fellow who whacks off to auto manuals and leaves the mess. Miriam fills out reports but never submits them.

Darkest Miriam is really a showcase for Britt Lower, a talented actress who is currently having a moment in her starring role in the TV series Severance. Ms. Lower has a pleasing expression framed by red hair bluntly cut into bangs. Even while still, her large eyes express much. And her stillness here pays off in her character's eventual flowering.

The monotony of Miriam's life is broken by Janko, a Slovenian cab driver, played engagingly by Tom Mercier. They scope each other out in a park and eventually meet by comparing scars. Janko has a neat little apartment, paints volcanic abstracts, and is an easy fit. He tells Miriam, "The most frightening moment of my life is now because I've met you."

Darkest Miriam is a throwback to mumblecore movies of the '90s: low budget, largely improvised films set mostly in Brooklyn (in fact, HBO’s High Maintenance is amongst Ms. Lower's credits). Darkest Miriam never comes to a boil but is appealing in its steadiness. One of the executive producers is Charlie Kaufman (Adaptation., I'm Thinking of Ending Things). Darkest Miriam matches Mr. Kaufman's quirkiness but not quite his panache.

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Darkest Miriam. Directed by Naomi Jaye. 2024. From Game Theory Films. On digital platforms. Runtime 90 minutes.

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Honey From The Hive

Chet Kozlowski — Tue, 08 Apr 2025 02:08:57 +0000

Honey From The Hive Chet Kozlowski April 7, 2025 - 22:08

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Time passes slowly here in the country, which is the whole point of the new film, That They May Face the Rising Sun. The countryside in question is Ireland’s. Our visit will be punctuated by languid, ruminative shots, a rich celebration of a simpler way of life.

We see it through the eyes of middle-aged British expats, Joe and Kate Ruttledge. Joe is a writer, Kate a photographer and gallery owner. They’ve bought a farm in this small lakeside community as an escape, but find themselves deeply immersed in the day-to-day life. Their rustic kitchen is open to all. Their small farm is the hub of activity, and they host a variety of characters and confidences. Out of earshot, one character asks another, “Still here, are they?” surprised that they haven’t scurried back to the comforting chaos of London.

The clash of the old and new ways is the film’s frisson. Joe has found “all that life could give of contentment and peace.” Erecting a structure with a crusty local, Patrick, he pauses to appreciate the quality of light defined by the frame. Patrick has no such sensitivities. “People have been locked up for saying less,” he replies. Joe praises the tranquility. Patrick hears the birds chirping and offers, “listen to the fucken quiet and see if it don’t drive you daft.” A business associate of Kate’s visits and comments that Bill, another local, is like “something out of a Russian novel.” Kate bristles. “He’s all ours,” she bristles. Offers Patrick: “Country’s full of battered folk.”

Barry Ward—whose face you’ll instantly recognize from many BBC shows—plays Joe as a generic Everyman, accommodating and wise yet capable of great empathy. He moves through the movie wearing the same white button-down shirt, whether jotting notes or doing heavy labor. Kate—played by Anna Bederke, a German actress of classical beauty—is beatific, blessed virgin of the kitchen, childless herself yet everyone’s mother. As narrative figures, Joe and Kate provide beacons, a point of focus, that raise That They May from a reenactment of the simple life into a meditation about its loss.

The understated acting of Philip Dolan (Jamesie), Brendan Conroy (Bill), Lolar Roddy (Patrick), John Olohan (The Shah), Ruth McCabe (Mary Murphy), and Sean McGinley (Johnny), et al., in their roles adds to the authenticity. There isn’t a false note in the cast; kudos to all.

Director Pat Collins has the features Silence (2012) and Song of Granite (2017) to his credit. His screenplay with Eamon Little is a tapestry of serene moments so nuanced that they don’t immediately reveal their literary shape. First viewing is simply a delight: a surrender to the power of cinema as it delivers its sumptuous message. On second viewing, one appreciates more the lynchpins of the plot: church (if not religion), rituals, family and community, gossip, and legacy.

All this is abetted by Keith Walsh’s editing and Richard Kendrick’s cinematography, and their lingering shots of the countryside. The ever-present chirping birds are modulated by sound recordist John Brennan.

That They May Face the Rising Sun is authentic to a fault. Hay is baled, sheep are herded, fireplaces lit, we run across an open field to meet the mailman, beehives are tended for honey, we stroll down bucolic lanes laced with green foliage. (This motif, people walking away from the viewer toward an infinite horizon, becomes the equivalent of “walking toward the light.”)

It's also telling that the action is set in the 1970s, undiscernible but for its lack of technology. Joe writes with a Bic pen and a portable typewriter. In its subversive way, That They May Face the Rising Sun posits a world before the internet and what social media might do (or probably has done) to make this idyll a thing of the past.

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That They May Face the Rising Sun. Directed by Pat Collins. 2023. From Fís Éireann, Ireland, and the BBC Northern Ireland. Distributed by Juno Films. Runtime 111 minutes.