Category: Visual Arts

REVIEW: Sasha Velour in the Big Reveal Live Show

the eye online Leave a comment

The historic stage of the Michigan Theater sits sparse, except for a comfortable cyan lounge chair, a cozy floor lamp, a vintage two-knob TV, and a dainty desk with Sasha Velour’s The Big Reveal: An Illustrated Manifesto of Drag neatly atop it.

On screen behind them, a prerecorded Sasha Velour dangles a disco ball from an elegant, silver finger. As Jennifer Lopez’s Waiting for Tonight begins to play, Sasha caresses the disco ball with her other hand, and as a spotlight appears on the cyan lounge chair, the audience waits with bated breath.

In an instant, the chair blanket is yanked back to reveal…

Sasha Velour…inside the chair…and I was gagged by possibly one of the best live reveals I’ve ever seen.

Her ruby lips gleamed unobstructed through a face-sized hole, as she began to lip sync sections of Kylie Minogue’s futuristic In My Arms, Dionne Warwick’s forever cherished A House is Not a Home, and Brandy’s *perfect* rendition of In My Own Little Corner.

As the chorus of Britney Spears’ Stronger begins, Sasha sheds the chair from which she came, only to become…

Sasha Velour…the chair, again…I was gagged again.

She struts in a brocade gown of the same cyan fabric, cream tassels on her shoulders and hips, and chair arms accentuating her tightly-corseted waist…a hybridized perfection of camp, glamour, and humor on full display to close act one.

As the energy in the room quells, Sasha reflects on her grandmother Dina, who came to America from China as a Jewish immigrant during World War II and, “would always encourage me [Velour] to channel my inner diva.” Showing videos of herself as a child, Sasha cherishes these moments aloud on stage, gushing about how Dina’s love and enthusiasm shaped her as a child, and now as a performer.

In one of a series of hilarious video skits, Velour switches between various personas, who comment on drag’s significance across communities: a medium of history, of fun, of revolution. Velour asserts that drag can be anything, for anyone, and this fundamental freedom affords drag infinite power.

But what happens when this freedom is at stake? Unafraid of asking the difficult questions, Velour challenges the audience to both revel in the privilege of being able to attend her show and share in her sense of growing urgency towards collectively understanding what these next few years will bring, not just for the queer community, but for everyone the Trump administration seeks to erase.

Drag is not dangerous for children, and helps to embolden those who need creative outlets of expression… “I have always been Sasha Velour…drag has a spiritual mission to give each other the biggest gift in life — to be seen and documented as we really are…to write our own stories”. The Big Reveal is everything a drag performance should be: It acknowledges what drag has been, what it is now, and everything it can be, while somehow completely exceeding the expectations of any audience member or Sasha Velour fan in the audience.

Even if you didn’t have a chance to see Sasha Velour, supporting your local drag scene helps to contribute to the parts of her show that still sit within me as I write this — drag is more than just a performance, it is the establishment of ones’ identity in relation to themselves and their community. It is a way of surviving, thriving, and ultimately, existing in the world in a profoundly beautiful way. A way of life that has always existed, and will continue to thrive in spite of those who seek to refute it.

REVIEW: Babygirl

Abigail Goodman 1 Comment

O Nicole Kidman, what can’t thou do? What heights canst thou not reach?

In Babygirl, Dutch director Halina Reijn is intent on liberating us unenlightened Americans from the shackles of shame and fear. Her modus operandi is to throw us headfirst into a world of dominance and submission, of power-plays and betrayal. Without pitch-perfect performances from Kidman and her costar, the sizzling Harris Dickinson, Babygirl would flatten into cheap comedy. Yet against all odds, this movie works, turning us on and teaching us a lesson all at once. 

It takes a special type of plot to have several people in the audience walk out halfway through the movie, one of them muttering “disgusting…” under her breath. Babygirl is sure to be repulsive, even offensive, to some people. The movie follows Romy Mathis – girlboss CEO of a robotics automation company, mother to two well-adjusted teenagers, and wife to an adoring husband (Antonio Banderas). Yet something is off in this charmed life. In the very first scene, Romy, after faking an orgasm with her husband Jacob, tragically and hilariously runs to another room and masturbates to cheap Internet porn. Romy has love and riches, but is hiding a shameful secret that is ruining her life: she craves submission in the bedroom. Samuel (Harris Dickinson), an enigmatic intern at her company, quickly sniffs this out. He draws her into an affair that she can’t resist, and the film snowballs from there. 

Although Babygirl received generally positive reviews, the negative feedback tends to point out that actually, Romy and Samuel are villains. “In a real-life scenario, Samuel would have been instantly fired,” says the Standard. The Guardian notes that as Romy conducts her affair, “Her poor husband…is left wrangling the kids and trying to direct his latest off-Broadway show.” NPR laments that the film “…feels out of touch with our post-MeToo era.” This criticism misses the point. Babygirl is a work of fiction, not a documentary. Its purpose is to lead us out of the noose of shame and into the open air of pleasure. 

For this reason, the scenes featuring only Romy and Samuel are the lifeblood of the film. In their first rendezvous, Samuel is unsure of himself but organically comfortable with giving orders. Go stand in the corner. Get down on all fours. Eat this strawberry-flavored candy out of my hand. “You’re mine,” he says without words. The scene is a potent mix of awkwardness and passion. It works because Samuel is neither a sadist nor a douchebag. Unlike the infamous Christian Grey, who “likes to whip little brown-haired girls like you because you all look like the crack whore—my birth mother,” Samuel wears his power well. Samuel knows what he’s doing. 

In another scene, a nervous Romy invites her lover to a fancy hotel room. She follows his directions, taking off her dress and getting on her knees in front of him. The scene changes, and suddenly it is Samuel performing for her, swaying to George Michael’s “Father Figure” as Romy’s eyes follow his body. This is the female gaze at its best, and Samuel is its perfect recipient. Here is someone comfortable in his own skin. Here is someone who knows that what he puts out will be well-received. Reijn’s talent is channeling just the right combination of danger and allure. Beauty, power, dominance – it doesn’t take much to convince the audience that these are virtues to be admired.

There are certain aspects of this movie that I think are superfluous. Reijn alludes to Romy’s childhood, which was apparently full of cults and gurus, in engineered EMDR therapy sessions. Romy’s assistant ends up discovering the affair and extorting Romy for a promotion. There is a girl-boss final moment that feels contrived. None of these B-plots are necessarily bad, but they’re a distraction from the central theme: what Romy wants and what Samuel can give. 

When the pair are inevitably caught, culminating in a violent altercation between Jacob and Samuel, Jacob is distraught that his wife would be enraptured by such cheap thrills like submission. “Female masochism is nothing but a male fantasy,” he mutters through tears. “No, you’re wrong. That’s a dated idea,” says Samuel, to the man he has just cuckolded. The people agree, Harris Dickinson. Give the people what they want. 

REVIEW: La Raza Art and Media Collective: 1975–Today

Maggie Watson 1 Comment

Fifty years after its founding, the University of Michigan Museum of Art celebrates the legacy of La Raza Art and Media Collective, a trailblazing group of Chicano, Hispanic and Latino/a creatives. Founded in the 1970s, the group organized community gatherings and produced creative work, including a multimedia journal. Now, these works from the collective’s history are brought into conversation with the present, in La Raza Art and Media Collective: 1975–Today.

At the center of the exhibition is a collection of material from the early issues of RAM Collective’s journal, including original copies of artwork that have been preserved by the Bentley Historical Library. This collaboration brings a different kind of experience than viewers may be expecting at an art museum. There are gems of poetry, artwork and essay writing among the spread of pages, providing a fascinating glimpse into the lives of Latino/a students and artists from fifty years ago, but finding them requires a willingness to spend some time reading through small print.

However, visitors searching for dramatic visual impact will be more than satisfied with the gallery space itself. One wall is papered with silkscreen prints by U-M Stamps School of Art & Design professor and alum Nicole Marroquin (MFA ‘08), using more imagery drawn from the Bentley archives. Another is painted bright green and features a mural painted by George Vargas, a founding member of RAM Collective, along with Nicole Marroquin and Mina Marroquin-Crow. And the gallery’s two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows are adorned with ribbons of transparent film created by Michelle Inez Hinojosa (Stamps MFA ‘23) that give a colorful tint to the light flowing into the gallery and the view onto State Street. Together, they bring a bold and bright atmosphere to the exhibition, letting the vibrant history and present of the university’s Latino/a community spill out of the journal pages and onto the walls of the museum itself.

A view of the gallery windows, featuring the work “The Ribbons, the Future” by Michelle Inez Hinojosa.

Of all the contemporary artworks created to accompany and transform the historical work of RAM Collective, a highlight is the collection of zines produced by Stamps School of Art & Design students, working in Nicole Marroquin’s Social Spaces class. These zines engage with the history of RAM Collective and the artists and communities involved, drawing on the Bentley’s archives to continue the mission of the collective in the present.

One zine, created by a group of students (Megan Fan, PingYu Hsu, Julian Kane, Jaden King and Violetta Wang), presents a selection of images from George Vargas’s sketchbook during his time as a graduate art student at U-M. The students write, “As art students ourselves, we became inspired by this work.” Another, produced by Liana Kaiser, presents a poignant collection of poems from a Detroit organization called La Casa de Unidad Cultural Arts and Media Center. Visitors are encouraged to take a zine with them when they leave, “so that La Raza Art and Media Collective carries on.”

Zines and other materials created by Stamps students in Nicole Marroquin’s Social Spaces class. The backdrop is silkscreened wallpaper created by Nicole Marroquin.

The exhibition’s true strength is how it embodies the spirit of collaboration, coalition-building and solidarity that the original RAM Collective was founded on. The array of contributions from original members of the collective, more recent Stamps alumni and faculty, and current students brings multiple generations together to continue La Raza’s mission.

La Raza Art and Media Collective: 1975–Today is on view at UMMA through July 20th. All exhibition signage is presented in both English and Spanish.

REVIEW: Blue Velvet

Abigail Goodman Leave a comment

When I was 15 years old, my life changed forever when my dad took me by the shoulders, looked me in the eye, and said “Watch Blue Velvet. Trust me.”

At the moment, I wasn’t quite aware that he was prompting me to watch a two-hour psychosexual meditation on the dark underbelly lurking beneath society’s surface, featuring sado-masochism, drug-addled perverts, and erotic blackmail. But watch it I did. Then I closed my laptop and stared up at the ceiling for an hour contemplating my newly-lost innocence. 

David Lynch, the celebrated director of Blue Velvet who recently passed away at the age of 78, was a giant of filmmaking. In movies like Blue Velvet, Mulholland Drive, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, and Eraserhead, Lynch introduced audiences to revolutionary ways of seeing the world. I always suspected that Lynch was some kind of hologram placed on Earth by an advanced alien species, hovering somewhere between genius and madness, meant to transport us mortals into a higher plane of existence. His filmmaking talent even added a word to our lexicon – “Lynchian” – meant to connote surrealism that uses a dreamlike aesthetic to expose malice, absurdity, or hypocrisy in society. This “uncanny valley” quality that Lynch’s films embodied earned him a cult following as well as mainstream appeal. 

Nowhere are these Lynchian elements more at play than in Blue Velvet, released in 1986. The film features Dorothy (Isabella Rossellini), a battered woman blackmailed into sexual slavery by the sadistic Frank (Dennis Hopper). In an ironic twist, Frank’s games reveal masochistic urges repressed deep in Dorothy’s psyche. She is simultaneously repelled and titillated, expressing these conflicting emotions by initiating a sadomasochistic relationship with the clean-cut Jeffrey (Kyle MacLachlan), who is ashamed of his urges but drawn to the alluring older woman. The three characters – Frank, Dorothy, and Jeffrey – exit society’s confines and enter a lusty place of debauchery and degeneracy. 

Through colorful metaphors, a haunting score, and cast members that are clearly willing to bare all for the sake of art, Blue Velvet earned its place in film history. The marriage of surrealism and erotica, tragedy and eros, death and love – these are philosophical concepts that artistic leaders have wrestled with for millennia. More recent films featuring BDSM dynamics, like Secretary, Fifty Shades of Grey, and Babygirl, can only aspire to the emotional power that Blue Velvet oozes. Each scene is perfectly calibrated to press the audience’s buttons. So enduring is the film’s appeal that the Michigan Theater specifically chose to play it to honor Lynch’s legacy. This type of masterpiece earns either one star or five stars, but nobody leaves the theater without an opinion. 

There is only one filmmaker who can somehow master horror, erotica, surrealism, and mystery all at once. That man is David Lynch. In my opinion, to even write a traditional film review of his work is to diminish his genius. So I will leave it at that – anyone who hasn’t watched Blue Velvet is missing out. 

REVIEW: Gladiator II

Abigail Goodman Leave a comment

Gladiator II is not my Roman Empire. The much-anticipated sequel to Ridley Scott’s Gladiator, released in 2000 to an enraptured audience, is deficient in almost every respect. From meandering plotlines to undeveloped characters, Gladiator II will have audiences on the edge of their seat – ready to get up and leave. 

While Gladiator saw Maximus Decimus Meridius – an exiled Roman general – reduced to slavery, forced to serve a corrupt emperor, and on a noble quest to avenge his murdered family, Gladiator II sees Lucius Verus Aurelius – the exiled Prince of Rome – reduced to slavery, forced to serve corrupt twin emperors, and on a noble quest to avenge his murdered family. Yet where the first Gladiator lived up to its promise of grandeur personalities fighting a larger-than-life battle, Gladiator II falls short. Paul Mescal (a grieving Lucius), Pedro Pascal (the Roman General Acacius), Connie Nielsen (Maximus’s former lover Lucilla), and Denzel Washington (the delightfully conniving Macrinus) are all phenomenal actors. But they cannot make up for a script that has no idea where it’s going. 

Director Ridley Scott seems determined to recreate the magic of the first movie, yet turns his all-star cast into Atlas, holding up a failing plot on their backs. Dialogue veers off into the melodramatic, especially when it comes to Lucilla, who apparently has no role in this movie except to stand around looking beautiful and sad. Twin emperors Geta (Joseph Quinn) and Caracalla (Fred Hechinger) giggle about like two spoiled, all-powerful drag queens, but do little in the way of meaningful development or emotional depth. The most tragic of all is Mescal, who spends much of the film glowering into the distance and changing deeply-held beliefs on a whim, depending on what a stagnating plot needs him to do. 

Nor can extravagant fight scenes and wild plot twists make up for the lack of any emotional core. Scott leans heavily on CGI in his Colosseum – great white sharks, rings of fire, and whatnot – but I heard more suppressed laughter in the theater than oohs and ahhs. Scenes that were meant to spark tears were forced into the plot too quickly without the necessary suspense, attempting to break tension that just wasn’t there. I’ll withhold the two major plot twists for the sake of spoilers, but even Washington, playing a former-gladiator-turned-master with big ambitions, is not given the proper tools to make his character work. Crucial scenes were either introduced too quickly, giving me whiplash, or drawn-out excruciatingly slowly, making me yawn. 

I’m not saying that Gladiator II doesn’t have entertaining moments, but you would be better served re-watching the original. Because without a strong sense of direction, Gladiator II’s Rome is pure clownishness. 

REVIEW: Anora

Abigail Goodman Leave a comment

Yet another masterpiece from director Sean Baker. “Anora” is possibly the movie of the year, winning the prestigious Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival last May. The film manages to be wildly entertaining and heartbreakingly tender, fusing together comedy and tragedy in a sincere, never tacky, plot. Baker has added a crowning jewel to his already impressive list of achievements – his movies, like “Tangerine,” “Red Rocket,” and “The Florida Project,” are all superb depictions of people living life on the edge. 

Anora (played by the excellent Mikey Madison) is a sex worker dancing in an upscale Manhattan club. She’s bratty and charming and sexy; the golden strands woven into her hair, her big brown eyes and pouty lips, and a thick Brooklyn accent seduce both clientele and audience. We might be tempted to make assumptions about this street-smart stripper, but she’s unfailingly competent at her job, wooing the helpless men around her with a sharp confidence and glamour, and even pulling out an accented Russian upon request. 

Yet Ani – as she prefers to be called – makes a cardinal mistake: she falls in love at the job. The object of her mascaraed eyes is Ivan (played by the up-and-coming Mark Eydelshteyn), who woos Ani with an ADHD, marijuana-fueled manic appeal and a ready checkbook. The relationship is initially transactional but quickly morphs into genuine affection. The trouble is that Ivan’s sexual adventures are paid for by his father, a wealthy Russian oligarch, who will surely not take kindly to his son’s gallivanting with an American stripper. 

Indeed – as anybody but Ani and Ivan could have foreseen – the relationship does not have a happy ending. I’ll spare any spoilers, but let’s just say that there is a scene where Ivan, pulling up his pants with one hand, sprints away from his own mansion and into the city, leaving behind two hired thugs and a weeping, half-naked Ani in his wake. This marks the end of the first act of the film, and it’s only downhill from here. 

It would be easy to divide the characters of “Anora” into two categories. The bourgeoisie and the plebeians. The upper class and the working class. The rich kids and their imprisoned servants. The buyers and the sellers. Baker avoids such cliches. Ani is no damsel in distress. She is unfailingly self-sufficient, brash and confident, completely sure of her own worth. But even the toughest Brooklyn girl has a breaking point, as one of the aforementioned hired thugs, Igor (played by a silent-but-strong Yura Borisov), empathetically foresees with a knowing eye. I say “empathetically” here because Igor and Ani are two sides of the same coin. Two young people, essentially enslaved by a spoiled brat, competently but dutifully making their way through an uncaring city. 

In a way, Ani is much like the impoverished kids playing make-believe in the Orlando motels that Baker depicted in “The Florida Project.” She has learned how to take care of herself, but yearns for love. She is equal parts brazen and naive. She and Ivan live in the same city, but in completely different worlds. And as she soon finds out, her dreams are pure fantasy.