It Doesn’t Get Much Campier Than The Gallerist
Natalie Portman turns a corpse into art in Cathy Yan’s slick satire.
Natalie Portman is camp. It’s a reality that the actress’ fiercest detractors — and even some of her loyal supporters — seem to miss, yet it’s instrumental to enjoying her work. Portman won an Oscar toeing the line between camp and prestige as a tweaked-out ballerina. If you like the Star Wars prequels, “it’s camp!” is a common excuse used to justify that affinity. May December? Vox Lux? Jackie? High camp. And sure, that tightrope walk doesn’t always work, but in the case of something like The Gallerist, it’s an instrumental piece of a larger, zanier puzzle. It almost doesn’t work without it; those who caught its Sundance premiere would argue that it doesn’t work at all. For those tapped into the right frequency, however, it should be a lot of fun.
The Gallerist is the latest from director Cathy Yan, last seen behind the camera of the gonzo Harley Quinn centerpiece Birds of Prey. Though the former is decidedly glossier and a lot more buttoned-up than Yan’s foray into the comic book realm, it shares its wacky spirit — it just takes a bit of time to unspool it.
Portman is Polina Polinski, a tightly-wound diva with an eggshell-white bob and an inherent need to make her mark on the art world. After a nasty divorce from her ex-husband (Sterling K. Brown), Polina uses her settlement money to convert an old Jiffy Lube into a pristine gallery. Her first exhibition, timed to Miami’s Art Basel, has been built around the “untested” Stella Burgess (Da’Vine Joy Randolph) and her ranch-themed collection. There’s something to be said for the trend of white women platforming Black artists for cultural clout in her efforts here — and art influencer Dalton Hardberry (Zach Galifianakis) seems to be the only one brave enough to say it. That’s partly because Dalton knows Polina well: he knew her before she molded herself into a purveyor of good taste, and he claims to see right through her façade. Polina might have integrity, a virtue she hopes to project by sponsoring “a true outsider” like Stella, but she has no guts, Dalton says. No real eye for art.
Then Dalton slips on a puddle and impales himself on “Daddy’s Shears,” a comically large, dangerously sharp recreation of the “emasculators” used to castrate cows. With the gallery set to open in minutes, Polina has no time to hide the body or even call the cops. Instead, her mind flashes to countless cadavers artfully rendered in classic paintings: Dante and Virgil. The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli. Pietá. She drapes Dalton’s body in as baroque a fashion as she can and calls it art, much to the chagrin of her squirrely assistant Kiki (Jenna Ortega). Within an hour, the gallery is a viral hit — but with Dalton’s body rapidly decomposing, Polina’s sudden fame will soon sour along with it.
The Gallerist demands a huge suspension of disbelief from “go.” At just 88 minutes, The Gallerist feels a lot longer than it actually is; ironically, though, things flow more smoothly as the complications mount. Yan, who co-wrote the screenplay alongside James Pedersen, keeps us occupied with a perpetual spinning of plates. As Polina strives to keep her artist happy (she did fundamentally change the meaning of her biggest piece), manage the crowd now swarming the gallery, and discreetly dispose of a corpse, Yan’s camera cruises through the space at off-kilter angles. Repetitious gags add to both the mounting tension and the plot’s farcical nature: When Polina and Kiki disappear into the bathroom for what feels like the hundredth time to rehash the details of their plan, it’s impossible not to be at least a little tickled.
It helps that Portman and Ortega aren’t the only performers tapped into Yan’s level of absurdity. Catherine Zeta-Jones threatens to steal the show entirely as Marianne, a ghoulish art dealer who assures Polina that “Daddy’s Shears” could make a killing at auction. Then there’s Daniel Bruhl, a nepo baby desperate to prove his worth as a serious art collector, who proves to be a perfect (and unbelievably comical) Patsy. Charli xcx also cameos as one of the few who sees Polina’s coup for what it is. Randolph and Brown, meanwhile, ground The Gallerist by confronting Polina’s so-called integrity.
Such a “serious” examination of the art world doesn’t completely gel with all that satire and slapstick. It’s not totally clear if The Gallerist wants to be an absurd heist or a major industry reckoning. It treats most of the questions it faces as rhetorical, even those that would fix a plot hole or two. Still, it’s hard not to be charmed by it, even in its flaws. The Gallerist is a lot of things: a campy, claustrophobic showcase, a vibes-based backstage dramedy... Its value is in the eye of the beholder, but it won’t serve to dismiss it outright.
