theartsdesk Q&A: director Kelly Reichardt on 'The Mastermind' and reliving the 1970s

Kelly Reichardt has a thing about losers. You often see them in her films. It's the failure of American individualism that concerns her.

Even when she tells stories of her country's history, like in the anti-western Meek's Cutoff (2010) or the 2019 Old West drama First Cow, her focus is always on marginal characters – sometimes homeless (Wendy and Lucy), sometimes betrayed by casual infidelity (Certain Women) – that are never romanticised, but presented with all their faults and quirks. 

Reichardt's new film, The Mastermind, is again about an outsider, but this time there's a twist. Our sympathies are increasingly put to the test as the unlikely heist movie, set in the 1970s, unfolds. What begins as the rebellion of a privileged free spirit railing against the constraints of the bourgeoisie turns out to be the odyssey of a loner who ultimately does not shy away from violence and leaves a trail of personal disaster behind him.

The setting is New England where former art student JB Mooney (Josh O'Connor), a married father of two, struggles with his life as an unemployed carpenter. His conservative parents (Bill Camp, Hope Davis) keep nagging him about his stagnating career, while his wife Terri (Alana Haim) is understanding, but also visibly frustrated. 

In secret, JB is working on his big coup. Together with two similarly clueless mates, he is plotting the seemingly perfect theft of some abstract paintings by Arthur Dove from the local museum. But, of course, it doesn't work out like that. 

Reichardt directs the heist segments in her trademark intimate, slow-moving naturalistic style, with unglamorous details and a cool jazz score. As unexpected developments occur, the film quietly shifts into existential psycho-thriller territory – Reichardt loves to deconstruct genre, she explains in this interview that took place immediately after the film's premiere at this year's Cannes festival.

PAMELA JAHN: What interested you in shooting a heist movie set in the 1970s at this time?

KELLY REICHARDT: Fair question. One could argue whether I had no bigger fish to fry. The truth is, I've been reading about art heists for a long time, and then I found this story about some teenage girls that got caught up in a heist in Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1972, which resonated with me somehow. I went to art school in Massachusetts, so maybe that was the first seed, and from there I slowly grew more and more into the idea.  

Is there an artwork that you would like to rob yourself if you could?

I would have taken any of those Arthur Dove paintings. I love his work. But also, when I'm in a gallery or museum, I always ask myself, if I got to bring one piece home with me, what would it be? It's a fun game to play, especially because I live in a small apartment with not a lot of wall space, so it wouldn't really work. But that said, Dove's paintings are quite small. You could just put one in your pocket, unlike in the film.

Was that a problem?

Yes, in a way, because we couldn't change the original size of any of them. In fact, we used his biggest pieces. We even tried to expand on the weight and framing of them just to make the heist look a little more bumbling.

The film not only takes place in the 1970s, but it also has that old-fashioned texture and feel to it. Why was that important to you?

It's the end of the 1960s, which feels like the end of something in America. And usually everyone says the Sixties ended at the Altamont Free Concert, headlined by the Rolling Stones. But then Nixon was in power, the Vietnam War was ongoing, and Watergate was just around the corner. And there was something that I was looking for, a mix of the Hollywood New Wave and some French heist movies that I love, like The Red Circle by Jean-Pierre Melville, although I'm probably more of a Monte Hellman kind of person. Also, when you're my age, you can't not think of the photographs by William Eggleston and Stephen Shaw that captured that time so brilliantly. So, there is a bit of that, too.

Did you have some references in mind for Josh O'Connor's character (pictured right) as well?

His character derived from the Bruce Dern, Warren Oates, Elliott Gould kind of guys – a person that's smart enough to get himself in trouble, but not necessarily smart enough to get out of trouble again. And in the country at the time there was this rebellion going on against the middle-class suburban life, but there wasn't a real alternative to it. So, in a way, I think of him as sort of rebelling against his privilege while at the same time being willing to lean into it whenever it's convenient.

And he needs to lean into it a lot, especially after the heist scene itself turns into a disaster...

That goes back to me thinking, if I would do it, how would it really be for me to take these artefacts off the wall, run down the stairs, get in the car. What's the weather going to be like? Or the traffic? And what if we don't film the scene with a moving camera and close-ups, like it's usually done, but from a wide angle that shows you all the small things that can go wrong. How does that change the dynamic of it all?

It gives those scenes a slapstick appeal, but it's also clear that you're not making fun of any of the characters, no matter how small their parts. Quite the opposite – you seem to care for them deeply, even down to the police. Why is that? 

I grew up with goofy cops. Those guys remind me of some of my dad's detective friends. Both my parents were in law enforcement. My father was a crime-scene investigator and my mother was a narcotics agent. 

In 2022, you made a film called Showing Up with Michelle Williams playing a sculptor managing her creative work, family, and friendships. Has art become a refuge for you in this chaotic world we live in right now?

I think it's everybody's refuge if [they] want to take part in it. You watch the news and see what's happening, and it's like the worst things you can imagine. But, then, I just saw this retrospective of Jack Whitten's paintings at [ New York's] Museum of Modern Art, and suddenly realised this is also a reality... this is filling me up and not draining me.

Have you ever been drawn to trying other art forms, like painting, instead of making films?

I have no talent for other art forms, not like other people do. My friend Todd Haynes, for example, does beautiful paintings for two weeks, and then he goes off to make another film – that's him. I can't do that.

Instead, you have been teaching at Bard College [Annandale-on-Hudson, New York] and other art colleges for over ten years. What has lecturing about film taught you?

You're in a constant conversation of breaking down films with young people, looking with them at different movies for the first time. And I can turn them on to the things I want to. Maybe this is why I'm constantly deconstructing genre, because that's what I do when I'm teaching.

Is there anything that you feel you've changed in terms of your filmmaking style or craft because of the way you teach? 

I think editing affects how I make films, but teaching... I don't know. I'll just pick what subjects I want to think about for 16 weeks. What is always fascinating for me is the idea that [the students] are not only watching films but making them for the first time, but in a world that is so different from when I was their age. I often feel like I'm fighting a losing battle, trying to get them to just slow down for a minute and think about narrative beats and structure and blocking. But at the same time, I enjoy being around young people. It's a good combination [with making my own films]. 

The two worlds I live in balance each other quite well. I wouldn't want to teach if I didn't make films, but I also like the freedom of not having to produce something all the time. Every film always feels like the last one. But it's okay because my health insurance comes from my teaching job, and that's all we live for in America these days.

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