Residency

Brooklyn in February. A house-studio, where nine contemporary women artists meet to work together. The art residency is multidisciplinary. Here people paint, make installations, organise fashion shows, play rock music, and shoot films. There is no boundary between art and life; it’s a fabulous utopia. However, it soon turns into something completely different: one more brushstroke, one more song, one more take, and there will be savagery, blood, horror…

 

Winnie Cheung, who is both the author of and a character in the film, plays a reckless game: with art, with genres, with cinematic truth. All of the characters are real people, and the film convincingly positions itself as a lively and honest documentary. With bold editing, interesting quotes, and serious music, Residency appears to be an engaging example of genuine testimony until the craziness begins. Without reason. Rather, there are numerous reasons: ambitions, evil geniuses in a restricted space, and the dual (both creative and destructive) nature of art in principle. But the main thing is the director’s position. Cheung chooses adventurous artistic hooliganism. 

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