Throughout history, cinema and the small screen have been used as gateways into the lives of others. Many times, these doors are exploitative, cheap sojourns into "how the other side lives" in typical Hollywood fashion: Arm's length activism and feel-good stories about how love can conquer racism and hatred against all odds, despite it being alive and well across the globe. Katori Hall's singular vision, P-Valley is a no holds barred injection of reality, highlighting the desperation, splendor, and unapologetic pride of sex workers in the Mississippi delta. This is a haunting portrayal of minority women who, for the most part, are usually portrayed as tropes. However, in Hall's all female directed world of neon nightmares and glitter kissed dreams, these women are given the spotlight to tell their stories.
From the second its disquieting theme song, Down in the Valley, starts, the revelation that this show is unlike anything ever created slowly begins to set in. Hall spent years talking with exotic dancers and other sex workers while researching for her play on which the show is based. There's a rhythm to the dialogue, filled with slang and provocation that would make Al Swearingen blush. Where Deadwood infused noir sensibilities into the western, P-Valley takes these conventions and inverts them to display hypocrisies and injustices that already live in plain sight. Crooked politicians scheme in the shadows while champagne bottles pop. Religious community leaders manipulate their followers in pursuit of the almighty dollar while women are beaten and children go hungry. The absolute miracle of this show is that these truths are presented in such a matter of fact manner, it is impossible for them to be dismissed.
While sex is of import, the female gaze is the prominent feature. Every fiber of P-Valley is dominated by the intrinsic understanding that women are at the creative reins. The dance sequences are tastefully shot, and the women's natural strengths and athleticism are the focus over nudity and cheap thrills. This isn't to say that there aren't sex scenes, P-Valley is full of them, and yet each carnal interaction is irresistibly sexy. The love making is clumsy, risqué, and unbelievably steamy, putting HBO T & A tentpoles to absolute shame. It is a testament to the craft and sensitivities of Hall and her crew in how real everything feels, from the sweat and glitter to the rain of green on the runway and the sex is icing on the cake.
The world of Chucalissa, MS is a bifurcation of modern America. On the surface, it is a used up place of lonely streets and dark alleys that is being preyed upon by capitalistic vampires, able to feed upon the sheep due to decades of oppression and an ignorant embrace of the ideals of the past. But underneath lies a vibrant world with its own culture, dialogue, and rituals. A place where the pursuit of the stack is all that matters as it is the key to freedom. This is where the noir conventions begin to converge. Femme Fatales running from their dark pasts ply their arduous trades while soldiers trying to forget the horrors of war find love in unexpected places. It is a heartbreaking, yet simultaneously charming experience that endlessly hypnotizes with its authenticity.
The final ingredient is Nicco Annan's unforgettable performance as Uncle Clifford, the genderfluid owner of The Pynk, the club at the center of the valley. The business of running the club sees Clifford wearing many hats, including the stern father figure while also being a caretaker and the manner in which Annan navigates these changes is quite simply, one of the best performances in the history of the small screen. This is made real during the season's exploration of his personal life, which not only features a scorching love story, it also highlights the homophobic realities that continue to have a stranglehold on the present.
Nancy Shreiber and Richard Vialet's neon drenched cinematography is the connective tissue. Following Hall's vision of two separate worlds, they present Chucalissa as a city at war with itself. The day world, the world of churches and sports teams has a false sense of life to it, with drained out colors and non-descript locations. The dwellings of the characters outside of the club are spartan sanctums where little beyond sex occurs. Conversely the night world of The Pynk is alive with brilliant colors and strange iconography. The VIP rooms are a mishmash of baroque specters and Clifford's rogue sense of style that are combined to evoke a sense of tarnished majesty that looms over everything. The result is a stunning hideaway that is given a near lyrical presentation.
Now streaming on Starz, P-Valley is one of the finest television series ever produced. Heartfelt without feeling cheap and intense without feeling relentless, this is a mood piece unlike no other. While some of the side plot lines may detract from the centricity of The Pynk, it is necessary to remember that this is a complete picture, a snapshot in the lives of women who would otherwise be forgotten as objects of desire. Blending genre conventions with southern complexities to create a twerking infused fever dream, Katori Hall transports the viewer to a place both in and out of time, a strip club that is also a haven and place where dreams might actually come true.
--Kyle Jonathan