Movies

Björk and David Byrne testify to Meredith Monk’s influence in Monk in Pieces

Camille Lefèvre

A portrait of an artist is almost always a portrait of a reputation, and reputations tend to arrive late. The documentary Monk in Pieces takes as its subject a composer and performer told for the better part of a career that her work was too strange to matter, and who now, deep into a life of making it, faces a quieter and harder question. What becomes of an art this singular when its only true instrument, the artist’s own body and voice, is no longer there to perform it?

That is the frame Billy Shebar builds around Meredith Monk, and the title is not a throwaway pun. Monk’s compositions are called pieces; the film is assembled in pieces; and its subject has spent a lifetime resisting the single continuous line, the melody, the narrative, the biography, in favour of the fragment, the loop, the held syllable. Shebar structures the documentary the way Monk structures a work, as an anthology of chapters that circle rather than climb.

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The choice of witnesses is the argument in miniature. David Byrne and Björk appear not as celebrity garnish but as evidence of a line of descent, two of the most restless voices in art-pop each attesting to what they took from a woman extending the human voice into territory pop had not yet imagined. Philip Glass speaks as a peer from the same downtown Manhattan generation. Set side by side, these testimonies reposition Monk, not as a marginal experimentalist to be filed under difficulty, but as a source, upstream of music that millions have heard without knowing where it began.

It helps to know what that work sounds like. Monk sings without words, using the voice as an instrument of some three octaves and a vocabulary of clicks, cries, glides and sustained tones that belong to no language and to every language at once. Across more than half a century she has folded that voice into dance, film and staged work, most recently the ensemble piece Indra’s Net, treating the human instrument as something closer to an orchestra than a soloist. The film catches her still building and still rehearsing, which is its most persuasive answer to the question of what continues.

Shebar comes to the material from long proximity, the film having grown out of decades of watching Monk work, and that closeness shows in a refusal to explain her. Rather than translate her method into the reassuring grammar of the biopic, with its early struggle, breakthrough and vindication, he lets the pieces sit in their own logic, cutting between rehearsal, archive and the artist alone in the Tribeca loft that has been her studio for most of her working life. The editing, by Sabine Krayenbühl, treats duration as meaning. A held note is allowed to be long, and the length is the point.

Here Monk in Pieces locates itself in a tradition of the artist-portrait film that trusts the work to carry the argument rather than a narrator to assert it. Monk belongs to a generation, alongside Glass and the choreographer Merce Cunningham and the wider downtown New York scene, that dismantled the borders between music, dance, image and theatre. The film is clever enough to grasp that a conventional documentary about an unconventional artist would be a small betrayal of her.

What the film does not do is submit its subject to much friction. The hostile critics of Monk’s early years are invoked, but as figures in a redemption arc rather than voices given a real hearing, and the devotion of Byrne and Björk, moving as it is, arrives without resistance. A viewer wanting a genuine account of why the work once alienated audiences will find the question raised more than answered. There is also what no film of this kind can resolve. Monk’s own anxiety about whether her art can outlast her is exactly what a documentary threatens to foreclose, converting a living and unfinished practice into a monument. The film is generous; it is not always sceptical.

Meredith Monk in the documentary Monk in Pieces
Meredith Monk in Monk in Pieces (2025)

Directed by Billy Shebar and co-written with David C. Roberts, who also produces alongside Susan Margolin, the documentary runs to roughly ninety-four minutes. It gathers Monk with David Byrne, Björk, Philip Glass, the theatre artist Ping Chong and the radio presenter John Schaefer, and was produced with the European broadcasters ARTE and ZDF and the independent 110th Street Films. Zeitgeist Films and Kino Lorber handle distribution.

The film premiered in the Panorama section of the Berlin International Film Festival and travelled a long festival circuit, gathering a Teddy Award nomination and a jury prize for documentary of the year at Doc’n Roll along the way. It opened in limited release in the United States, where it is now available on demand, and its Japanese theatrical run begins on 25 July. It carries Monk’s fragmented, wordless music to one more audience that has, in all likelihood, already heard its echo somewhere without knowing the source.

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