The American movie industry has a spotty record when it comes to
portraying black history. When portraying blacks or African Americans on screen,
they lean toward one of two extremes: either the more overtly racist route of
such notorious works as Birth of a Nation
or feel-good narratives clearly designed to appeal to white audiences, like Mississippi Burning or The Help. Slavery in particular is
treated as a taboo subject, a secret people have spent a century trying to bury
and forget, despite how deeply and inextricably woven it is into the fabric of
American history. The few times when a film does touch on the topic, it’s
usually whitewashed, its most horrifying aspects glossed over. As a result,
when a movie like Steve McQueen’s 12
Years a Slave comes along, one more concerned with being honest than
comforting, it feels like a precious gem that should be coddled and treasured
regardless of its flaws. For these kinds of movies, merely existing seems like
a triumph.
Fortunately, 12 Years a Slave is a damn good movie even
without considering any of the historical importance critics might attempt to
assign it, but it has imperfections as well that can’t be overlooked. McQueen
approaches the struggles and life of Solomon Northrup, the kidnapped
freeman-turned-slave played by Chiwetel Ejiofor in his long-overdue first leading
role, with the same meditative detachment he used for his previous films. Again
relying on extended sequences without dialogue and a camera that prefers lingering
on a shot to frequently moving or editing, he lets each scene simmer and evolve
on its own, resulting in a movie that meanders at times but also effectively
evokes the tedious drudgery and fear that filled these slaves’ everyday lives. This
patience pays off in scenes like one roughly midway through the film involving
Northrup dangling from a tree, a noose around his neck, as the rest of the
plantation’s slaves and residents continue their daily business around him,
barely even giving him a second glance. Filmed mostly in a single, immobile
shot, it’s a haunting sequence that demonstrates the dehumanizing effects of
slavery, showing that it was insidious not just because of its innate cruelty,
but because it made moments like this so commonplace that people learned to
ignore them. This was simply their life, and stripped of their families,
identities and dignity, few of these slaves could afford to think or care about
anything other than their own survival.
Cinematographer Sean Bobbitt, who also worked with McQueen on Hunger and Shame, conjures up mid-19th century Louisiana with its
vast swampy expanses, groves of weeping willows and statuesque mansions in
gorgeous 38 mm film, the landscape’s rustic yet subdued beauty only enhancing
the story’s brutality. Imbued with tension by an ominous, sometimes
appropriately discordant score by Hans Zimmer and enhanced by top-notch costume
and set design, the movie eschews easy, stylized sensationalism for something
less immediately cathartic but more honest and unsettling, treating the
unfolding events with unobtrusive impartiality and trusting audiences to
generate their own emotional responses. They say not this is how you should feel, but rather this is how it was. When faced with such systematic, dehumanizing
cruelty, how could you not feel?
Key to making this approach work
is an ensemble cast that’s willing to cooperate by generally choosing restraint
over the temptation of scenery-chewing. With a cast populated by such reliable
names as Michael Fassbender, Paul Giamatti, Paul Dano and the currently
ubiquitous Benedict Cumberbatch, fear of thespian over-indulgence turns out to
be completely unnecessary, as nearly everyone in the ensemble acquits
themselves well. A few individuals, however, still manage to stand out from the
rest. Echoing Ralph Fiennes’s iconic turn as Amon Goeth in Schindler’s List, Fassbender manages to make Edwin Epps, a fire-breathing,
Bible-thumping plantation owner, menacing even when he’s lying face-down in mud
or tripping over a drove of pigs in an alcohol-fueled rage, accentuating the
self-loathing and insecurities that torment Epps without ever turning him into
a genuinely sympathetic figure. Sarah Paulson, all icy glowers and stately
poise, is equally terrifying and terrific as Epps’s Lady MacBeth, her clipped
Southern drawl slicing through each of her scenes as sharply as a whip crack.
Although they may not be as well-known as their costars, Adepero Oduye (the breakout
star of 2011’s Pariah) and Lupita
Nyong’o, in a head-turning, devastating acting debut, more than hold their own as,
respectively, Eliza and Patsey, two of Solomon’s fellow slaves. The two women
transform grief into something fiery and powerful, simultaneously radiating
courage and despair, strength and vulnerability. Even Alfre Woodward makes a
lasting impression despite appearing in only one scene. The only real misstep
is, surprisingly, Brad Pitt, who pops up near the end as a thinly-written,
unfortunate White Savior figure, a casting choice made even more awkward by the
fact that Pitt is one of the movie’s producers. Though he’s not necessarily bad
so much as out-of-place, he doesn’t disappear into his character the way the rest
of the ensemble does, and the role likely would have worked better if they’d
given it to a less recognizable face.
Make no mistake, though: this
movie belongs to Chwitel Ejiofor. After spending over a decade dabbling in
supporting roles for occasionally great but mostly mediocre flicks, the British
thespian finally takes center stage in a project worthy of his talents, and
boy, was the wait worth it. His large, dark eyes glistening with desperation
and barely suppressed confusion and rage, he never turns Solomon into a mere
victim, reminding viewers that he is never more or less than human, no matter
how much his tormentors belittle him. He successfully navigates the tricky task
of balancing his character’s dual identities of Solomon Northrup, educated free
man, and Platt, unremarkable plantation slave. When he speaks (or, in one
particularly moving scene, sings) in that resonant, baritone voice, he conveys
a seemingly paradoxical blend of weariness and determination as he tries to keep
his head above water. Over the course of the movie, viewers come to understand
that his struggle isn’t just about the primal need to survive or simply
enduring the tortures of slavery. It’s about escaping with his sense of self,
his soul intact; as he tells another kidnapped slave at one point, he doesn’t
want to survive, he wants to live. He undergoes a spiritual journey, as well as
a physical and psychological one, and Ejiofor fully commits himself to every
step along the way in a bold, flawlessly understated performance.
In fact, those two words – bold
and understated – could describe the entire movie. There’s something epic and
almost biblical to its depiction of suffering, a sense heightened by the
numerous spiritual allusions and motifs, not least of which is the fact that
Brad Pitt’s character, a Canadian carpenter with long, not especially
flattering hair, seems to be essentially a Jesus Christ stand-in. Yet, McQueen
avoids the histrionics and melodrama that could easily have accompanied such an
emotionally fraught tale, never wavering from his characteristically
deliberate, subdued style. While the end feels a bit too pat and hasty, as
though McQueen suddenly realized he had to wrap it all up, it’s hard to imagine
how else they might have concluded Northrup’s story, considering that he was a
real person, after all. 12 Years a Slave
is hardly a perfect movie or a definitive portrayal of American race relations
(as if such a thing is possible in the first place), but it confronts slavery
and the dark legacy it left behind with an uncompromising candidness that most
films fearfully shy away from. It reminds us that this happened, that people
like Solomon Northrup lived, and that they are worthy of remembrance.
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