Five stars. Rating: R, for grim violence, brutality, nudity and brief sexuality
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.15.13
Some films transcend their
big-screen confines.
The story is so compelling, the
direction so deft, the performances so persuasively real, that we cease to see
the screen or the acting, and simply become immersed in the experience.
12 Years a Slave is such a
film.
I remember, years back, getting
wholly caught up in a stage production of Tennessee Williams’ The Glass
Menagerie. At one point, the fragile Laura Wingfield stepped outside the front
door and onto the porch of the simple but effective set, and I grew concerned;
she wasn’t dressed warmly enough, and surely she’d get cold out there, late at
night.
That’s how invested I was in
British director Steve McQueen’s sensitive, unflinching and utterly mesmerizing
handling of this film.
John Ridley’s note-perfect
screenplay is adapted from Solomon Northup’s 12 Years a Slave, a rare 19th
century memoir by a man who lived what he wrote — no, make that endured and survived
— and what we now see on the screen. Northup’s saga is brutal, horrifying, even
unbelievable at times. We civilized, 21st century citizens of the world cannot
comprehend men — and women — behaving so callously, so cruelly to their fellow
men and women.
Horrific times, we think, seeking
solace. Nearly two centuries ago. Surely, we’ve become better in the meantime.
But then I reflect on the Nazi
persecution of the Jews, with the often willing participation of “good
Germans,” and I reflect on young Malala Yousafzai, nearly killed by Taliban
thugs who’ve promised to keep trying, just as they bomb schoolchildren and
continue to maim and behead others who’d encourage education, and I realize
what McQueen clearly intends to demonstrate.
This film isn’t a portal to
another time, another place. Sadly, it’s a mirror to the here and now.
The year is 1841, in pre-Civil
War United States; we meet Solomon Northup (a simply astonishing performance by
Chiwetel Ejiofor) as a dignified gentleman living with his family in Saratoga,
N.Y. He walks assuredly among his white peers, treated with respect whether on
the street or conducting business in a shop.
Although, even here, we get a
flash of underlying tension: a flicker of ... something ... in the eyes of one
white aristocrat who registers Solomon’s presence, his station, and says
nothing, but silently speaks volumes.
Among his various refinements,
Solomon masterfully plays the violin; this skill brings him to the attention of
two glad-handing gentleman who promise work, at decent wages, in a traveling
show touring Washington, D.C. The offer seems too good to be true. We briefly
wonder if Solomon’s wife, Anne (Kelsey Scott), might have counseled him not to
take the position; alas, she and their children are briefly away.
And, so, after a night of good
food and too much good wine, Solomon wakens in shackles: horrified to discover
that everything has been a ruse, and that he has been kidnapped. Now assigned
the new name “Platt Hamilton,” he has been “identified” as a supposed runaway
“free slave” — surely one of the world’s cruelest oxymorons — from Georgia.
In short order, Solomon — and
other kidnapped black men and women like him — is beaten into submission,
bundled into a ship’s hold and ferried south. He eventually falls under the
wing of a ghastly “auctioneer” named Freeman (Paul Giamatti), who orders his
new charges washed and then displayed, buck-naked and standing at attention, in
the various rooms of his stately home.
As classical music plays in the
background, and appetizers are proffered in an atmosphere redolent of a State
Department cocktail party, dignified Southern gentlemen examine the
“merchandise” with the dispassionate detachment of somebody pricing a table
lamp.
At which point, Solomon knows
that he’s in hell ... and it’s about to get worse.
Even here, though, not all
Southern “gentlemen” are created equal. Solomon’s eventual purchaser, William
Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch, sporting a dead-on Deep South accent), chafes at
the financial limitations that prevent him from including the two children
belonging to his other new acquisition, Eliza (Adepero Oduye). And, so, to
Eliza’s horror — and ours — this young boy and girl never are seen again.
Solomon, thinking of his own
young son and daughter, identifies all too readily with what has just happened.
But he’s helpless and — even now, this quickly — too pragmatic to say anything.
Instead, he impulsively lightens this tension-laced moment by seizing a violin
and playing. Music, we realize, is his emotional balm.
Pay attention, then, to how
McQueen employs music, as this saga continues. Note, as well, the moment that
music no longer is heard at all.
Although a product of his
environment, the God-fearing Ford is a fair and perceptive man, quick to
recognize Solomon’s intelligence and skill. Not so Tibeats (Paul Dano), the
ignorant, spiteful carpenter who oversees Ford’s plantation. Tibeats, somehow
sensing Solomon’s education, worried that this slave is smarter than he is,
foments trouble at every opportunity.
When the dust settles, Ford is
forced to sell Solomon to Edwin Epps (Michael Fassbender), a sadistic and
brutally efficient plantation owner who whips the slaves who fail to meet their
daily quota of picked cotton. But Epps isn’t merely cruel; he’s unpredictably savage,
his every move apt to terrify the slaves caught by his gaze.
Bad as Epps is, though, in some
ways his wife (Sarah Paulson) is even worse. We’re led to believe that she
wasn’t born to this refined environment, and thus carries the insecurity of one
uncertain of her status. She therefore overcompensates by exhorting her
thuggish husband into ever-greater acts of violence against his slaves, most
particularly the attractive Patsey (Lupita Nyong’o), who improbably picks
cotton twice as fast as the strongest man.
And, sadly, frequently ignites
Epps’ lustful desires.
McQueen never shirks from the
grinding, day-to-day details of slave life; neither does he exploit them. The
approach is matter-of-fact, and therefore more horrifying for the humdrum
routine depicted. Ridley, in turn, laces his script with ironies, most notably
the ownership privilege that white men use to justify raping black women ...
despite a view of slaves, as Epps insists at one point, that compares them to
baboons.
Does he therefore consort with
baboons?
Elsewhere in the story, jarring
disconnect arrives in the form of Mistress Shaw (Alfre Woodard), a former slave
who has been elevated, via genuine love, to the de facto status of wife by her
owner. Mistress Shaw takes pity on Patsey, and invites her to tea whenever
possible. Patsey, in turn, is foolish enough to accept such invitations; we can
anticipate Epps’ eventual reaction.
Ejiofor came to my attention in
2002’s noirish Dirty Pretty Things, and then demonstrated his acting range in
lighter fare such as Love Actually and Kinky Boots. But his dramatic chops
remained visible, as well, in tougher entries such as Children of Men and American Gangster. His work here is galvanic: instantly unforgettable, from
the moment we see Solomon’s frightened and then comprehending eyes, when he
wakens in shackles and realizes that his world has changed forever.
I can’t catalog all of Ejiofor’s
powerful moments; they’re too numerous. The most tragic come during Solomon’s
disappointments: the apparent opportunities for improved status, perhaps even
salvation, that inevitably are snatched away. We’re sickened by the debasement
this man endures, made all the worse by memories of the happier life from which
he was snatched.
Ah, but then comes the truly
worst moment, with Ejiofor’s expressive features conveying equal blends of
horror, terror, and — horror of horrors — sick resignation. The act to which he
is driven represents a turning point. Nothing will be the same.
We can be grateful that, grim as
these proceedings are, McQueen doesn’t dwell on them. His film is difficult to
watch, but not unduly gruesome; we cannot look away. He achieves the same
razor’s-edge balance that Steven Spielberg delivered with Schindler’s List:
an impressive achievement.
Fassbender, well remembered in
McQueen’s Shame, throws himself with equal abandon — mental, physical,
spiritual — into a truly heinous role. Epps has virtually no redeeming
qualities; he’s a self-indulgent monster with capricious and often nasty
impulses, wary of any who’d dare challenge his authority. He despises and yet
fears his wife, and Fassbender’s most subtle acting comes in her presence.
This is as memorable a portrait
of cold, human evil as Ralph Fiennes presented in Schindler’s List, as the
brutal Goeth.
The supporting players are striking
in their own right, starting with the hapless women played to heartbreaking
perfection by Nyong’o and Oduye. Paulson, the flip side of that coin, is a
vindictive shrike from our worst nightmares; Dano, succumbing to his own
growing stereotype, is the pluperfect little worm.
This is, perhaps, McQueen’s sole
flaw: a tendency toward stunt casting. Ejiofor, Fassbender, Nyong’o and Oduye
fully immerse themselves in their parts. In slight contrast, we cannot help the
flicker of recognition — and therefore expectation — upon seeing Giamatti,
Woodard, Dano, Cumberbatch (Sherlock Holmes? In this setting?) and most
particularly a late arrival who serves as the much-welcomed Voice Of Reason.
Such familiar faces pull us out
of the drama, however briefly.
Not an issue, though, since
McQueen and Ejiofor have us, heart and soul.
Hans Zimmer’s score is spare,
evocative and deeply moving, often employed as a counterpoint against source
music: most notably a ghastly slave ditty sung by Dano’s Tibeats. Sean
Bobbitt’s cinematography is lush, suggesting the simmering humidity of Epps’
cotton plantation; Adam Stockhausen’s production design unerringly evokes this
19th century setting.
12 Years a Slave is a film for
the ages: proof positive that some movies are, indeed, high art.
You won’t soon forget it.
2 comments:
Good review Derrick. I didn't love this like everybody else seemed to, however, I respect it more than ever. I realize that it's a snap-shot in our country's history that we like to take a look at, but never fully go as deep and as involved as McQueen does here. And for that, I give the man more credit than ever. I just wish the movie was more than just a series of really bad events, happening one-after-another, after-another.
I had a similar reaction. Didn't love it, but respect it, and all the more after reading so many reviews (esp this one, thanks). I was moved deeply, however, by Ejiofor's performance.
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