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.
 |
| As Epps (Michael Fassbender, center) expresses far too much appreciation for the cotton-picking skills of Patsey (Lupita Nyong'o), Solomon (Chiwetel Ejiofor) gradually recognizes the unpalatable, one-sided "understanding" between this master and his attractive slave ... but, of course, can neither do or say anything. |
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.
