Oh, this movie. I want to watch it again and again. There is so much at work here, much that was beyond my understanding, and much that is beyond my authority to speak to. In some respects a simple fable, in others a bracing vision of life’s possibilities, in the most aesthetically disentanglable ways a tour de force of physical acting from the entire ensemble. Meaning keeps turning over in the mind many hours and several other immersions into narrative later.
The theater was nearly full of mostly comfortable middle-aged white folk who laughed and sighed and gasped and sniffled in all the right places, and applauded in pockets when the credits rolled. I did not feel certain throughout that we were not being Black Poverty tourists; and the discomfort of receiving very few reassurances from the film itself propels me back into it.
The monsoon’s been hanging over Phoenix for the past week, the air thick with moisture. Thunderstorms crack and roll at night, and my car seat is still damp in the golden, humid morning. I roll down the windows of my car and sweat it out. Even the slow roll-out seems perfectly timed.