Director Barry Jenkins accomplishes an unusual feat in Moonlight. He’s created a film whose every frame
highlights form and reminds us that we’re watching a movie and not a realistic presentation
of life. But at the same time, Moonlight
hits us in the gut with such heart and honesty that we’re left deeply moved by
the experience of watching it. It’s a
rare combination of two elements that often work at cross purposes.
From the opening sequence of the film, we’re struck by the
artifice. As the drug dealer Juan walks
from his car to one of his sellers, the camera swirls quickly around him, the
background almost blurring and calling attention to the camera and its
movement. This same motion continues as
the seller talks with a customer. The
effect of this intrusion of artifice is not only one of striking beauty, but
the gesture also signals us early that we’re watching a work of contrivance and
not a documentary-style reportage. The
focus on form continues throughout. Jenkins
uses a lot of handheld camera, often with excessive motion. In one of the film’s most effective scenes,
the camera rolls with the ocean, occasionally submerging and resurfacing as
Juan teaches Little how to swim. This
technique foregrounds the camera in a way that also complements the
action. A similar foregrounding occurs
in the lighting. Each of the three parts
of
Moonlight has its own distinct tonal palette, veering from greens and blues
to browns and reds. And the dialog here,
while using a lot of the vocabulary and syntax of normal speech, also swings
toward the theatrical at times. In part
two, for example, the two teenagers Kevin and Chiron sit by the ocean and talk
about how a cool breeze from the sea can cause everyone in their neighborhood
to pause from their hard lives for just a moment in order to experience
it. That’s a poetic thought and
expression for a couple of teens smoking weed on a beach.
Moonlight also has entire sequences that depart from a
representational aesthetic. Some of
Juan’s scenes with Little work in an artful realm. The bulked-up drug dealer holds Little and
says to trust him during their swimming lesson, and he tells Little to feel the
freedom that the water will give him.
This abstract vocabulary points eloquently to one of the central
concerns of the film, individual autonomy.
And as Little begins to swim on his own, it feels like the boy’s taking
control in the water also has a larger significance than his simply learning
how to swim. This entire stylized sequence works outside
conventions of realistic storytelling.
And not only do sequences take on a poetic quality, but a network of
imagery informs the film. The color blue
permeates
Moonlight, for example, and water has a particular resilience in all
three parts of the movie. Such artifice
is an important part of the aesthetic of the film.
Despite the distancing that could occur with so much
attention to artifice,
Moonlight touches the heart of viewers in a powerful
way. The film presents us with a series
of dramatic scenes that resonate with an audience in a very human way. It’s sad to see thin Little bullied at school
and screamed at when home, and there’s a painful innocence when he asks Juan
what a faggot is and whether the man is a drug dealer, a raw moment of
self-acknowledgement for the older man. It’s
just as sad when Chiron, who has let his guard down with Kevin, experiences his
friend turning on him for the approval of his peers and when we realize that
Chiron sees only one way out of his situation.
Even when we meet Black, the bulked-up adult, we can see that his
muscle, car and grillz are defenses, and we follow him though some very
emotional conversations, first with his mother and later with Kevin, that are
deeply moving despite their artifice.
The script here identifies emotional touchstone moments and presents
them to us honestly that pushes the film’s self-awareness into the background.
The casting and acting add to the emotional effect. Alex Hibbert is a thin, stooped-shouldered
Little whose big eyes only occasionally turn up, and the lanky Ashton Sanders
looks like an uncertain teenager susceptible to bullying. His generally limited range of body language
gives us an emotionally repressed kid, which makes the times he must be
expressive all the more powerful. Finally, Trevante
Rhodes’ body tells us more about the character of Black than pages of dialog
would. His jacked build and tough
accessories say this is a mean guy not to be messed with, but like his earlier mentor, Black has a
deep vulnerability inside. Locked into
his intimidating body, Rhodes communicates his uncertainty and love through his
eyes. When this big actor lets a tear
go, it’s deeply moving.
Barry Jenkin’s skill in
Moonlight is to have rejected the
realist aesthetic but simultaneously created characters whose emotions are
human and genuine. Watching this film is
an exceptional experience of the power of cinematic art.
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