By Manohla Dargis/
New York Times
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Chiwetel
Ejiofor and Michael Fassbender in "12 Years a Slave.": Francois
Duhamel/Fox Searchlight Pictures
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“12 Years a Slave” isn’t the first movie about
slavery in the United States — but it may be the one that finally makes it
impossible for American cinema to continue to sell the ugly lies it’s been
hawking for more than a century.
Written by John Ridley and directed by Steve McQueen, it
tells the true story of Solomon Northup, an African-American freeman who, in
1841, was snatched off the streets of Washington, and sold. It’s at once a
familiar, utterly strange and deeply American story in which the period
trappings long beloved by Hollywood — the paternalistic gentry with their
pretty plantations, their genteel manners and all the fiddle-dee-dee rest — are
the backdrop for an outrage.
The
story opens with Solomon (Chiwetel Ejiofor) already
enslaved and cutting sugar cane on a plantation. A series of flashbacks shifts
the story to an earlier time, when Solomon, living in New York with his wife
and children, accepts a job from a pair of white men to play violin in a
circus.
Soon the three are enjoying a civilized night out in Washington,
sealing their camaraderie with heaping plates of food, flowing wine and the
unstated conviction — if only on Solomon’s part — of a shared humanity, a
fiction that evaporates when he wakes the next morning shackled and discovers
that he’s been sold. Thereafter, he is passed from master to master.
It’s a desperate path and a story that seizes you
almost immediately with a visceral force. But Mr. McQueen keeps everything
moving so fluidly and efficiently that you’re too busy worrying about Solomon,
following him as he travels from auction house to plantation, to linger long in
the emotions and ideas that the movie churns up. Part of this is pragmatic —
Mr. McQueen wants to keep you in your seat, not force you out of the theater,
sobbing — but there’s something else at work here.
This is, he insists, a story
about Solomon, who may represent an entire subjugated people and, by extension,
the peculiar institution, as well as the American past and present. Yet this is
also, emphatically, the story of one individual.
Unlike most of the enslaved people whose fate he
shared for a dozen years, the real Northup was born into freedom. (His memoir’s
telegraphing subtitle is “Narrative of Solomon Northup, a Citizen of New-York,
Kidnapped in Washington City in 1841, and Rescued in 1853, From a Cotton
Plantation Near the Red River, in Louisiana.”).
That made him an exceptional
historical witness, because even while he was inside slavery — physically,
psychologically, emotionally — part of him remained intellectually and
culturally at a remove, which gives his book a powerful double perspective. In
the North, he experienced some of the privileges of whiteness, and while he
couldn’t vote, he could enjoy an outing with his family. Even so, he was still
a black man in antebellum America.
Mr. McQueen is a British visual artist who made a
rough transition to movie directing with his first two features, “Hunger” and
“Shame,” both of which were embalmed in self-promoting visuals. “Hunger” is the
sort of art film that makes a show of just how perfectly its protagonist, the
Irish dissident Bobby Sands (Michael Fassbender), smears
his excrement on a prison wall.
“Shame,” about a sex addict (Mr. Fassbender
again), was little more than glossy surfaces, canned misery and preening
directorial virtuosity. For “12 Years a Slave,” by contrast, Mr. McQueen has
largely dispensed with the conventions of art cinema to make something close to
a classical narrative; in this movie, the emphasis isn’t on visual style but on
Solomon and his unmistakable desire for freedom.
There’s nothing ambivalent about Solomon. Mr.
Ejiofor has a round, softly inviting face, and he initially plays the character
with the stunned bewilderment of a man who, even chained, can’t believe what is
happening to him. Not long after he’s kidnapped, Solomon sits huddled with two
other prisoners on a slaver’s boat headed south.
One man insists that they should
fight their crew. A second disagrees, saying, “Survival’s not about certain
death, it’s about keeping your head down.” Seated between them, Solomon shakes
his head no. Days earlier he was home. “Now,” he says, “you tell me all is
lost?” For him, mere survival cannot be enough. “I want to live.”
This is Solomon’s own declaration of independence,
and an assertion of his humanity that sustains him. It’s also a seamlessly
structured scene that turns a discussion about the choices facing enslaved
people — fight, submit, live — into cinema. In large part, “12 Years a Slave”
is an argument about American slavery that, in image after image, both reveals
it as a system (signified in one scene by the sights and ominous, mechanical
sounds of a boat water wheel) and demolishes its canards, myths and cherished
symbols. There are no lovable masters here or cheerful slaves.
There are also
no messages, wagging fingers or final-act summations or sermons. Mr. McQueen’s
method is more effective and subversive because of its primarily old-fashioned,
Hollywood-style engagement.
It’s a brilliant strategy that recognizes the
seductions of movies that draw you wholly into their narratives and that finds
Mr. McQueen appropriating the very film language that has been historically
used to perpetuate reassuring (to some) fabrications about American history.
One of the shocks of “12 Years a Slave” is that it reminds you how infrequently
stories about slavery have been told on the big screen, which is why it’s easy
to name exceptions, like Richard Fleischer’s demented, at times dazzling 1975
film, “Mandingo.”
The greater jolt, though, is
that “12 Years a Slave” isn’t about another Scarlett O’Hara, but about a man
who could be one of those anonymous, bent-over black
bodies hoeing fields in the opening credits of “Gone With the Wind,” a very different
“story of the Old South.”
At one point in Northup’s memoir, which was
published a year after “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” and eight years before the start of
the Civil War, he interrupts an account of his own near-lynching to comment on
the man largely to blame for the noose around his neck. “But whatever motive
may have governed the cowardly and malignant tyrant,” he writes, “it is of no
importance.”
It doesn’t matter why Northup was strung up in a tree like a dead
deer in the summer sun, bathed in sweat, with little water to drink. What
matters is what has often been missing among the economic, social and cultural
explanations of American slavery and in many of its representations: human
suffering. “My wrists and ankles, and the cords of my legs and arms began to
swell, burying the rope that bound them into the swollen flesh.”
Part of the significance of Northup’s memoir is
its description of everyday life. Mr. McQueen recreates, with texture and
sweep, scenes of slavery’s extreme privations and cruelties, but also its work
rhythms and routines, sunup to sundown, along with the unsettling intimacies it
produced among the owners and the owned.
In Louisiana, Solomon is sold by a
brutish trader (Paul Giamatti) to an outwardly decent plantation owner, William
Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch), who, in turn, sells him to a madman and drunk,
Edwin Epps (Mr. Fassbender). In his memoir, Northup refers to Ford charitably,
doubtless for the benefit of the white readers who were the target of his
abolitionist appeal. Freed from that burden, the filmmakers can instead show
the hypocrisies of such paternalism.
It’s on Epps’s plantation that “12 Years a Slave”
deepens, and then hardens. It’s also where the existential reality of what it
meant to be enslaved, hour after hour, decade after decade, generation after
generation, is laid bare, at times on the flayed backs of Epps’s human
property, including that of his brutalized favorite, Patsey (Lupita Nyong’o).
Mr. Fassbender, skittish and weirdly spiderlike, grabs your attention with
curdled intensity. He’s so arresting that at first it seems as if the
performance will soon slip out of Mr. McQueen’s control, and that the character
will become just another irresistibly watchable, flamboyant heavy. Movie
villainy is so easy, partly because it allows actors to showboat, but also
because a lot of filmmakers can’t resist siding with power.
Mr. McQueen’s sympathies are as unqualified as his
control. There is much to admire about “12 Years a Slave,” including the
cleareyed, unsentimental quality of its images — this is a place where trees
hang with beautiful moss and black bodies — and how Mr. Ejiofor’s restrained,
open, translucent performance works as a ballast, something to cling onto,
especially during the frenzies of violence.
These are rightly hard to watch and
bring to mind the startling moment in “Maus,” Art Spiegelman’s cartoon opus
about the Holocaust, in which he asks his “shrink” to explain what it felt like
to be in Auschwitz. “Boo! It felt like that.
But ALWAYS!” The genius of “12 Years a Slave” is its insistence on banal evil,
and on terror, that seeped into souls, bound bodies and reaped an enduring,
terrible price.
“12 Years a Slave” is rated R (Under 17 requires
accompanying parent or adult guardian). Slave-trade violence.
12 Years a Slave
Directed by Steve McQueen; written by John Ridley,
based on the book by Solomon Northup; director of photography, Sean Bobbitt;
edited by Joe Walker; music by Hans Zimmer; production design by Adam
Stockhausen; costumes by Patricia Norris; produced by Brad Pitt, Dede Gardner,
Jeremy Kleiner, Bill Pohlad, Mr. McQueen, Arnon Milchan and Anthony Katagas;
released by Fox Searchlight Pictures. Running time: 2 hours 14 minutes.
WITH: Chiwetel Ejiofor (Solomon Northup), Michael
Fassbender (Edwin Epps), Benedict Cumberbatch (Ford), Paul Dano (Tibeats),
Garret Dillahunt (Armsby), Paul Giamatti (Freeman), Scoot McNairy (Brown),
Lupita Nyong’o (Patsey), Adepero Oduye (Eliza), Sarah Paulson (Mistress Epps),
Brad Pitt (Bass), Michael Kenneth Williams (Robert), Alfre Woodard (Mistress
Shaw), Chris Chalk (Clemens), Taran Killam (Hamilton) and Bill Camp (Radburn).
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