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| Writer/director Barry Jenkins |
MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLY A- USA (90 mi) 2008 d: Barry Jenkins
San Francisco is now developing programs to correct blighted and congested conditions and to deal with an accumulation of housing that is continuously aging and deteriorating faster than it is being rehabilitated or replaced. The study area contains an estimated 1008 residential structures, many of which are in various degrees of deterioration and are in need of rebuilding or replacement. More than 50 percent of the structures are past middle age with an estimated average age of sixty-seven years. It is this condition which results in neighborhood blight and calls for both major public improvement and private rehabilitation and reconstruction.
—Leonard S. Mosias from the San Francisco Redevelopment Agency, Residential Rehabilitation Survey Western Edition Area 2, July 1962 (poster on the wall with giant lettering LIES placed over it)
This American indie film written and directed by a first time black filmmaker bears an astounding similarity in style and tone to Cassavetes’ first film Shadows (1959), made nearly half a century ago simultaneous to the era of the French New Wave, probably considered by now as ancient history. However the intelligent, free-wheeling, improvisational style and the stellar black and white (with occasional sepia tones) photography by James Laxton reflect the luminous beauty of San Francisco, suggesting a rush of energy that befits any modern age. But in the intimate manner of Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise (1995) and Before Sunset (2004), the centerpiece of the film has to be the extraordinarily naturalistic performances of the two leads, Micah (Wyatt Cenac) and Jo (Tracey Heggins), two young black adults in their 20’s who awkwardly meet the morning after a one-night stand at a party. Initially having little, if anything, to say to each another, there’s a clever development where they slowly warm to one another, yet much of this is defined by long wordless stretches. For instance, in a visit to the Museum of the African Dispora (MOAD), they tour the museum over a 5-minute period of screen time without speaking a single word, pausing several times, allowing the exhibit to seamlessly blend into the film, emphasized by long takes and the slow pace of the shots, suggesting we are all connected in ways that are part of an unspeakable past. As they wander through the city, they also pass by a housing rights committee meeting taking place in a storefront, where the actual housing activists play themselves, reminding voters that politicians, including a longstanding mayor, never speak the words rent control, yet they’re all connected to a brutal history of “Negro removal,” the actual effect of urban renewal, while they’re continuing to push poor people out of the city at an alarming rate, making room for a more upscale class to move in. Lost in the city’s push for gentrification are many of the things people love most about the city, suggesting the character of the city is changing. When Micah envisions how “few of us there actually are,” Jo doesn’t really want to have that conversation, choosing to see individuals as individuals first, and not as members of an ethnic group, where the film captures the ebbs and flows of their experience. A peculiar aspect of the film is how it’s continually seen through a white perspective, despite the central focus on two black characters. We learn Jo has a wealthy white boyfriend, while Micah’s former girlfriend was white, while both are involved in an independent art and cultural scene dominated by white people, as Jo’s boyfriend is a museum curator, while Micah is connected to San Francisco’s indie music scene that is almost exclusively white, Medicine for Melancholy Soundtrack (13 tracks). This mirrors the prevailing view of Barry Jenkins as an independent filmmaker, a field dominated by whites. One of the earliest scenes is watching Micah peer out the large windows, finding himself inside a luxurious house in an affluent white neighborhood. As they take a cab, they don’t really connect, finding themselves at a loss for words, but she accidentally leaves her wallet, with Micah tracking her down afterwards. A major question the film asks is whether the end of the film is really the end, or actually a new beginning? What’s most impressive is the very ease of their dialogue, how believable they are as these two characters, offering a degree of warmth and intelligence rarely seen in television or films, using the city of San Francisco as a backdrop to the film, with Micah openly hating the city while loving the beauty of it, the hills, the fog, suggesting beauty should have nothing to do with privilege, “It just is, and you shouldn’t have to be upper middle class to be a part of that.”
Among the better date movies, this relaxed and low-key film follows the next 24 hours of their lives, condensed to segments that are shot pretty close to real time, that have a relaxed and at times romantic air about them despite the fact she’s already in a relationship, where there isn’t a hint of condescension or artificiality, yet their moods veer all over the place, sometimes hot, sometimes cold. To its credit, the film doesn’t feature any snarky intelligence of trying to over impress or be too hip, where a first time director might be inclined to overwrite certain scenes, looking for a way to stand out. Instead the film largely impresses with its sense of restraint and good taste matching the personalities of the characters who show a surprising degree of respect for one another. Where the film doesn’t go is into the deep emotional terrain, more fertile Cassavetes territory, where gut-wrenching drama (Gena Rowlands) lights up the screen. These are different kinds of characters who aren’t about to plunge headlong into broken heart territory as they’ve only just met, instead they scratch the surface searching for a variety of interests, pretty much checking each other out all day long, having playful moments together while also taking seriously matters like race, where they both see their identity from completely different vantage points, gentrification, disparities in wealth and displacement of the poor, where he claims blacks comprise only 7% of the city’s population, suggesting she’s probably the only black person living in the Marina district, but also kidding around about music and personal tastes, while also finding time to simply relate together, featuring inventive musical choices throughout. Taking a walk through the Yerba Buena Gardens, the camera pans and tracks their movement to the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial, entitled Revelation, featuring a large waterfall tucked behind stone blocks for seating, where there is a tunnel walkway behind with photographs and famous quotations, with the film allowing plenty of space for contemplation. The film literally shatters any conception of a monolithic “black” point of view, as the divergent viewpoints that divide the two of them couldn’t be more pervasive, examining the effects of their unique differences, yet there’s a personal dynamic that continues to pull them together. Perhaps most surprising is a visit to an all-white indie dance club, as there’s an everchanging sensory experience that each feeds off, continually providing nuance and shades to their cultural and racial consciousness, which seems continuously in flux. Yet there’s an openness to this film that invites viewer participation and challenge, as the two characters explore hidden corners of the city while also finding themselves in an albeit brief love affair, finding inspiration from the Claire Denis film VENDREDI SOIR (2002), an impressionistic, near wordless film that follows two lovers meeting by chance in a brief encounter that accentuates the present, driven purely by desire, turning into a tone poem of visual texture, exploring the interplay between light and shadow mixed with sound, borrowing a Dickon Hinchliffe musical track Le Rallye from the film, Medicine for Melancholy (2008) - 'This is a one night stand' YouTube (3:55). But Jenkins adds emotional complexity to his two characters, where romanticism coincides with black identity, dealing very directly with race, with young people having to navigate their way around a social environment heavily shaped by segregation and racism, with the audience sharing in their search for black love, something that’s been growing between them, like a meeting of lost souls.
Shadowed by cultural, historical, and spacial tensions, one of the earliest after-party scenes shows the two of them walking over a hill to get to a breakfast café in the nearby Noe Valley section of the city, offering panoramic views of the entire city, a view that contrasts mightily with Micah’s miniscule Tenderloin studio apartment, where the bed takes up nearly all the living space. However, the poster on the wall in his apartment links the film to the politics of urban renewal and gentrification at the heart of James Baldwin’s historic visit to San Francisco in the spring of 1963, producing an obscure, rarely seen historical documentary, Richard O. Moore’s TAKE THIS HAMMER (1964), James Baldwin: TAKE THIS HAMMER: -1963 YouTube (1:03:16), where he angrily exposes the “polished veneer” of San Francisco as a liberal cosmopolitan city, revealing how systematic racism that has long pervaded in this country was also driving and sustaining a deeply segregated city. Jenkins revisits the same urban terrain, creating an abstract mosaic of black and white, remaining a study of contrasts, framing new questions about cultural experience, extending far beyond simple classifications, yet both remain elusive in the minds of viewers. The film questions what it means to be black, whether being defined by race is in any way limiting, while the carefully chosen musical soundtrack defies “the black experience,” normally grounded in R & B or hip-hop culture, rooted in the cultural politics of Civil Rights, feeling more like a musical travelogue through the white indie film experience, yet it drives the film, assuming the role of tonal narrator, making this uniquely different. When one speaks of freedom, the euphoric liberal all-inclusive view contrasts mightily with a black perspective, where freedom always comes with a heavy price. Still, Jo questions the need for the poster critiquing the redevelopment plans in San Francisco, suggesting that’s not something he’ll easily forget, with Micah believing it’s not so much about forgetting as remembering, feeling the need to remind himself every day as a necessary means of survival, remembering the many communities that have been lost, where his species is slowly becoming extinct. The conversation flows around the historical relevance of memory, a point not easily articulated, as the black identity is constructed upon the backs of others who came before, where a modern emphasis is on paying homage, though not everyone agrees, as some simply want to live their lives unencumbered by history. This is not a movie that’s going to blow anyone away with action sequences or escapist entertainment, preferring a more thoughtful approach featuring ideas and energy over action, both high and low, not afraid to leave spaces unfilled, accentuating intimacy and vulnerability, using words, gestures, looks, wit, risk, charm, listening to what the other person says while also accentuating moments where they simply want to let loose, loving every minute of being alive where the loud, pulsating beat drives the film. Initially released at the South by Southwest Fest, it also played at San Francisco (audience favorite of course) and Philadelphia before playing at Telluride. Had it played at Sundance, it might have generated the kind of interest BALLAST (2008) and other award winners have, but you never know, since this indie style of filmmaking simply isn't being made much anymore, one of the reasons to truly treasure seeing it. This is a real diamond in the rough, though, a small film with big ideas and large aspirations, surprisingly heartfelt and relevant, yet always down to earth, placing these characters within the realm of people we know, perhaps even ourselves.
