A Thousand and One

 

Writer/director A. V. Rockwell

Rockwell on the set

A THOUSAND AND ONE       B+                                                                                          USA  (117 mi)  2023  d: A.V. Rockwell

Why you keep leaving me?                                                                                                               —Terry (Aaron Kingsley Adetola)

At a time when the history of people of color is being eliminated by the President of the United States, literally outlawing racial diversity while reinstating white supremacy in all levels of government, films like this tell an essential story, reminding us that in the history of American cinema, stories like this have NOT been told, and people like this have rarely, if ever, graced the screen.  Barry Jenkins’ Oscar winning film 2016 Top Ten List #1 Moonlight was among the first to be recognized for placing black stories into the mainstream of the American fabric, part of the collective consciousness of the nation, but this is an even more unorthodox subject matter, with the director describing this as a love letter to black women, somewhat reminiscent of Savannah Leaf’s urban drama Earth Mama (2023), which played at the Sundance Film Festival just two days before this one, both seared into our imaginations, where it’s extremely unlikely that many viewers actually grew up like the characters in this film, so the powerful message it sends couldn’t be more culturally significant.  Born and raised in Queens, New York, Rockwell attended film school at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, where this first feature that she writes and directs won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance in 2023, made in a social realist mode, set in New York in 1994, with an aerial view of the Twin Towers, jumping forward to 2001, and ends five years later, evoking very specific memories of growing up in New York City.  Taking us from Mayor Giuliani’s stop and frisk policy, which was basically an excuse for police to utilize racial profiling targeting blacks on the street, which was eventually ruled unconstitutional, to Mayor Bloomberg’s emphasis on urban renewal, shepherding in an era of unprecedented development, valuing developers and real estate profits over the lives of everyday citizens (Mike Bloomberg Created A Housing Crisis in New York ...), making rent unaffordable, causing inequality to flourish, driving many minority people from their homes, resulting in large numbers of children being raised in foster care or shelters.  This film addresses those essential truths, yet skillfully avoids long-held stereotypes, fictionalizing one dramatic scenario, intensely following the lives of Inez (singer/songwriter and choreographer Teyana Taylor) and her young son Terry, played by three different actors from ages 6 (Aaron Kingsley Adetola), 13 (Aven Courtney), and 17 (Josiah Cross).  Initially Inez is seen in Riker’s Island prison doing hair for other inmates, never learning how she landed there, and when she gets released she aggressively recruits new hairdressing customers on the streets, handing out homemade flyers to people on sidewalks and in stopped cars, hoping to jumpstart a new life.  Amidst the insecurity of having no real home, we see her bond with a young 6-year old child, seen playing on the streets unattended with other foster care kids, visiting him in the hospital after he injures himself attempting to escape from his foster parents, where it’s clear this is her son, but when he hurtfully asks “Why you keep leaving me?” A Thousand and One Movie Clip - Say Bye (2023) YouTube (1:44), she is heartsick at having to leave him once again, deciding then and there to snatch him away from “the system,” abducting him from the hospital to start a new life together, escaping to her childhood neighborhood in Harlem, literally going underground to avoid detection and arrest, changing his name, forging new documents, where both their lives are in complete turmoil.  “There’s more to life than fucked-up beginnings,” she says.  It’s a brave new world for both of them, together at last, but having nowhere to go.  Complications ensue. 

A whirlwind and multifaceted film that excels in expressing what’s unique about the black experience, with a musical score by Gary Gunn, where viewers are literally immersed in this world, with the streets of New York assuming the status of its own character, vividly recalling Kenneth Lonergan’s 2011 Top Ten Films of the Year #2 Margaret, offering a scathing depiction of a historically black neighborhood under siege by the police, presumably to make the city “safer,” routinely targeting young black men in what amounts to an abuse of power, before their inner-city neighborhoods are gentrified, driving ordinary families out of their homes, with black characters constantly feeling unwanted and unsafe.  The inhumanity of it all is difficult to comprehend, but when we feel it through the eyes of someone actually experiencing it firsthand, it’s something else altogether, more personal and relatable, as their perspective has been routinely silenced, yet this film offers a voice to the voiceless, becoming an eye-opening work that is elevated by this historical perspective, providing a generational portrait of absent fathers and disintegrated families that extends more than a decade, where the protagonists demonstrate what true survival means when there is no home and no idea about what it really means to find their own identity without one.  What’s immensely appealing about the performance of Teyana Taylor is her searing intensity, oftentimes seen in a rage of profanity, feeling helpless to stop the growing inhumanity that engulfs her, yet also having quiet, tender moments that allow us into her interior world.  The degree of complexity in the life of a single black mother, who is inevitably misunderstood and largely invisible to larger society, is what’s so essential about this film, where it’s hard not to be impressed by Taylor’s performance, so openly vulnerable, not always likable, with rough edges and emotional wounds exposed, flaws and all, yet there’s something about her steely resolve that’s just different from what we find in other films, as it’s more accurate, authentic, and psychologically astute.  While background information remains an open question, it’s implied that Inez lost her parents to the crack epidemic of the 1980’s, with next to nothing known about Terry’s father, who may be dead or in jail, but he’s certainly out of the picture, leaving her largely on her own to fend for herself, where putting the past behind her is an essential aspect of her mental stability, as it would be easy to get consumed by these harsh realities.  Her first stop when she gets out of prison is to a shuttered beauty shop, representative of all her hopes and dreams, where she literally has to claw her way back into the land of the living, finding few options open to her.  Using a street payphone (that has become obsolete in modern times), she calls upon her friend Kim (Terri Abney, from Jeff Nichols’ Loving, 2016) for a place to stay, but Kim’s mother (Delissa Reynolds), a kindly woman who welcomes Terry like one of her own, shows nothing but contempt to Inez, as trouble always seems to follow her, with a darker history between them implied, but not touched upon.  Instead Inez is in survival mode, desperate to find a job, which is even more difficult with a criminal background, yet persistence in the face of turbulence is part of her daily reality, having grown up in foster care where she was fending for herself by the time she was a teenager, determined to give Terry a better life, constantly reminding him, “I’ll go to war for you.”

Shot by Eric K. Yue, often moving from street-level action to overhead shots, with low-resolution archive footage adding a certain grit to the mix, where the time jumps are marked by inserted tracking shots over rows of houses and excerpts from mayoral speeches, as news broadcasts warn viewers of the increasing dangers of the Mayor Giuliani years, with explicit reference to the NYPD’s Assault of Abner Louima and the murder of Guinean student Amadou Diallo, where so much violence is directed towards the vulnerable, the marginalized, and the immigrant community, part of the socioeconomic distress put on black New Yorkers at the turn of the millennium.  Something of a counterpoint to Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989) or his messy but deeply personal family drama CROOKLYN (1994), Rockwell’s pacing, adroitly moving through different time periods, creates unfiltered emotional jolts, especially as Terry ages, which viewers experience exactly as he does, like when he suddenly meets Lucky (William Catlett), the new man in Inez’s life, also sharing a criminal background, something not easily overcome, but Terry (Aven Courtney) gives them reason to, A THOUSAND AND ONE - "How We Met" Official Clip - Only In ... YouTube (1:54), both seeing a version of themselves in him, growing up in the same way, offering him a life they never had, and he makes the best if it, viewed as quiet, thoughtful and introspective, succeeding in school despite all the distractions.  Lucky moves in and out of their lives, A Thousand and One Movie Clip - Show Up For Me (2023) YouTube (1:40), apparently balancing multiple relationships, where one of his other kids lives across the street with his own mother, but this never pushes the envelope into melodrama, remaining free of histrionics while still carrying considerable dramatic weight, with Inez insisting “Damaged people don’t know how to love each other.”  A fiercely protective Inez and Terry are always at the center of the picture, where she has to contend with the fact that she never gets the life she wanted, always craving something more, but doubts creep in, where we hear her concerns, “I keep feeling like something’s going to happen.”  The title of the film refers to the number of the apartment they live in, where an early hint that trouble lies ahead comes in the form of a new white landlord, who promises major improvements that will never come, but this is the lure of gentrification, which can only kick in, supposedly, if they leave the apartment altogether, using a bait and switch technique where minor repairs turn into an uninhabitable mess, with repairmen expediting their departure by leaving her apartment without a working bathroom, so it eats away at them, like a horror film, exactly as it does for their long-neglected neighborhood, where this rampant gentrification, another name for displacing people of color, is at the core of the changes taking place in Barry Jenkins’ Medicine for Melancholy (2008), examined in even greater detail in the fascinating documentary by Frederick Wiseman, In Jackson Heights (2015), where in the course of a few years the entire fabric of a neighborhood can disappear altogether in the name of progress.  Featuring an impressive build to a powerful climax, this film is largely open-ended, with a stream of different interests coming to light, as Terry (Josiah Cross) grows into a young man, seeing things finally through his own eyes, where some of his questionable decisions are hugely impactful, causing Inez to remark, ”I love you a whole lot, but I’m really starting to not like you,” just a stunning admission for a mother to make towards her son, but the combustible world we have been living through leaves no easy answers, which is part of the beautiful mystery of the film. 

Earth Mama

 

Olympian Savanah Leaf in 2012

Writer/director Savanah Leaf

Leaf with lead actress Tia Nomore

Tia Nomore

Leaf on the set with Tia Nomore

The director on the set

Leaf with cinematographer Jody Lee Lipes

EARTH MAMA         B+                                                                                                            USA  Great Britain  (97 mi)  2023  d: Savanah Leaf

Anyone who has ever struggled with poverty knows how extremely expensive it is to be poor; and if one is a member of a captive population, economically speaking, one’s feet have simply been placed on the treadmill forever.  One is victimized, economically, in a thousand ways—rent, for example, or car insurance.  Go shopping one day in Harlem—for anything—and compare Harlem prices and quality with those downtown.                                                 ―James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name, 1961, The Price of the Ticket: Collected Nonfiction: 1948–1985

Adapting her own short film into a feature-length film debut, this film has its roots in THE HEART STILL HUMS (2020), made with Waves actress Taylor Russell, a 30-minute short that documents the lives of five single women of color as they fight to be with their children in the foster care system, struggling through a cycle of poverty, drug addictions, and their own parental neglect in a system of structural inequality seemingly designed to keep people trapped in cycles of hopelessness, as it has a tendency of tearing families apart.  Told without an ounce of pretension, this quiet yet excruciatingly realistic, near documentary film showcases the life of a smart and resourceful single black mother who is pregnant, Gia (Oakland rapper Tia Nomore), whose two young children are already in foster care, where her life with them is reduced to a single hour once weekly, which is heavily supervised, subject to a stream of meetings and classes, along with constant drug tests.  Set in the Bay Area community of Oakland, it’s a wrenchingly emotional experience, which may mirror the experience of many impoverished black women who are subject to generational trauma from a child welfare system in place that takes away their children, exactly as they did with their mothers, and the mothers before that.  Continuing that inescapable cycle, Gia lives with her sister who deals drugs out of their home, leaving her subject to continual scrutiny, avoiding random home inspections at all costs, knowing the inevitable outcome.  What’s overwhelmingly effective is the eye-opening realization of just how routine this experience has become for poor black women, who don’t have the resources of other women, with no positive role models, where suspicion and distrust go hand in hand with the powers that be, where it feels all but impossible to effectively change this one-sided imbalance of power, where the state has all the rights, and the actual mothers have very few, where the consensus view is that mothers pose an inherent threat to their children because of their addiction problems.  For most viewers, this is unexplored territory, offering insight into a world that is completely off the radar, where you might think there may be little viewer connection, but the no-nonsense and completely authentic performance of Nomore is poignant and tenderly affecting, where this entry into her world is like entering foreign territory, resembling a war zone, where she is isolated and kept from her young daughter and son, who themselves grow distant and incommunicative, blaming their “captivity” on their mother, as they can’t return home, feeling hijacked by powerful forces they can’t understand.  The social realist style pulls no punches, demonstrating no showy techniques, simply allowing viewers to immerse themselves in Gia’s world, bringing empathy to every frame, where it’s hard not to be sympathetic, as the entrenched system provides her such a bleak existence, having a deadening effect on her soul.  Rarely has the mundane daily routine felt so brutal.  This film has a way of introducing us to someone we may never get to know in real life, and even if we did, we would not appreciate the unseen layers that provide the foundation of her existence, as her journey is an interior one, nearly invisible to the naked eye, historically ignored and completely invisible in the eyes of society, yet all she really wants is to protect her kids because no one was there to protect her.         

Leaf was born in London, coming to America at age 7, and was a 2012 Olympian at the age of 18 for Great Britain in the sport of volleyball, but also played AAU basketball until she suffered a career-ending injury, where her evolution into the world of cinema started by studying photography and making music videos, while in this film she mostly uses a non-professional cast.  Opening to the nearly forgotten music of Bettye Swann’s 1969 recording of Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye - YouTube (3:46), it offers a romantic portrait of love that seems just out of reach, but yearned for, becoming an essential component of the film.  What follows may be the most confrontational moment in the film, as a black woman (Tiffany Garner) takes the stage and offers her view in a therapeutic confessional sequence, “It’s my journey.  No one else’s journey.  Nobody can walk in my shoes.  You can hold my hand; you can look back from a distance.  You still won’t feel what I feel.  You still won’t look at that from my point of view.”  Without providing any back story, this is a film that never judges these women, or the caseworkers they’re forced to contend with, so viewers never realize what mistakes the women have made, only that the doors have been closed behind them.  A story of conflicted emotions, very observational, even meditative, where the day-to-day is searingly etched into our minds, Gia makes the rounds between classes, training sessions, and mandatory support groups that she is required to attend, growing frustrated at the lack of progress, while also working as a photographic assistant at the Photo Magic store in the mall, helping set up each of the family portrait shots of young couples and families with new children, telling them how to pose, arranging their clothes and their positioning for the camera, creating perfect moments that will help provide lasting memories, while also hanging out with a small circle of female friends afterwards, each commiserating with their struggles, where we get an idea what the women are going through.  Her best friends are Trina (Tampa rapper Doechii), who’s also pregnant, but worries about lapses in Gia’s judgment, though her domineering religious views eventually become alienating, citing Bible verses about God’s plan, while later in the film she feels more drawn towards Mel (Keta Price), a childhood friend who recently lost her own mother, casually yet affectionately calling Gia “Mama,” a term with incendiary implications, especially for black women, snapping back at her at one point, “I am not your mama,” as it implies a sympathetic role of providers and nurturers, with black women being mothers not just to their own children but other people’s children throughout history, becoming housekeepers or nannies, which harkens back to slavery days when black women mothered the slave-owner’s children.  She is also affectionately called this same term by the guys hanging out in front of her home, a reminder of how they see her, which is always in relationship to her children.  Perhaps the most surprising scene eloquently comes from two men, Earl (Bruhfromlastnight) and James (James Allen), recounting their experiences as children being ripped away from their mother’s arms and placed in group homes, sending them into emotional turmoil, eradicating their stability, all in the name of their “well-being,” but nothing was ever the same for them afterwards, as they were internally damaged, with something broken that could not be fixed.    

In 2018, it became more publicized that the federal government was officially separating undocumented immigrants from their children as a matter of Zero Tolerance American policy, not just temporarily, but permanently, with no tracking process or records that would allow them to be reunited, placing thousands of children up for international adoption (The Secret History of Family Separation).  The director reframes this tragedy through the prism of race and class, asking some of the most fundamental questions about motherhood, introducing the politics of race as it relates to the child-welfare laws in this country.  Leaf, who never knew her father, gleans some of this experience from her little sister, Corinna, who is 16-years younger, an adoptee from an open adoption who never saw her birth mom again, curiously making a brief appearance in the photo studio next to several guys.  Easily the biggest surprise is adding dreamlike sequences that are Gia’s avenue of escape, which only add depth and complexity, as we gain insight into her interior imagination and daydreams, capturing the shimmering beauty of the natural landscape surrounding the Bay area, where the forest actually meets the ocean (shot in nearby Vallejo), conjuring up primeval forces from deep within which mirror innate maternal feelings, where these deeply personalized moments may be the only aspect of her life that she has any control over, perhaps the only time she’s completely vulnerable and exposed.  In stark contrast, she finds herself continually at odds over the welfare system that has failed her, despite her best efforts, as they routinely fail to give her another chance.  Her impassive demeanor is largely a front hiding what she really feels, as the system is quick to condemn and blame her, unable to accumulate enough working hours to adequately support herself, always one step behind in her bills, as she’s continually had to alter her life to accommodate their structure, never really establishing any path for success.  Clearly she adores her children, patiently taking the time with each one of them during their visits, but even as she complies with all their rules and regulations, it doesn’t change anything, as her children are still stuck in a system that refuses to recognize her as a positive influence.  Making things more complicated is another baby is on the way, who she’s at risk of losing as well, where none of the fathers have any role to play, as they are simply absent.  Honestly, Gia has no use for any of them, believing she’s better off on her own.  As part of her support system, she has regular visits with a social worker named Carmen (Erika Alexander from The Cosby Show in the early 90’s), who attempts to guide her through her pregnancy, reminding her that they’re both part of a system that is designed “to work against women like us,” providing her with options that include adoption, something most white women are never encouraged to consider, as too often black women are encouraged to give up their children, where Gia has grown so untrustworthy that she thinks Carmen’s job is selling black babies to white families.  This should not come as a big surprise, as there’s no one that Gia has come to trust, literally no one, as people she thinks are her allies in the system quickly turn on her, so she suspects even those with the best of intentions.  The question in the back of her mind is always wondering if there are ulterior motives.  Trust is largely a forgotten commodity in her neighborhood, replaced by heavily guarded anxieties and fears, while also plagued by guilt, which seem to dominate her life, yet she tries to overlook all these factors, living her best life, fraught with tension, where the only thing for certain is the future is unknown.  Shot with a bracing directness on 16mm by Jody Lee Lipes, who also shot Kenneth Lonergan’s 2016 Top Ten List #5 Manchester by the Sea and Sean Durkin’s 2011 Top Ten Films of the Year #5 Martha Marcy May Marlene, with new age music by singer, songwriter, and cellist Kelsey Lu that feels completely original, providing contemporary electronic ambience, accentuating the harp with lofty female voices during the finale that add an extra dimension to the film, taking us into unexplored regions.