The idea of identity is something movies (and, it should probably be said, humans) have tried to come to grips with since the very beginning. The process of finding out who you are is life-long. We never stop evolving, changing or regretting. Few films have articulated this aspect of the human condition better than Moonlight, the new film from director Barry Jenkins. This three-part saga exploded after its premiere in Sundance earlier this year and has finally arrived in theaters for the general public to consume. The film is tender, heartbreaking and achingly human. It follows Chiron – a black man from South Florida – from a childhood marked with fear to a stagnant adulthood formed by damaging experiences. Jenkins uses a three-act structure to flesh out Chiron’s journey toward self-identification, with each part showcasing Chiron’s struggle to come to grips with his dysfunctional family, his confused sexuality and his place in American society as a black man.

Chiron is played by three different actors, playing various ages. Alex Hibbert plays the extremely introverted child, speechless in the face of friends and enemies alike. Living in the Miami ghetto of Liberty City, his weak frame and diminutive personality has won him the nickname “Lil” amongst his peers, but those peers seem only interested in picking on him, even using physical violence. Chiron’s mother Paula (a blistering performance from Naomie Harris) fears for her son, but is too entrapped by her drug dependency to have an impact. It isn’t until Chiron catches the attention of Juan (Mahershala Ali) – a local drug dealer who’s sensitive demeanor belies his dangerous occupation – that Chiron finds some one willing to look out for him. Without an obvious paternal figure, Juan takes an interest, and even introduces him to his partner, Teresa (Janelle Monáe), who both give this painfully shy child shelter when Paula is too strung out to take care of her son. Chiron hears words like “faggot” aimed at him. He wonders what it means, both as a word and what it means in reference to him. As a small child, he is already faced with the decision of choosing the kind of person he is going to be.

Ashton Sanders plays Chiron in high school, still a shy young man living in constant fear of school bullies who find pleasure in wishing him harm. Paula’s drug habit has only worsened, but Chiron can still find sanctuary from Teresa. Walks to and from home are done with one eye looking over his shoulder, fearing who may be coming his way – and also fearing that all the charges of femininity thrown at him are in fact true. Like most high schools, Chiron’s is not welcoming toward the unique, he is at odds with those who pounce on people who are different for their own entertainment. Chiron’s only friend is Kevin (Jharrel Jerome), a fellow high schooler who has no problem being friends with Chiron and Chiron’s bullies. As Chiron’s high school experience worsens, not even Kevin can help him cope. Lastly, Trevante Rhodes plays Chiron as an adult, an intimidating figure sculpted by years of muscle-building and image-reshaping. Gone is the trepidation, and in its place is a fierce drug pusher living in Atlanta free from ridicule but also absent of affection and love. His relationship with Paula is strained, to put it best. A chance call from Kevin (played by André Holland as an adult) brings back on the pain and regret of his adolescence.

Seeing Kevin for the first time in over a decade gives Chiron a chance to reconcile his true self with the person he has been forced to become, but few people are brave enough to face up to the realities of who they truly are on the inside. The struggles of being an impoverished black man and being a closeted gay man run concurrently for Chiron. Those two sides of his life are so strongly intertwined, and he’s never given the chance to address each side individually, everything is thrown together into one holy mess. It doesn’t help that his mother, Paula, prefers smoking crack to raising him, or that Juan, his one positive role model, is involved in criminal activity. In a time when everyone is pondering their identity and what it means, Chiron is forced to choose straightaway. His road is forked from the beginning, and he must choose his path or risk being taken in by his circumstance. Moonlight is all about how this circumstance affects Chiron in those three separate times of his life, how he is always compromised for his behavior, for his sexuality, and for his skin color. Discovering identity is always complicated, but for Chiron, it’s an exercise of life-and-death. Jenkins’ protagonist is a marginalized individual who doesn’t have the benefit of peer support, or even cultural support. His isolation is his solace and his prison.

Moonlight is based on a play by Tarell Alvin McCraney titled In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue (it doesn’t appear that the play was ever actually produced), and McCraney gets a story credit on the screenplay. The screenplay itself was written by Jenkins, and Moonlight is his first feature since his 2008 debut Medicine for Melancholy (which I have not seen). McCraney’s story is said to have a good deal of autobiography, but through Jenkins’ lens, it’s given fierce universality. The wide spectrum of concepts that Moonlight takes on is impressive in and of itself, that it is able to tackle them all with such a measured thoughtfulness is what makes the movie so special. The film’s plot is specific, but it’s story reaches into to the outer edges of American culture. The themes of race and sexuality are evident, but the film’s ability to comment as well on drug addiction and school bullying in a tight but not unsubstantial way is what makes Jenkins’ screenplay such a marvel. He knows that the human experience is made up of a multitude of strands, and he’s careful to give each strand proper exposure. This is highlighted by the characters of Paula and Juan – the drug addict and the dealer – who’s symbiotic relationship with drugs is paralleled by their relationship with Chiron. Jenkins is so sympathetic in the treatment of these characters, so skillful in displaying their duality and how it plays a part in creating a divide in Chiron’s life.

This is also an astonishingly made film. I had not been acquainted with Jenkins’ work before this film, but this movie shows the competence of a remarkably skilled director. With help from cinematographer James Laxton and editors Joi McMillon and Nat Sanders, Jenkins crafts the most beautiful piece of filmmaking I’ve seen this year. Shooting in one of the more undocumented areas of South Florida – Miami’s notorious Liberty City – Jenkins captures the beauty of the landscape while also portraying how it plays a role in Chiron’s life. As a South Florida native, this is one of very few films that seemed truly interested in Florida as a place as opposed to Florida as a spectacle. I can’t think of another film in 2016 that seemed to be more in control in the hands of its filmmaker, that seemed more confident in what it was saying and how it was choosing to say it. By the film’s third act, we’re led to believe we’ll be receiving a kind of heart-wrenching catharsis, but Jenkins knows that that’s all wrong for this kind of story. He instead lulls us towards the end with a beautiful lullaby of a sequence as Chiron and Kevin have a conversation that just might end with Chiron finally accepting who he’s always been. Though Jenkins is also smart enough to avoid any definitives.

Rhodes, Sanders and Hibbert all show shades of brilliance in their portrayals of Chiron. As Chiron grows older, he matures into his fear, lets it encase him until its become his uniform. The three actors show that maturation in such a varied but striking way. Hibbert is stoic and voiceless, Sanders is intense and tragic, Rhodes is resigned, content in his hiding place. They are three very different performances, but Jenkins is able to mold them together in such a way that makes them a whole person. Naomie Harris’ Paula is more than the plot point it could have ended up being. Harris brings a rawness to this performance, an appreciation for the character’s ultimate doom. Likewise, Monáe fills out Teresa with wit and personality. As Juan, Mahershala Ali is a revelation, a perfectly calibrated portrayal of strength and wisdom in the face of fear. Juan is almost scared by how much he comes to care for Chiron, but Ali masterfully shows us how his love overcomes that fear. Jenkins and Ali are making a point here: in poverty, crime is easy to come by, and when crime is an inevitability, sometimes it is a possibility that the criminal can be the best role model there is. It’s a point too many films are afraid to make.

After the splash in Sundance, and its more recent runs in Toronto Film Festival and Telluride, Moonlight is being heralded as amongst the best films of 2016. I’d agree with that. It’s topical without feeling forced. It’s breathtakingly cinematic while still holding its grip on its narrative. It’s a heart-pounding juggling act. It should be too complicated. It should be the kind of film that’s appreciated but hardly ever makes it to the screen. Instead, Jenkins made us a melancholy masterwork. He seemingly understood all the ways and places that this movie could go wrong, and thus understood just the right way to make this movie. Moonlight is directly a film about growing up as a gay black man, but it’s more abstractly a mediation on being human; on being misunderstood; on adjusting yourself perpetually until you’ve met the right setting that lets society accept you; on learning that no matter how much adjusting you do, you always end up running into yourself.

 

Written for the Screen and Directed by Barry Jenkins