Barry Jenkins’ introspective coming-of-age drama Moonlight has been mentioned alongside Brokeback Mountain, Weekend and Keep the Lights On as one of the great gay movies.
The only problem with that label here -- and it is a label -- is that its lead character’s sexuality is defined by a single event. One night, ending in a connection with another human being ... who just so happens to also be a man.
His identity is up for debate, but is that debate appropriate to have? What does it even mean to be "gay" these days? These are the questions we've been told that this movie struggles with, but I'm not sure it really shows that internal struggle very well.
Set in drug-plagued Miami, the story unfolds as a triptych, following Chiron from childhood to adulthood in three acts: He's played by Alex R. Hibbert as a young boy nicknamed Little, Ashton Sanders as a teenage Chiron, and Trevante Rhodes as a grown man who prefers to be called Black.
As a kid, Little's peers call him the (other) f-word and he doesn't know why, nor is he old enough to know what that hateful slur even means. One day, they chase him into a crack house where he's rescued by Juan (Mahershala Ali), a drug dealer who becomes a surrogate father figure to the boy, much to the protestations of Little's cracked-out mother (Naomie Harris).
Juan is the one forced to explain to Little why the other boys think he's different. As far as the audience is concerned, we really haven't seen how he is different.
Even as a teen, Chiron prefers to spend time with Juan and his girlfriend Teresa (Janelle Monae) rather than head home and risk the wrath of his mother, who shakes down her own teenage son for drug money -- the very money that inevitably makes its way back into Juan's pocket. Not only is Chiron's home life a mess, but things have gotten even worse at school, where he can only endure the cruel taunts of his bullying classmates for so long.
Chiron thinks he has an ally in his old pal Kevin (Jharrel Jerome), a self-proclaimed ladies man, but his trust is proven to be misplaced, even after they share a passionate evening together that ends with Chiron looking back at Kevin as they part ways -- a subtly heartbreaking moment that might come off a cliched in a "straight" movie but is rather touching here.
Years after high school, Chiron is living under the name Black in Atlanta, where he has rebuilt himself hard and bulked up since he was a teenager. There is an explanation, of course, but the considerable physical transformation is still jarring, and you're forced to suspend your disbelief since Rhodes looks nothing like Sanders.
Black has followed in Juan's footsteps and is now a drug dealer himself with a blinged-out grill. He's a man of few words, and in that silence you can hear the butterflies fluttering in his stomach when he receives a phone call out of the blue from his long-lost love Kevin (Andre Holland).
Early in the film, Juan tells Little that "you gotta decide for yourself who you are." That theme of identity comes back into play when Chiron and Kevin reunite after a decade apart to reconcile the past and rediscover each other on the same beach where they first kissed after sharing a joint.
"You don't know me," Black warns Kevin, who fires back, "I don't?" Kevin later asks, "Who is you?" and Black responds, "I'm me, man. Ain't trying to be nothing else." But because of the time-jumping structure of the film, we don't really know who that "me" is anymore.
When Kevin finally tells Black, "you aren't what I expected," and Black replies, "what'd you expect?" The same question could be posed to the audience, as the shocking end of the second act satiates our need for moral justice, yet the third act doesn't present any answers as easy as violence.
In present day, Kevin is on probation and barely making money working at a restaurant, but he has a family and he's happy. The same can't be said for Black. Kevin is the only man who has ever touched Black, and who Black has allowed to touch him, but we wonder if he's the only man who has ever tried. Kevin certainly brings out a softer side of Black, who's able to drop his thuggish act and be vulnerable around him. But does this mean he's trying to come out, or is he comfortable living in that denial?
This is where the ever-melancholy Moonlight makes its beautifully sad point. These two men only felt comfortable in their own skin when they were together, which we come to find happened a lot more than what was shown onscreen. It's a shame then that their discomfort was not explored more.
However artistic and important this film may be, it’s still a quiet character study featuring a relatively thin narrative that defines its main character by his sexuality.
As lyrical and beautiful as Jenkins' direction is, his contemplative script seems afraid of itself. Shame might've been a more appropriate title if it wasn't already taken, considering the silent post-kiss car ride that Chiron and Kevin share, and how Juan feels somewhat responsible for Chiron's mother's addiction.
Speaking of Juan, Ali delivers a fantastic supporting turn, but his father figure still rings a bit false. Why does he take an interest in Little and show the boy such kindness? And why does Juan disappear altogether following the first act? As nice as it might've been to see Juan return down the line, his absence from the rest of the film underscores how the people who are there at the beginning of your life aren’t always there at the end.
I'd hate for this review to be misconstrued as negative, because Moonlight is a very good film that most people will like. Just know going in that Moonlight a very small film about a very big journey, but it is not an epic romance for the ages like Brokeback Mountain.
It isn’t quite a gut-punch of a film, but it does linger. You’ll find yourself thinking about Moonlight days later. Just don’t overthink it now, before you see it.
