There’s a moment in “Moonlight,” a gay black man’s coming-of-age story, when the protagonist, Chiron, is sitting in the principal’s office after being beat up by some of his classmates. His face bloodied and tear-streaked, he sits there while the principal tries to convince him to press charges. “You don’t even know,” he cries, repeating it over and over. “You don’t even know.”
“Moonlight” is incredible—poetic, haunting, gorgeous, ambitious. But what makes it truly shattering is that sentiment: You don’t even know. This is a story that’s rarely told, and to see it told so well makes the film heavy with feeling.
Writer/director Barry Jenkins breaks the story into three parts: childhood, adolescence and adulthood. Chiron is played by a different actor in each period—Alex Hibbert, Ashton Sanders and Trevante Rhodes, respectively—and all three deliver profound performances linked to the others. In childhood, Chiron navigates confusion at getting picked on, at his mother’s (Naomie Harris) connection to the Miami drug scene, at who he’s supposed to be. By high school, this confusion has morphed into fear and longing; at school and at home, Chiron suffers sadness so thick there seems to be no escape. As an adult, the sensitivity that defined his early identity is buried beneath a hardened exterior.
The film throbs with a specific ache, especially in scenes between Chiron and his friend and potential romantic interest Kevin (Jaden Piner/Jharrel Jerome/Andre Holland). As teenagers, they sit on the beach and try to connect, but their macho affectations throw up walls. When they reunite as adults, they talk around what they both know in a scene that is sensual and thrilling, like we, too, suffered through years of buildup.
Through all this subtle dialogue and powerful acting weaves Jenkins’ direction, following Chiron through his life like another character in the movie. His camera pans and circles and sways, watching from the backseat of a car or hovering just above the ocean’s surface. It gets up close to characters’ faces, creating intimacy so strong it becomes uncomfortable. “Moonlight” also does remarkable things with sound, tying emotions to memories and connecting each segment with a cohesive mood.
Given the intense relationship between Kevin and Chiron, it feels natural to crave a crash between them by the end. Certainly, Jenkins had the opportunity to showcase black, homosexual love in a way nearly all media shies away from. Instead, “Moonlight” ends quietly, gently, placing more value in vulnerability than exhibition. It’s an extremely personal moment, but you don’t want to look away.
4 stars (out of four)
@lchval | laurenchval@redeyechicago.com
