With Nickel Boys, director RaMell Ross, who has worked mostly in documentaries, brings a daring version of a Colson Whitehead novel to the screen. Multi-layered and willing to speak in its own visual language, the movie insinuates itself in memory in evocative and mournful ways.
Beginning with an opening that qualifies as an idyl about Florida in the 1960s and carrying the story into the 21st century, Ross introduces Elwood, a teenager who’s on track to escape the limits of life in Tallahassee as the power of Jim Crowe begins to wane. Elwood's on the verge of attending college, when a cruel detour lands him in a juvenile reformatory.
Ross risks an unconventional telling of his tale. In its early stages, Ross's camera shows us only what Elwood sees. Elwood's vision offers a slightly blurry take on the world we're entering. Snippets of news might be gleaned from TVs in a store window Elwood passes. Two young Black men step aside to allow whites to pass on a sidewalk. Elwood's grandmother expresses tender love for him.
Initially, Ross's subjective approach may disorient viewers, but he proceeds leisurely, allowing us to experience the story with an immediacy that throws us off guard and keeps us from getting too far ahead of the characters.
Elwood’s teacher (Jimmie Fails) has worked hard to get his charge into Melvin Griggs College. En route to the school and a fulfilling life, Elwood hitches a ride with a man driving a stolen Impala. Presumed guilty of something (probably doesn't matter what), Elwood is sent to a reform school known as Nickel Academy.
Naive and trusting, Elwood believes he’s going to finish his education. It takes time for him to realize that he’s in a penal institution where young Black men are exploited and segregated from the white population of the "school." The young men work for free, and corrupt school officials profiteer, selling food that's meant to feed the Black "students."
Some of the boys "disappear.” We don't need a guide to tell us what that means.
Whitehead modeled his story on the Arthur G. Dozier School for Boys, a real-life Florida institution where 100 Black students died and were buried in unmarked graves. The school operated from 1900 to 2011.
Ross could have taken the easy way out, presenting his story in linear fashion, but he charts his own path. For what might be a quarter of the movie, we see events only through Elwood’s eyes, which means we don’t know what he looks like until the viewpoint shifts to that of Turner, another Nickel youngster who’s more savvy about the system.
Ethan Herisse (as Elwood) and Brandon Wilson (as Turner) give performances that reflect each young man’s personality and history; Elwood maintains a belief in the possibility of being treated fairly; Turner grounds his cynicism in the reality of cruel experience.
If the long arc of the universe bends toward justice, Elwood wants a more immediate result. He continues to believe that his capabilities will be recognized. I'd call that a deep expression of faith.
Perhaps to add context, Ross includes real images, some bordering on the surreal. He also distorts the flow time; sometimes, we meet a grown Elwood -- or so we think. An adult living in Harlem where he runs a successful moving business, Elwood can't escape the torments he experienced at Nickel. He needs to testify about them to help bring Nickels down.
Emotionally, the film opens slowly. It features a deeply affecting turn by Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor as the grandmother who, despite limited resources, never gives up on Elwood. Ellis-Taylor provides a lesson about how much can be accomplished with limited screen time.
Ross's experimental approach takes some adjustment. The shifting points of view deprive us of context, forcing us to look beyond what's being shown. Sometimes, we have to pull back to remind ourselves whose eyes we're looking through.
But Nickel Boys creates the kind of disquiet that's spawned by memories that cannot be appeased.
No, make that should not be appeased. One of the year’s most haunting movies, Nickel Boys resonates with the eloquence of poetry, speaking powerfully as it pulls us into lives robbed of promise.
