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| (Paramount) |
Selma
is historical cinema as only a small-scale filmmaker could envision it. Ava
DuVernay, helmer of the superb (and micro-budgeted) Middle of Nowhere (2012), settles into a comfort zone that allows
her film to maintain an immediacy and an intimacy, quite unlike even the better
historical accounts to hit theaters in recent years (most notably Lincoln and 12 Years a Slave). It is also – unavoidably, given the racial
tensions that have erupted in Ferguson, MO and New York City, and subsequently
throughout the entire country – extremely prescient, never straying far from
contemporary arguments about police brutality, segregation, group solidarity
and the evolving forms of institutional racism.
But
Selma is not principally activist
filmmaking. It is a cinematic representation of history that closely echoes the
work of Steve McQueen on 12 Years
last year, or even Kathryn Bigelow’s on Zero
Dark Thirty. DuVernay’s finished product compels absorption and reflection,
a way to take in history to more complexly understand vital aspects of American
identity. The month-to-month details are not so important. In this depiction,
you observe Martin Luther King Jr. as a flawed and sometimes-contradictory man,
representing millions of people and an extraordinary cause. You listen to the arguments
and the comradery between members of the Student Non-Violent Coordinating
Committee (SNCC) and the Southern Christian Leadership Council (SCLC). And you
feel the mangling, the physical abuse of bodies treated without dignity –
mothers and elders beaten and shamed, simply for marching on a bridge.
The
pressure on DuVernay must have been significant – not until 2014 do we get an
MLK-centric biopic? – and the undertaking, working with a major studio and a
substantial budget, likely enormous. And, it should be noted, the director gets
off to a rocky start. She opens with a series of obvious identifiers – an
explanation of “look what needs to be stopped” – including the massacre at
Little Rock and an exemplification of the literacy tests forced upon African
Americans wishing to vote. And early scenes at the White House, between King
(David Oyelowo) and President Lyndon Johnson (Tom Wilkinson), come off as
awkwardly staged and a tad overwrought. You get the sense that DuVernay is working
through Paul Webb’s vastly-different original script, and the various visions
of previously-attached directors – Stephen Frears and Lee Daniels, to name two –
that came and went.
Once
she pushes through the muck, however, DuVernay is able to tell the story she
wants to tell. Moreover, Selma
directly reflects the approach taken in Middle
of Nowhere – the director acquits herself well, relying on her strengths
and in the process demonstrating hitherto reserved talents. As many on the Selma team have noted, this movie is not
titled “King” for a reason. Rather, this is the story of a movement and a
community. Once King, SNCC and others arrive in Selma, AL and determine that
they will march from there to Montgomery and demand voting equality, everything
falls into place. DuVernay’s historical acknowledgments are rich and detailed,
directly examining differences in philosophy and opinion within the movement: equal
voice is provided to the passions of students like John Lewis (Stephan James),
and the pragmatism of ministers like Hosea Williams (Wendell Pierce). And King,
as a level-headed leader, is forced to withhold information, make backroom
deals and take unpopular sides. The brilliance of DuVernay’s work in this regard
is her refusal to pin down or delegitimize any sentiment, even those against
her protagonist. She smoothly and believably guides disparate ideas and focuses
into the culminating decision – the Selma march – and always stays true to that
all-important idea: King didn’t do it alone.
This
is certainly Selma’s great, steadfast
success; yet as cinema, as art and as historical representation, DuVernay
elevates the material by filling in narrow blanks. She’ll spend five minutes in
a kitchen, as Selma residents meet, greet, and joke with incoming SCLC members;
in such moments, the movie softens just enough, allowing recognizable humor and
the comfort of community to seep into our consciousness. We can lament the
injustices committed against these individuals, or celebrate their will and
eventual triumph – but DuVernay adds such profound weight to these people
simply by allowing them to be, not as “figures” or “icons” but as family and
friends. That the film’s chief interest is in these in-between moments speaks
monumentally to Selma’s lasting
impact. It compels recognition and, again, absorption. DuVernay breathes life
into history, and gives it a beating heart. She offers ample time to, for
instance, the marital strife between Martin and Coretta King (Carmen Ejogo), underscoring
their moments together with such deep ache and raw emotion that, for moments at
a time, Selma reflects DuVernay’s predominantly interpersonal roots as a storyteller. She brings that touch, that experience.
She textures these scenes with long, unrelenting silences, allowing Ejogo and
Oyelowo to communicate absolutely everything with absolutely nothing. It’s not
just an indicator of confidence – DuVernay pulls back the curtain, constantly
ascertaining the personal focus characterizing her vision.
And
yet, the more DuVernay stretches herself, the more impressive and powerful Selma becomes. Her set pieces, as they
grow bigger and more capacious, are stunning in their beauty and communication.
It’s here that cinematographer Bradford Young shows off his immeasurable
talent. His camera is sweeping, capturing the thousands crossing the bridge and
fitting as many into frame as possible – to go from the quiet and
conversational, with three or four actors in frame, to squeezing in thousands
on such an epic scale, is a visceral contrast. Selma consistently swivels between big and small, giving us a closer
sense of, say, Amelia Boynton (a terrific Lorraine Toussaint) before we close
in on her as she marches with everyone else. And in the “Bloody Sunday”
sequence, in which the police begin senselessly beating the marchers with no accompanying
reason, DuVernay and Young work to piece together one of the year’s most
horrifying and intense cinematic sequences. Clouded in tear gas, the camera
surveys characters we’ve come to connect with, panning around as their dignity
is quickly stripped, their agency removed, their identities recklessly grouped.
It’s a painful, brutal few minutes that remain utterly involving, visually
arresting and emotionally penetrating throughout.
That
DuVernay is so dedicated to Selma as a community, giving so many actors
involved a place and a voice in her story, is a wonderful thing. And that she
shot on-location at the Edmund Pettus Bridge, the swampy greens and browns
coloring her lens, only adds to her commitment to authenticity and distinctiveness.
But consequentially, criticism and debate over the film’s depiction of the rest
of the movement – that is, LBJ and the White House – has built in prominence.
Not only is this misguided, and not only does it undermine the film’s very
intent of shifting the voice and narrative to those on-the-ground, but it’s
also mostly incorrect. Wilkinson, as he often does, hams up LBJ (and does so
gloriously), swearing with vitriol and communicating reluctance with blistering
candor. But to say the President was completely for Selma and had no other
priorities would be inaccurate. And to disregard the character’s evolution in
the film – climaxing with his announcement of the Voting Rights Act, one of the
film’s most resonant and powerful moments – is blatantly unfair. I do say that
detractors are “mostly inaccurate” only because LBJ’s involvement with the FBI –
in terms of slowing Dr. King down – is unsubstantiated, and as mentioned
earlier, the opening scene between King and LBJ is played too coarsely. But
otherwise – as in, the film’s majority – Selma
stays close to historical fact and follows a sympathetic narrative arc.
Moreover, the liberties taken drive the action forward – while not ideal, it’s
a trait certainly not uncommon to most every other historical drama around. And
really, watching Tim Roth, so brilliant and slimy as racist Alabama governor George
Wallace, get so magnificently taken down Wilkinson should be enough of a
victory for any fan of LBJ.
But
to get back on track. Selma is that
rare film that can go big and small, demonstrating a grandeur and a splendor that’s
extracted directly from its micro approach to its characters, community and history.
DuVernay had to fictionalize King’s speeches from scratch, but my goodness does
she nail them: the pacing, the vocal inflections and the connectivity
are all striking in just how close she gets, and just how mightily they land. They
are rousing, delivered with awe-inspiring passion from Oyelowo (who, lest I
forget, is brilliant in this role from beginning to end). These speeches, along
with those striking exterior images from Young, keep Selma involving, and they allow DuVernay to smoothly delve into the
personal and the intimate. She juggles dozens of characters, and yet each speak
with specific cadences, each move in a unique manner, each have a place –
even Wilkinson’s LBJ, whose overbearing physical presence is a crucial detail
handled with delicate subtlety. There is an inherent contemporary application to
consider. Selma demands the intake of
its complex and big-hearted tableaux, to relate the untested mistreatment of a
disenfranchised collective to today. Thus, every detail has an underlying
intent. Look at Young’s imagery: the silent protests, the purposeless beatings,
the physical authority held over bodies. Listen to these characters’ words,
each bringing perspectives and each with a voice that amounts to a
nation-defining movement. This is the vitality of Selma – it’s a historical account as lived-in as it is
all-encompassing, as restrained as it is direct, as poignant as it is exhilarating.