It’s the curse of almost any
American movie about race relations to instantly become a political football. I
usually ignore the outrage, because in general, these are message movies
exploiting furor to distract from dearth of artistry—but
12 Years a Slave is a startling exception.
For one thing, it isn’t a message movie. Well, it kind of is, but it’s not
the expected message. This movie isn’t about skin-color, or even prejudice—it’s
about slavery. And it’s really about
slavery. Easily earning its R-rating, much of the film’s length is spent
portraying brutal violence—psychological, physical, and sexual, all this amidst the poverty and
privation, hopelessness, nakedness, and cruelty that was the slavery of
the American south. It’s graphic, but (except in, perhaps, a few instances)
never gratuitously so, never sensationalist, never Tarantino. Indeed, my overall impression was one of restraint, with many long shots, silent but for the sounds of crickets.
And it’s a true story.