Moonlight is not only one of this year’s strongest coming-of-age tales, that’s also an installment in the ongoing story of its creator. The second feature from writer/director Barry Jenkins, coming almost eight years since his feature debut, Medicine For Melancholy, made the festival rounds and enjoyed a small release back in 2008, Moonlight not only avoids the sophomore slump, it makes his first film feel like a demo tape.
(Read our recent interview with Barry Jenkins here.)
Medicine, which stars Wyatt Cenac and Tracy Heggins as pair of black San Francisco hipsters maybe falling in love in the day after a one-night stand, received mostly positive reviews when it came out. But in a lot of ways, it was the kind of indie movie destined to be loved by critics and hardly anyone else, even making concessions for the tiny budget (“less than the cost of your car,” Jenkins said at the time). The premise was a clever twist on the falling-in-love rom-com, where the meet-cute is the consummation, but it was also a prime example of one of my least favorite genres: the film that explores societal issues by having the characters talk about those issues.
Shot right in my own backyard in a series of San Francisco neighborhoods, Medicine is a film about identity, gentrification, and feeling like an “other” in a supposedly-progressive city rapidly losing its racial diversity (issues that have only gotten worse since 2007 when it was shot — trust me, 2007 San Francisco was an affordable, multicultural paradise compared to 2016 San Francisco). Trouble is, Medicine explores these issues only insofar as the characters blah blah blah about them. At one point, they actually bumble into some kind of community roundtable discussion about gentrification on the way home from the grocery store. What a tidy narrative solution, right? Want to explore an issue in your film? Just have the characters attend a lecture about it!
It’s in the tender moments, the subtly innovative premise, the lack of overwrought dramatic reversals, that Medicine shows promise. But it’s mostly hamstrung by its own film schooliness. It feels like a lot of stories people write in their twenties. There’s this guy, and he’s kind of like me — sad and struggling but cute and clever — and he’s dealing with issues, man! Like, is it him or is it society?
Wyatt Cenac’s character, Micah, is a bit of a cypher. We don’t get a strong sense of who he is, other than that he’s an angsty guy with all these feelings he can’t quite articulate (it’d be presumptuous to say that that’s because Barry Jenkins didn’t quite know who he was yet, though that was certainly true of me and virtually every other person I was ever in a writing workshop with). Naturally the film opens with Cenac staring purposefully at himself in the mirror and is shot all in black and white, because those are great ways to make mundane things seem more meaningful.