American Fiction ends with the intention of inspiring conversation about black art and the ability of all artistic endeavours to spiral into another realm of existence when released into the world; hopefully, that dialogue stretches beyond its own merits, even with how great it is. American Fiction is now playing in cinemas nationwide.
Approaching American Fiction at this point in time with its particular premise seems ironic. Having recently racked up 5 Oscar nominations (Best Actor, Supporting Actor, Best Score, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Picture) while exploring the various ways black artists seek success in the white-dominated entertainment industry, from books to movies, made me wary of the film’s point before even seeing it.
Uniquely toned and bluntly social, black entertainment has always seen praise from white audiences, whether discussing Spike Lee films, Jordan Peele’s Get Out, or the Glover brothers’ Atlanta. American Fiction was the black film that broke through this awards season; why is that? Is that a fault in the film’s portrayal of its themes, or has it caught a lucky break despite its transgressiveness?
As American Fiction opens, we are introduced to Thelonious “Monk” Ellison (Jeffery Wright), a Los Angeles English professor and writer whose career isn’t on the best foot; he’s seen as blunt and offensive by his students, he hasn’t published for years, and publishers are rejecting his current book for not fitting the African American mould.
When a student outburst leads to Thelonious being sent on involuntary leave and back to his hometown, Boston, he reconnects with the family he has been avoiding for years. As he looks upon his stalled career, frustration bubbles to the surface, leading him to write a satirical, intentionally bad, stereotype-filled novel under an alias designed to expose the biases at the heart of the publishing industry. Surprisingly, this work of “American Fiction” is poised to become a sudden success, confirming his worst fears while thrusting him onto a journey of navigating “undeserved” success alongside a deteriorating family situation.
Adapting the 2001 book “Erasure,” Cord Jefferson’s debut feature deals with themes and ideas that could be daunting to someone new to filmmaking. However, Jefferson smartly uses personal drama to influence his satire. American Fiction is not an angry and detached satire along the lines of Spike Lee’s “Bamboozled” but a character-focused comedy-drama in the vein of Noah Baumbach and Alexander Payne, as a middle-class male writer finds himself dealing with family, tragedy, love and creativity.
Monk reflects on the person he has become, shaped by his reactions to family tragedy and conflict, which he usually avoids, even as he passes off his manuscript as a joke; these moments influence the story. The satire comes into play with Monk’s view of his industry. Here, out-of-touch white publishers gawk over John Singleton-esque ghettoised stories from Monk’s intentionally bad novel written under the pseudonym “Stagg R. Leigh” to the new black critical darling Sinatra Gold (Issa Rae) and her book “We’s Lives in Da Ghetto.” Jefferson handles these discussions with hilarity as publishers drool over their “realness”, “importance”, and “authenticity.” In fact, you will probably find a review of this film somewhere using those exact words.
The award attention is not unwarranted; Jeffery Wright shines in a rather subtle but deeply cynical and pained performance. Monk is a character who often complains and feels angry at the world around him, but the film also allows his sentimental side and charm to come through. Sterling K. Brown also shines as Monk’s brother, Clifford, who has his own complicated feelings but a huge heart and humanity, which he brings to every scene through humour and emotion. But beyond this, American Fiction leaves us with conversation and nuance.
The film confronts Monk’s feelings about black entertainment, realising he, too, has pigeonhole himself in the name of empowering different stories. It’s so hard to get in the door of entertainment as a black person, so is it really that bad to give people what they want? Just because a story could be seen as stereotypical, does that mean it doesn’t deserve to be told? Beyond its characters’ conflict and biases, American Fiction shifts into a postmodern commentary by the end of its runtime, making sharp self-reflective narrative turns to express a dissatisfaction with the entertainment industry and empathy towards any black person trying to succeed in it.
2023 was a great year for black filmmakers making their debut, from Jefferson’s American Fiction to Savannah Leaf’s Earth Mama, A.V. Rockwell’s A Thousand And One, and Raven Jackson’s All Dirt Roads Taste of Salt. As to why American Fiction has received awards attention over all these others, I don’t know, but if anything, it strengthens the film’s themes of the need for multiple black perspectives in art. American Fiction ends with the intention of inspiring conversation about black art and the ability of all artistic endeavours to spiral into another realm of existence when released into the world; hopefully, that dialogue stretches beyond its own merits, even with how great it is.
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