There’s nothing hidden, subtle or tucked away about the message in Cord Jefferson’s new film American Fiction. Ultimately, I think it asks way more questions than it answers, questions that aren’t new or even presented in a new way (coming back to this later), nor are they questions that I think will particularly benefit from the well-deserved Oscar buzz and excitement around this movie, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
First, it’s still relatively new, but it’s been out for a while and is now Academy Award Nominated so there will be spoilers ahead. That said, just as a refresher, American Fiction is about Black American fiction writer Thelonious “Monk” Ellison and his struggle to write another hit beyond the success of a previously critically acclaimed novel. While Monk is committed to his art and being a great writer, he’s haunted by the ghost of new writer Sinatra Golden’s (Issa Rae) success with her book We’s Lives In Da Ghetto . This book checks the boxes of white praise for Black media, being referred to as “raw” and “honest”, the trigger words the movie returns to. This is the first and prevailing question the movie poses almost immediately — can Black writers find success and be taken seriously by white/non-Black consumers on the merits of their talent without mining harmful Black stereotypes? At the precipice of peak social media and reality TV, you could really extend this question to Black creators and public figures across the board.
On a trip to a nearby Barnes & Noble (support your local bookstores!), Monk tries to stealthily find his books on the shelves only to realize, no one recognizes him and his works have been categorized in the “Black stories” section. Furious, Monk notes to the store clerk that “the only thing Black about this story is the person who wrote it, me.” As expected, the clerk let’s Monk know that where specific books are placed is actually decided by corporate and not in the store itself. This raised another question fairly early in the movie about what is and isn’t considered “Black content” (music, movies, tv, books, etc.) and who decides that?
Reaching his breaking point, Monk decides to write his own We’s Lives In Da Ghetto, full of all the tropes and traps that white readers and the literary elite salivate over. His book, My Pafology, written under the pseudonym Stagg R. Leigh, performs exactly as suspected (even though Monk himself is surprised?) and is also described as “raw and honest”, becoming the breakout hit Monk’s been hunting. At every turn Monk fights against the frustration of his success and the life circumstances that necessitate him accepting its rewards. In his real life, his mother is diagnosed with developing dementia which will require around the clock care. This adds to a mountain of bills quickly growing that his sister Lisa (a doctor and a smoker, played by Tracee Ellis Ross) had been handling before her unexpected heart attack and subsequent death, leaving Monk to pick up the slack. Their younger brother, Clif (Sterling K. Brown’s Oscar Nominated role) is recently divorced, recently out as gay and has even more recently landed in his second/queer coming of age. This perfect storm of an identity crisis leads to some tough realizations about his mother’s latent homophobia and his own susceptibility to the drug, sex and party-filled lifestyle of young, attractive gays.
In a pivotal scene later in the movie, Monk is asked to join the panel of authors voting on the recipient of the prestigious Literary Award and to “literally judge other authors instead of just figuratively”. Jumping on the opportunity, he’s the only other Black judge in a panel of 5 besides his silent nemesis, Sinatra Golden. To his surprise though, Sinatra shares many of the same critiques he has of the books the other 3 white judges rave about. Which means, of course, Monk’s/Stagg R. Leigh’s book, now simply called Fuck, (renamed in a failed attempt to be so difficult his white publishers tank his book deal) is added as a late entry for consideration as a potential Literary Award recipient. Yes, Fuck goes on to be the winner of the Literary Award. What was maybe less expected however, is that Monk and Sinatra agree that it shouldn’t. In one of the great onscreen articulations of the film’s premise, when justifying their decision to crown Fuck the winner, the three white judges sit opposite the two Black judges, telling them that Stagg’s book deserves to win because “I just think we should really be listening to Black voices right now.” The composition of this scene, this line being delivered by the single white woman judge, the deafening silence that followed immediately afterward were *chef’s kiss* the stuff that ironic dreams are made of.
It’s because of the disagreement around this book that we get a brain dump dialogue between Monk and Sinatra where he is finally able to ask her what we all wanted to know — how is it that your work in We’s Lives In Da Ghetto is any different than what we both agree is the problem with Fuck? In the few minutes that follow we get Sinatra calling out Monk’s elitism and referencing the ivory tower of academia causing him to miss the point, noting that her work required actual research and that some parts are direct excerpts of conversations she had, then finally challenging Monk’s criticism of her work and his lack of ire or criticism towards authors that are not Black women when they do the same thing. Monk is speechless after also having not presented any really strong arguments that go beyond the familiar “white consumers are only interested in Black trauma” and “we’re so much more than ‘those’ stories”.
Because this conversation was squeezed into a single scene (literally, right in front of a salad) there weren’t any answers given that acknowledged the difficulty Black people face in getting published in general, the quality of the stories they get published for and, in Monk’s case in that moment, the life circumstances that force them to take the big payout, further keeping them away from doing the great, critical work they (we) deserve to do. The note about Black women writers was just kind of dropped in the conversation as a dud grenade that no one really knew how to approach and diffuse, and that’s true of real life because the answer is simple (patriarchy and misogynoir), but the solution isn’t. Black men aren’t any more willing to relinquish or weaponize their privilege to the benefit of Black women (or Black queer people) than white people are willing to do the same for Black people. Monk’s own sister, the middle child, only girl and a doctor, was only able to escape the confines of being the family caretaker by dying. Of a fucking heart attack. While Monk was off brooding and being sentient Frank Ocean album because white people didn’t want to buy his books.
Worth noting is that also present in the movie, and I’m sure much more effectively articulated in the book the movie was adapted from (Erasure by Percival Everett), were some human details that made this story touching, often humorous and more generally accessible. The decline of Monk’s mother’s health, Clif’s struggle with his newly realized sexuality and the impact his divorce has had on his career and medical practice as a plastic surgeon, and a really warm and charming storyline between Monk and his love interest Coraline, played by THE Erika Alexander. All of these things grounded the film and made it really, really entertaining. But, what I really appreciate, is that it was able to be those things but never lost the plot. Figuring out racism and the ways it keeps quality talent and stories out of spaces that are DYING without it, is white people’s problem. It’s necessary for Black people and people of color to be vocal and continue to call attention to its existence, but the solution? That’s out of our hands babe.
The work that is ours to carry is something different, for now. In one of the more poignant scenes in the movie, Monk’s agent makes a point about how Johnnie Walker produces their whisky in Red Label, Black Label and Blue Label. Three very different levels of quality, three very different consumers, three very different price points. He uses this as a way to help Monk expand beyond his rigid thinking when it comes to the type of art he wants to produce and let’s him know that he can be the prestige writer he’s called to be, and also make money delivering what the market is paying for. Or at least his version of it. For me, this lives right alongside Toni Morrison’s commitment to centering Black people in her stories and challenging the very racist notion of being asked about her choice to do that by white journalists; journalists who wouldn’t ask white authors about including Black characters in their stories. If you’re a Black writer, Toni Morrison is a voice whose honesty you strive towards every day you pick up a pen or sit at a keyboard. But there will only be one Toni and she spoke candidly about how it wasn’t easy for her either. So the rest of us are lucky to live somewhere in the middle of satisfying our hearts with the work that keeps our souls fulfilled, while negotiating our limits on writing the stories that keep the lights on. There were a lot of places it could’ve gone, but I’m really glad that’s the very specific needle American Fiction chose to thread.
PS — shoutout to Coraline for not taking his ass back.
