Pariah

With all the recent talk of film’s death, the bill for this awards season comprises a lineup of heavy-hitting filmmakers who offer promise of a rebirth—or perhaps an assertion that cinema is still alive, but changing. Martin Scorsese uses the latest technology to revisit movie magic’s earliest days in Hugo. Steven Spielberg’s Tin Tin marks the intersection of a time-tested franchise and the modern 3D experience. Even filmmakers outside of the Hollywood sphere such as Wim Wenders and Werner Herzog are adding an extra dimension to their latest documentaries, Pina and Cave of Forgotten Dreams, respectively.

Change is good, different is exciting, and I urge viewers to put on those glasses and decide for themselves. The future is on its way. Nonetheless, as wonderful an experience as these films offer, a good piece of work does not have to be a stepping stone in cinematic history to be enjoyable or moving.

Making a more quiet, but powerful argument for the ongoing life of film this season is Dee Rees’s Pariah. Created on a modest budget, and a crew working for deferred salaries, this semi-autobiographical tale still manages a keen bid for the heart.  Its resonance lies not in any third dimension, but instead in the authentic struggle of its central protagonist, Alike (played by Adepero Oduye), and in the poetic, colorful, and often surprising expression of her journey.

Alike is a seventeen-year-old African American slowly embracing her identity. She knows she is a lesbian, but finding herself takes on new meaning amidst the shifting landscapes and changing relationships around her. Each space in her life is draped in a distinct palette, accompanied by a new rhythm, and inhabited by unique characters that color how Alike paints her self-portrait. But as she navigates these distinct worlds, albeit home, school, a club, or a friend’s house, our protagonist discovers a truth that is both present in each environment and exists in none of them: that identity is not something defined by others, it is a persona she is perpetually developing on her own.

Dee Rees’s message is not overstated however. It is elegantly integrated into the very fabric of the film itself—not so much told to the viewer, as much as left churning in the mechanics of the medium for us to pick out ourselves. She encourages us not only to observe our protagonist, but to participate in her learning process, often allowing the audience to understand Alike in a way the character cannot. And just when we think we know our girl, Rees craftily defies our expectations, swings our perceptions, and in turn confronts us with film’s theme of ever forming self-identities.

No person in Pariah is entirely who they seem on the surface, and each contains a deeper level for which the viewer must dig. Rees challenges her actors to capture a complexity only found in real people, and thus offers the audience yet another point of engagement with the film: we seek to dissect the characters before us. Laura, Alike’s best friend played brilliantly by Pernell Walker, has a boisterous exterior that masks a deeper vulnerability onset by her mother’s abandonment and non-platonic love for Alike.  Arthur, Alike’s father, displays an outward adoration for his daughter while inwardly denying the truth about her sexuality—a role captured beautifully by Charles Parnell.  Rees complements these performances with the subtly of gesture. A quick glance at a photo of Alike in her work locker suggests Laura’s true feelings for her best friend. A sip of a beer hints at what Arthur may be hiding from his wife. To watch is to reevaluate, and to reevaluate is to widen the eyes.

It is here that the film breathes life. Pariah is not markedly distinct in form, but instead honest in content, and honest is perhaps different enough. You do not have to read the filmmaker’s biography to understand that this is a personal story, for her heart is contained in each frame that passes before the projector.  You can sense it in the vibrant swirl of lights and striking silhouettes cinematographer Bradford Young paints before the camera.  You can hear it in the original poetry that reverberates over the film’s final scene. In turn, Dee Rees’s life experience is translated gracefully into the 86-minute arc of a character, awarding the film with a sense of sincerity that is both intangible and ever-present. It is this integrity that gives Pariah the potential to do what film can do best, at least for me: to help one understand the world or oneself by seeing the universe through the eyes of another—in two dimensions, or three.

                                              Justin Zweifach