[**Spoilers**]
Upon watching the very fine trailer for American Fiction, one could be forgiven for concluding that the film is “only” a satirical look at modern racial and cultural norms about the “black experience” in America. Something like 1987’s excellent Hollywood Shuffle may come to mind.
While American Fiction resoundingly, unquestionably succeeds in that examination, what the trailer doesn’t reveal is how much more there is to this film beyond that aspect.
Instead, the film is also fundamentally about family and the dynamics of a wide variety of interpersonal relationships, with the character of writer Thelonious “Monk” Ellison, played by the superb Jeffrey Wright, serving as the hub.
Impressive from the opening scene, in which an entitled, progressive, white college student named Brittany takes Professor Ellison to task for writing the title of a particular Flannery O’Connor short story on the class whiteboard, the film certainly highlights Monk’s frustrations with the world around him to hilarious effect.
That introductory conversation sets the tone for what’s to come, as Monk explains (in vain) that any examination of Southern literature of that time must necessarily include language and ideas that many contemporary students may find heinous. After a bitingly funny exchange, Brittany leaves class and presumably complains, leading to a disciplinary hearing of sorts—with three white colleagues—that leads to an involuntary leave of absence.
This sequence tracks much of what we see in the rest of the film: self-anointed benevolent, “enlightened” white people (usually liberal white women) unwittingly and condescendingly dictating the boundaries of racial and cultural questions to Monk (and, later, to Issa Rae’s Sintara Golden).
Perhaps the sharpest example is a scene toward the end, in which fellow literary award judge Ailene Hoover (Jenn Harris), who has recently explained how important it is to “listen to black voices,” joins two other white judges in dismissing the objections of Monk and Sintara in naming the book Fuck as the award winner.
Fuck, of course, is the mockery of a novel that Monk secretly writes out of frustration with white elites and publishing houses that only seem to be interested in flat, stereotypical characterizations of black people. Monk’s anger sparks retaliatory creativity after witnessing the acclaim for Golden’s runaway bestseller We’s Lives in da Ghetto. This disdain leads him to write Fuck, originally titled My Pafology.
Even when Monk pushes boundaries to absurd lengths in an effort to sabotage the Fuck “monster” he’s created, his upping of the satirical ante only makes “woke” white literary and film executives more desirous of the story, tripping over one another to throw money at his alter ego, “Stagg R. Leigh.”
While all of the above is sublimely executed, none of it could be classified as “unexpected,” based on the trailer’s apparent central premise. What was unexpected—delightfully so—is American Fiction’s exploration of Monk, his family, and his relationships with them and others in his life.
Writer and director Cord Jefferson (who should absolutely win the Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay) spends more time on those elements than he does even on Fuck, skillfully dosing the audience with piecemeal revelations about the Ellisons and their history. Jefferson’s masterful pacing shines, as each morsel of new information fleshes out and develops the characters and their backstories more and more.
Jefferson moves the plot along at a perfect clip, never feeling rushed or overly deliberate. That is a difficult balance to strike, especially for a first feature film, and most especially one adapted from a book. I’ve discussed that “book adaptation syndrome” problem ad nauseum, but Jefferson avoids that pitfall with ease.
In less-skilled hands than Jefferson’s, these explorations of Monk’s family and the related character development may have felt like unnecessary detours, or even stalling to pad out the runtime to get to the next funny or satirical scene. That feeling never presents itself in American Fiction.
Instead, he expertly reveals little moments and lines of dialogue that paint the full picture of who Monk and his family are as the story progresses. By the end, we realize that Monk’s plea that literature should reflect the entirety of who black people are runs parallel to his own reluctance to do the same for himself and those closest to him.
That shortcoming finally crystalizes in a conversation Monk has with his brother Cliff, played beautifully by Sterling K. Brown. The recently-outed Cliff says that he’s bothered by the fact that their father died without knowing that he was gay. Monk points out that their dad probably suspected, and that he might have rejected Cliff had he known.
Cliff responds that at least their father would have rejected him for who he truly is, adding that it’s essential for Monk to let people love all of him.
Therein lies the brilliance of this movie. In the same way that Monk (convincingly, in my view) argues with Sintara Golden about the danger of portraying black people as just the downtrodden or just slaves or just criminals, Monk has failed to recognize his own inability to see—and accept—the people close to him as more than a genius father or more than a ne’er do well brother or more than a seemingly oblivious mother.
He has also failed to recognize his inability to see—and love—himself.
This is where the virtuosity of Wright’s performance makes all the difference. Monk certainly has some moments of intentionally over-the-top hilarity, as when he puts on a “street” persona while pretending to be Stagg R. Leigh. But the funniest moments of the film come via Wright’s understated, simmering anger and resentment toward the inanity that often surrounds him.
Wright’s power to convey deep emotions and moments of insight through the slightest of vocal changes, expressions, glances, and gestures is mesmerizing. That subtlety is also the connective tissue that binds American Fiction together and makes his performance one of the best I’ve ever seen. Wright’s nuanced portrayal of Monk is absolutely essential to fully illuminate the character’s trajectory over the course of the film.
There’s a moment early on in which Monk’s sister Lisa (Tracee Ellis Ross) highlights how few basic facts Monk knows about lives of his sister, brother, and mother, and how distant he stays from them. To wit, it’s only the happenstance that a literary conference is taking place in Boston that (much to Monk’s initial chagrin) he’s crossing paths with his family at all.
Lisa begins to discuss with Monk that his view of their father is very different than the perspective that she and Cliff have, going on to reveal that their dad evidently had numerous affairs. Monk was completely oblivious to this behavior that was plainly obvious to Cliff, Lisa, and, as we come to discover, their mother Agnes (Leslie Uggams).
Shockingly, Lisa is suddenly stricken by a heart attack and dies, which serves not only as a device to compel the family to come together for an extended period of time, but also as a catalyst for Monk to (slowly) begin a process of genuine self-reflection.
And I wonder if the parallel between Monk’s own movement toward a full understanding of himself and those around him and his compelling argument about black portrayals in culture also runs in both directions. What I mean is: in watching American Fiction, I contemplated whether Jefferson was also making the same point about black Americans writ large that Monk and Cliff made about understanding the fullness of who people are and rejecting or, hopefully, accepting them based on that truth.
In the end, Monk seems to reach a point of genuine transformation, which the audience glimpses in his final text message to Coraline (Erika Alexander). From there, the movie also has the courage not to wrap everything up in a nice little bow, and even adds a meta commentary on that point during the final scene.
In fact, the movie ends with Monk capitulating to an extent to the white studio executive (Adam Brody) who wants to make a film based on his story. The audience is left to contemplate just how much more distance stands between all of us and full understanding—and acceptance.
That’s part of the magic of American Fiction. Even beyond the outstanding performances from an incredible ensemble cast, it is that rarest of films: highly watchable, undeniably funny, eminently accessible, yet still somehow extremely deep and thought-provoking.
More than that, it is specifically relatable. Imagine that. A story about an erudite black academic’s frustrations over not being able to get his next book published due to the closed-mindedness of publishing houses somehow winds up as a story that resonated deeply with me, who shares none of those characteristics or experiences.
Yet, American Fiction is a universally relatable story. It is one of the best films of 2023 for several reasons, but most especially because of the exemplary writing of Jefferson and the sublime, sophisticated performance of Wright, both of whom deserve every accolade possible for this work.
American Fiction is a triumph. Highest recommendation.
The Axis of Ego 
Timely Movie Review: American Fiction
Upon watching the very fine trailer for American Fiction, one could be forgiven for concluding that the film is “only” a satirical look at modern racial and cultural norms about the “black experience” in America. Something like 1987’s excellent Hollywood Shuffle may come to mind.
While American Fiction resoundingly, unquestionably succeeds in that examination, what the trailer doesn’t reveal is how much more there is to this film beyond that aspect.
Instead, the film is also fundamentally about family and the dynamics of a wide variety of interpersonal relationships, with the character of writer Thelonious “Monk” Ellison, played by the superb Jeffrey Wright, serving as the hub.
Impressive from the opening scene, in which an entitled, progressive, white college student named Brittany takes Professor Ellison to task for writing the title of a particular Flannery O’Connor short story on the class whiteboard, the film certainly highlights Monk’s frustrations with the world around him to hilarious effect.
That introductory conversation sets the tone for what’s to come, as Monk explains (in vain) that any examination of Southern literature of that time must necessarily include language and ideas that many contemporary students may find heinous. After a bitingly funny exchange, Brittany leaves class and presumably complains, leading to a disciplinary hearing of sorts—with three white colleagues—that leads to an involuntary leave of absence.
This sequence tracks much of what we see in the rest of the film: self-anointed benevolent, “enlightened” white people (usually liberal white women) unwittingly and condescendingly dictating the boundaries of racial and cultural questions to Monk (and, later, to Issa Rae’s Sintara Golden).
Perhaps the sharpest example is a scene toward the end, in which fellow literary award judge Ailene Hoover (Jenn Harris), who has recently explained how important it is to “listen to black voices,” joins two other white judges in dismissing the objections of Monk and Sintara in naming the book Fuck as the award winner.
Fuck, of course, is the mockery of a novel that Monk secretly writes out of frustration with white elites and publishing houses that only seem to be interested in flat, stereotypical characterizations of black people. Monk’s anger sparks retaliatory creativity after witnessing the acclaim for Golden’s runaway bestseller We’s Lives in da Ghetto. This disdain leads him to write Fuck, originally titled My Pafology.
Even when Monk pushes boundaries to absurd lengths in an effort to sabotage the Fuck “monster” he’s created, his upping of the satirical ante only makes “woke” white literary and film executives more desirous of the story, tripping over one another to throw money at his alter ego, “Stagg R. Leigh.”
While all of the above is sublimely executed, none of it could be classified as “unexpected,” based on the trailer’s apparent central premise. What was unexpected—delightfully so—is American Fiction’s exploration of Monk, his family, and his relationships with them and others in his life.
Writer and director Cord Jefferson (who should absolutely win the Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay) spends more time on those elements than he does even on Fuck, skillfully dosing the audience with piecemeal revelations about the Ellisons and their history. Jefferson’s masterful pacing shines, as each morsel of new information fleshes out and develops the characters and their backstories more and more.
Jefferson moves the plot along at a perfect clip, never feeling rushed or overly deliberate. That is a difficult balance to strike, especially for a first feature film, and most especially one adapted from a book. I’ve discussed that “book adaptation syndrome” problem ad nauseum, but Jefferson avoids that pitfall with ease.
In less-skilled hands than Jefferson’s, these explorations of Monk’s family and the related character development may have felt like unnecessary detours, or even stalling to pad out the runtime to get to the next funny or satirical scene. That feeling never presents itself in American Fiction.
Instead, he expertly reveals little moments and lines of dialogue that paint the full picture of who Monk and his family are as the story progresses. By the end, we realize that Monk’s plea that literature should reflect the entirety of who black people are runs parallel to his own reluctance to do the same for himself and those closest to him.
That shortcoming finally crystalizes in a conversation Monk has with his brother Cliff, played beautifully by Sterling K. Brown. The recently-outed Cliff says that he’s bothered by the fact that their father died without knowing that he was gay. Monk points out that their dad probably suspected, and that he might have rejected Cliff had he known.
Cliff responds that at least their father would have rejected him for who he truly is, adding that it’s essential for Monk to let people love all of him.
Therein lies the brilliance of this movie. In the same way that Monk (convincingly, in my view) argues with Sintara Golden about the danger of portraying black people as just the downtrodden or just slaves or just criminals, Monk has failed to recognize his own inability to see—and accept—the people close to him as more than a genius father or more than a ne’er do well brother or more than a seemingly oblivious mother.
He has also failed to recognize his inability to see—and love—himself.
This is where the virtuosity of Wright’s performance makes all the difference. Monk certainly has some moments of intentionally over-the-top hilarity, as when he puts on a “street” persona while pretending to be Stagg R. Leigh. But the funniest moments of the film come via Wright’s understated, simmering anger and resentment toward the inanity that often surrounds him.
Wright’s power to convey deep emotions and moments of insight through the slightest of vocal changes, expressions, glances, and gestures is mesmerizing. That subtlety is also the connective tissue that binds American Fiction together and makes his performance one of the best I’ve ever seen. Wright’s nuanced portrayal of Monk is absolutely essential to fully illuminate the character’s trajectory over the course of the film.
There’s a moment early on in which Monk’s sister Lisa (Tracee Ellis Ross) highlights how few basic facts Monk knows about lives of his sister, brother, and mother, and how distant he stays from them. To wit, it’s only the happenstance that a literary conference is taking place in Boston that (much to Monk’s initial chagrin) he’s crossing paths with his family at all.
Lisa begins to discuss with Monk that his view of their father is very different than the perspective that she and Cliff have, going on to reveal that their dad evidently had numerous affairs. Monk was completely oblivious to this behavior that was plainly obvious to Cliff, Lisa, and, as we come to discover, their mother Agnes (Leslie Uggams).
Shockingly, Lisa is suddenly stricken by a heart attack and dies, which serves not only as a device to compel the family to come together for an extended period of time, but also as a catalyst for Monk to (slowly) begin a process of genuine self-reflection.
And I wonder if the parallel between Monk’s own movement toward a full understanding of himself and those around him and his compelling argument about black portrayals in culture also runs in both directions. What I mean is: in watching American Fiction, I contemplated whether Jefferson was also making the same point about black Americans writ large that Monk and Cliff made about understanding the fullness of who people are and rejecting or, hopefully, accepting them based on that truth.
In the end, Monk seems to reach a point of genuine transformation, which the audience glimpses in his final text message to Coraline (Erika Alexander). From there, the movie also has the courage not to wrap everything up in a nice little bow, and even adds a meta commentary on that point during the final scene.
In fact, the movie ends with Monk capitulating to an extent to the white studio executive (Adam Brody) who wants to make a film based on his story. The audience is left to contemplate just how much more distance stands between all of us and full understanding—and acceptance.
That’s part of the magic of American Fiction. Even beyond the outstanding performances from an incredible ensemble cast, it is that rarest of films: highly watchable, undeniably funny, eminently accessible, yet still somehow extremely deep and thought-provoking.
More than that, it is specifically relatable. Imagine that. A story about an erudite black academic’s frustrations over not being able to get his next book published due to the closed-mindedness of publishing houses somehow winds up as a story that resonated deeply with me, who shares none of those characteristics or experiences.
Yet, American Fiction is a universally relatable story. It is one of the best films of 2023 for several reasons, but most especially because of the exemplary writing of Jefferson and the sublime, sophisticated performance of Wright, both of whom deserve every accolade possible for this work.
American Fiction is a triumph. Highest recommendation.
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