Get Out (2017) Film Review

In a Nation that still experiences a division of railroad tracks, creating a separation of families to the point of extreme polarity, despite the efforts of the youth to cross those rails, there is still that pretentious overindulgence in trying to get along. An almost cajoling toil to act organic among the swirling of the society unto that ideal harmonious order where underlying faults still persist in the cracks that wind up to that intersection of steel.

It is not a veneer that coats the social conversations into an impossibly risible hollowness, as much as the stark segregation that is present among cityfolk and, as the beginning of the film poignantly foreshadows, the subuuurb. That, ostensibly halcyonic ‘hood where the milkman smiles, and the thought of World War never breaches the breaches of the polliwagging crew of children; in an artificial reserve, nipped and tucked far away from eight avenue, and its gasoline billowing toxins; with that urban density which roils agitations unto forming a different stroke of soul. 

Chris on the onset is seemingly a chill, standup kind of guy. He has his shit together, and as is typical, a mid-20’s girlfriend, who in turn is willing to invite more of him into her inner life. And that includes meeting the parents.

The subject of race appears that morning before departure. The subtext of the issue, and the mastery of the written art by Mr. Peele, shines. The nuance in imposing for posterity the struggle at coalescing, into a unity, rather than what is apparent to its contemporary filmmaking, an oblong fusion of the meeting of two worlds, is where the film stands out. For, this isn’t a pop cultural inner-city Black, who has put aside the dime bags and white powder, hanging them up to strive for legitimacy as the White girlfriend welcomes more and more of “them” (never used explicitly in the film) away from the city trouble. Instead, the film recognizes the distance between the two worlds, yet intelligently avoids wasted effort at spelling out how awkward a private residence in upstate New York appears. With all of its anglo-”charm” that hilarious to that inner world of African-American culture.

And this is the emphasis: it is a distinct culture among the human race with its unique tracing to the unique circumstances of the New World dominated by Englishmen.

It is in this disagreement with the convention, which is not hostile, but, again, uncomfortable which the film does a brilliant job in not agonizing over; while the splendid art decoration imposes as only cinema can do, that alien planet a brother is being beamed to.

The kind where the jobs are not lunch-pail, but psychotherapeutic. Not self-evident, but in that invisible domain of perceivable human value some would appropriately label “bulsheeit”.

How ought a brotha act? Like himself.

Does Chris live in two worlds? One where his countenance is as a competent professional fine arts photographer, and then one where he kicks it back with Rod, that youthful friend where loyalty rings so strong? The kind of friendship where if something wicked this way comes, there is a brother from another mother to help out? 

So much of this division involves the exacting knowing of minority. It is something Whiteland can never grasp in the United States. That bubble within – of aiming for true trust because of the worldlessly intimate relatable experiences to the same social members and their tony sweatshirts and plaid knits, with their own customs and mores, which, however free they are to express, nonetheless exert a social force which is displacing. 

And it is precisely this aim at centering that re-positioning which formulates the sycophancy as the two worlds aim to make that heavenly blend. To matchmake in heaven.

Except this is not.

The film is very good at the surreptitious “wrongfulness” that appears throughout the film – the musical score is superb. While, again, not broaching a nauseating inner-anxiety by a strong lead of being sucked into a Twilight Zone in Upstate New York, and not wasting film-time with private conversations pertaining to the racial question so presented before the audience. 

Because it is awkward that the girlfriend does not mention her new guy is Black.

How frequently has a young Black man heard, in such attempts to harmonize, a White girlfriend’s brother marvel at his genetic potential at physically outstanding significance?

It is these subtle cues that proceed throughout the length of the film which makes it a pleasure to view. Because, as Aristotle recounts, Art imitates Nature. And the Nature of the living human theatre is filled with such misaligned attempts at getting along – with that dark secret finally unveiled in a cosmic twist of irony…

The TSA has got its shit together.

Grade: A