by Bennett Campbell Ferguson
Above: Ariana Neal and Michael B. Jordan in Mr. Coogler's film
If you’ve read any cinematic or real world news reports, you probably know what “Fruitvale Station” is—the story of Oscar Grant, a twenty-two year-old black man murdered by a white police officer in 2009. To say the least, it’s a horrific thing the movie depicts, a brutal reminder that no matter what progress America makes, it will only be as good as the people who live in it. And yet the film is not merely a meditation on Grant’s death. It is more prominently about the last day of his life, and it immerses you in his routine so fully that there are times when you forget that soon it will all end.
But why is this immersion so successful? Part of it is the unfettered,
melodrama-dodging tone of the film. Early
on, writer-director Ryan Coogler gives us a bedroom scene where Oscar (Michael
B. Jordan) is cut down by his girlfriend Sophina (Melonie Diaz) regarding his
recent infidelity. In another film, this
might be a heated, even operatic moment.
Cinematographer Rachel Morrison keeps her shaky camera at a slight
distance and the dialogue is remarkably restrained. There is no discussion of betrayal or trust;
only Sophina’s utterance that she hates picturing Oscar with “that bitch.”
According to the film, infidelity was the least of
Oscar’s crimes. He sometimes sold drugs
and even served time in prison, which is shown in a wrenching flashback. But while much has been made of this fact in
reviews, I found that the movie made it impossible to doubt Oscar’s integrity. Mr. Coogler and Mr. Jordan (who is at once
steadfast and playful in the lead role) make us think not about the actions,
but the man behind him. The man who
loves to play with his daughter. The man
who discusses marriage with a complete stranger downtown. The man counts down to New Year’s Day on a
BART train, crowded to the brim with joyous passengers.
That moment on the train is by far one of the finest in
the film. While the BART is a morbid
symbol throughout the story (the Fruitvale BART station is where Oscar was
beaten and shot by the police), often shown rattling across sunny bridges like
a herald of death, it’s also a place where people come together. Watching Oscar shout “Happy New Year!” with
the other passengers and sharing drinks with them, I felt some of their
happiness. In that moment, a group of
people who don’t know each other still manage to celebrate and be happy
together.
If only it could last.
The celebration is interrupted when Oscar is pulled off the train by the
police and then killed by them. “You
shot me,” he breathes as he lies on the pavement bleeding. “I have a daughter….” It’s hard to imagine anything quite so
awful. That moment may be only a
fraction of the film but when you watch transpire, nothing else seems to exist
except the hateful cruelty, the injustice, and all of the suffering Oscar’s
family will now have to experience.
Why show this onscreen?
To change the way of our world, no doubt about it. But Mr. Coogler, his cast, and his crew don’t
call us to action in so many words—they simply tells us who Oscar was on that
last day, presenting the events with honesty and clarity. There is no sensationalism; there is no
explicit call for justice. But there
doesn’t need to be. By the end, you know
exactly what needs to change.
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