Or, I should say, I don't think this movie could have been properly made by an American.
It's an odd thing to say since I'm no big fan of Steve McQueen. His movies have left me cold in the past. There's a distance between creator and subject that prevents the audience from really feeling.
There's some of that here, too, and I worried early on as I watched the steamboat paddle-wheel spin (amidst some nagging The Master flashbacks) that this movie would be part and parcel with the rest. It's not. And while that's in large part due to Chiwetel Ejiofor, it's also down to Steve McQueen.
I almost can't believe I'm writing this, but . . . his subtlety and restraint do wonders here. An American director would revel in the viscera of every beating. He would flash chyrons on the screen with the passage of every year to make you feel the weight of them like bricks. He'd rub your nose in blood to make sure you really get how horrible slavery was.
McQueen, on the other hand, accomplishes the same task in a far more lyrical, ephemeral, and unsettling way. Years melt away without any understanding of where in the 12 you might be. It's made clear that Solomon is whipped daily under Epps (Michael Fassbender) for failing to pick the quota of 200 pounds of cotton, but you never see it up close. It's far off in a field, and you watch the other slaves react. You watch their lack of reaction.
Somehow, somehow, McQueen and screenwriter John Ridley and Ejifor turn it all around to make the movie not about the physical brutality of slavery but the heavy psychological cost. Benedict Cumberbatch does lovely work as a preacher whose heart rends at the thought of separating mother from child but still who prioritizes his pocketbook over the pricking of his conscience when Solomon reaches out. Solomon says over and over that he will not give into despair, and you watch him struggle to carry not only his own compassion but also to carry it for everyone else around him. They've given up trying, letting him stretch on a noose with his toes sliding in the mud for hours and hours.
The picture I chose comes from a scene that illustrates so exactly what I am talking about that it almost feels like a cheat to bring it up. You spend the entire time plastered to the back of your seat, breath caught in your chest, and just when it feels like the moment is finally going to let up, the camera pulls back to punch you in the gut. No American would have been able to go in for that shot without giving the game away first. No one but Steve McQueen could have pulled it off, I suspect.
A note about the viscera: if you're sensitive about that sort of thing, I don't want you to read what I wrote and think, "Oh, it's fine. I can handle that." There is viscera. When it comes, they really make it count.
But also, don't give up on this movie based on what you can handle. It's worth the weight.
