The only way to launch a review of Moonlight is to use perhaps the most stale, hollow cliche in a critic’s repertoire: If you only see one movie this year, make it Moonlight.
Of course, you won’t only see one movie this year. You’ll likely rush to the new Star Wars or Doctor Strange or any number of other blockbusters blasted at you by the massive marketing machine of Hollywood. Maybe you’ll see something small, quirky, offbeat as well. But, frankly, it doesn’t matter, so long as you ensure you don’t miss Moonlight.
One of those rare and extraordinary cinematic experiences that pulls you deeply into its narrative, Moonlight () wraps you in a time, place, and mood, artfully guiding you into an emotional payoff without once feeling manipulative or artificial. It is an extraordinary achievement in this cut-and-paste era of cinema, a time when movies fail to ignite so much as a spark of genuine, earned emotion. Moonlight exists in a class all its own. It’s not epic or big, but it is profound and profoundly moving. It’s one of those movies that you can feel changing you. It bores into your heart and infiltrates your soul, and simply does not let go.
The ’80s-set story of a young boy who comes to terms with his identity and sexuality in a harsh South Florida neighborhood refuses to lazily cleave to its genre. While there are points in Moonlight where you expect certain things to happen, the story constantly veers just slightly off track, taking you on an unexpected journey elsewhere. Credit first the source material — Tarell Alvin McCraney’s lyrical play, In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue. An awardee of the MacArthur Genius Grant, McCraney, whose works have been frequently performed in Washington at Studio Theatre, is an abstract playwright who puts as much emphasis on atmospherics as he does on dialogue. He’s found the perfect partner in Barry Jenkins, a relatively new director, who opens up McCraney’s work, elevating it to an even higher level. Jenkins is a subtle director — perhaps too subtle at times — but his low-key approach suits Moonlight, which forgoes a heavy hand for one encased in a velvet glove. That’s not to say Moonlight is an uplifting or easy film, but through its anguish and anxiety it finds serenity, romance, heart.
The less said about plot specifics, the better. Not that there are any big twists or turns in the film — it’s not a potboiler, but rather a simmering stew whose flavors perfectly meld by the end — but even the tiniest revelations that are peeled back as the story progresses through a three-act arch provide Moonlight its emotional weight. Suffice to say that the central character’s story is told in three distinct parts, as he goes from a young boy to a full-blooded man. The transformation of Chiron — and the instances that cause his internal pain and his longing for something beyond the norm — is depicted with effortless, poetic perfection by Jenkins and his choice of three magnificent actors, Alex R. Hibbert, Ashton Sanders and Trevante Rhodes. The trio embody the evolution of Chiron, from “Little” to “Black,” going from scared and inquisitive kid to a skinny, awkward teen to a silent, disarming monolith of a man with an ache so powerful, it has come close to crushing his humanity.
The stars are supported by an astonishing ensemble. Andre Holland is potent and complex as a former friend with whom the adult Chiron connects with in a powerful diner scene during the third act. Naomie Harris summons up an earth-shattering, mind-blowing performance as Chiron’s mother. And Mahershala Ali, as a drug dealer who befriends the youngest version of Chiron, gives the finest performance of a career comprised of nothing but fine performances. The biggest surprise is pop star Janelle Monáe, who, blessed with natural beauty and warm, compassionate delivery, steals every moment she’s on screen. You watch in awe as a movie star is born before your eyes.
Holland and Rhodes – Courtesy A24
There isn’t an off performance in the film, which employs a solely African-American cast. It’s sad we live in a time where that in itself is a unique aspect of any movie. Come Oscar time, Moonlight could be the one film to give Hollywood a credible reason to break its too-white image without resorting to tokenism. Perhaps other great films will be released between now and the end of the year, but I honestly can’t imagine any being as worthy as Moonlight for every top prize out there.
Moonlight is the best gay film since 1996’s Beautiful Thing, pretty much stealing that film’s mantle. It’s also the best African-American film since 1991’s Boyz in the Hood. It’s been a long time coming on both counts. And it’s been worth the wait.
Put on your ruby slippers to strut down the red carpet as we ask what queerness means for Academy Awards voters past and present.
By Paul Klein
March 1, 2025
On March 2, Hollywood's elite will gather at the Dolby Theater in Los Angeles for the glitziest night of the year -- The 97th Academy Awards. When the Oscar-cast goes live on ABC Sunday evening -- and, for the first time ever, simultaneously streams on Hulu -- seven LGBTQ individuals will sit in hushed anticipation at the possibility of winning Hollywood's highest honors.
For a body often criticized for its lack of diversity and inclusivity, and with the arts under a prolonged political attack from far-right politicians, Sunday night offers a number of potentially groundbreaking moments for queer representation in front of and behind the screen.
Not for anything I've said over the course of our lively hour-long phone interview one recent Saturday, but for this magazine's past transgressions.
This issue, you see, marks Cho's fourth appearance on a Metro Weekly cover in three decades, and I'm sheepishly begging forgiveness for how we handled the previous headlines, bastardizing her last name for the sake of a pun.
"Cho-Zen."
"On With the Cho."
"Cho Girl."
"It's all good," she laughs, taking it in stride. One thing about Margaret Cho is that she doesn't offend easily, if at all.
It takes two to tango, with good reason -- add one, and the footwork gets way more intricate, to say nothing of where all the other parts go. An adventurous couple and an enthusiastic third try out their footwork, and stumble through the dance, in the Brooklyn-set queer indie Throuple, a notable feature debut for director Greyson Horst.
Michael Doshier wrote the script and stars as perpetually single singer-songwriter Michael, who lives too co-dependently with best friend and fellow musician Tristan (Tristan Carter-Jones). She's getting more and more serious with her girlfriend Abby (Jess Gabor), so, essentially, Michael's already playing third wheel in their relationship.
These are challenging times for news organizations. And yet it’s crucial we stay active and provide vital resources and information to both our local readers and the world. So won’t you please take a moment and consider supporting Metro Weekly with a membership? For as little as $5 a month, you can help ensure Metro Weekly magazine and MetroWeekly.com remain free, viable resources as we provide the best, most diverse, culturally-resonant LGBTQ coverage in both the D.C. region and around the world. Memberships come with exclusive perks and discounts, your own personal digital delivery of each week’s magazine (and an archive), access to our Member's Lounge when it launches this fall, and exclusive members-only items like Metro Weekly Membership Mugs and Tote Bags! Check out all our membership levels here and please join us today!
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