"Stunning" doesn't even begin to cover it, but RaMell Ross' Nickel Boys is one of those rare Hollywood productions — perhaps alongside this year's I Saw the TV Glow — that feels aesthetically transformative. A moving film about a violent reform school in 1960s Florida, it adapts Colson Whitehead's Pulitzer Prize–winning novel The Nickel Boys in a particularly arch manner, bringing to life its story of young Black teens caught in an oppressive system (as well as the real events on which the book was based) with meticulous detail.
The film is told, for the most part, through first-person point of view, a tall ask for audiences accustomed to more traditional filmmaking. However, over the course of its 140 minutes, Nickel Boys unfurls numerous pathways into its unique construction, practically teaching viewers how to watch it, as it builds a tale of personhood that's as intimate in presentation as it is political in implication. In Whitehead's novel, the words on the page are just as meaningful as the blank spaces between them — an approach Ross recreates not through absence, but through the layered use of archival video and images that blend fiction with reality in both wistful and harrowing ways.
All the while, Ross avoids the tendency to luxuriate in the visually traumatic; instead, he maneuvers around cinematic exploitation by embodying the bone-deep effects of trauma. The film's non-linear structure occasionally flashes forward several decades, mimicking how profoundly our minds and bodies keep the score. Few narrative feature debuts have felt so poignant and so richly formed that they practically speak their own language, as Nickel Boys does, while also managing to articulate its drama clearly and instinctively. The result is a dynamic work of resilience and self-actualization.
What is Nickel Boys about?
The film, like the novel, follows 16-year-old Elwood Curtis (Ethan Herisse), a promising teen from Tallahassee who lives with his grandmother, Hattie (Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor), and navigates the Jim Crow-era South. On his way to a technical college for advanced classes, the high schooler finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, leading to false charges of theft and internment at the Nickel Academy, an isolated juvenile home on a sprawling estate that presents itself as a place of hard work and reform.
A young adherent of Reverend Martin Luther King Jr., Elwood's idealism quickly clashes with Nickel's harsh reality of segregation and corporal punishment. However, he also finds guidance and companionship in Turner (Brandon Wilson), a fellow student hailing from Houston whose more upbeat demeanor and slick survival tips exists in close proximity to his own fears of the school's ruthless staff. Should the boys misbehave, they know that the ominous administrator Spencer (Hamish Linklater) will whisk them away in the middle of the night for a severe beating — or something worse. (The film makes the novel's implications of sexual violence slightly more pronounced.)
What is perhaps most surprising about Nickel Boys is how casually this information is relayed to Elwood. The fates of several former students who have "mysteriously" disappeared isn't so much rumor and innuendo as it is common knowledge among the boys, keeping them in line as they toil away from dawn to sundown, plowing fields and making local deliveries for what one assumes is little (if any) pay. The film evokes images of American slavery at every turn, between white students overseeing their Black counterparts as they pick crops, to rusty rings that have been embedded in the nearby trees for so long that they're practically part of the foliage, conjuring images of young Black boys chained up in the darkness.
These evocations exist in the minds of the audience thanks to the prominence of slavery cinema (and television, à la Roots). Few mainstream films, however, have focused on the kind of institutional violence directly descended from chattel slavery a century later in the way Nickel Boys does. Its echoes don't point to older horrors, but ones that were still alive and well when the film was set, and for many years after. Ross simply threads the needle in ways most viewers might understand, frequently employing footage of the Sidney Poitier-led prisoner drama The Defiant Ones to further make its point in montage.
"There are four ways out of Nickel," Turner says. There's aging out at 18, being let out for good behavior, and if you're lucky — as Elwood hopes to be, with his grandma's help — having family contact lawyers to have your sentence overturned, though this is a long and arduous process. The fourth way out is the most dangerous, so few avail of it: escaping Nickel's grounds, at the risk of being chased and killed. For Turner, the film is about finding ways to adapt and survive. However, the more book-smart Elwood believes in a fifth way: challenging the system itself, given its illegal practices, though this may be even riskier. Ruffle any feathers when inspectors come to visit, and you'll end up being "taken out back."
With the boys torn between trying to withstand a system and dismantle it from within, the stakes are monumental, even though much of the movie unfolds across gentle scenes of blossoming friendship and mutual understanding. These are told mostly through Elwood's eyes, and on occasion, Turner's. However, Nickel Boys harbors a sense of tragic inevitability. Brief scenes of Elwood in the future — played by Hamilton original Daveed Diggs — signal their removal from the '60s through shots of computer screens and contemporary paraphernalia, but remain tethered to the era through Elwood's research into the past, as news stories of the school's mass graves come to light.
In these moments, the movie's self-imposed visual constraints also become its biggest strengths.
Nickel Boys takes a powerful aesthetic approach.
Ross is hardly the first filmmaker to employ point-of-view shots for lengthy stretches. Temporal experiments like Russian Ark and the video game gimmick of Hardcore Henry come to mind, but Nickel Boys is most like the films of Gaspar Noé in this regard, especially his spiritual, out-of-body POV experience Enter the Void, albeit in a much more grounded manner. From its opening frames, Ross' adaptation, co-written by Joslyn Barnes, feels fully embodied in its mood and motions, as an adolescent Elwood catches glimpses of himself in reflective surfaces, like bus windows and his grandmother's steam iron. It feels worth mentioning that The Nickel Boys is largely written in third person, but the film's astounding narrative shift accentuates the nuances of Whitehead's drama and characterization.
Between the young child's observations of Hattie's daily life and his viewing of Dr. King Jr.'s speeches on TV screens in store windows — his own reflection visible all the while — he begins to come to an awareness of his own place in the world. This is crystalized in a key POV shot of Elwood looking down at his arms and inspecting his own skin, echoing the writings of James Baldwin on similarly formative realizations of Blackness in his youth.
It's an inciting incident of sorts, shaping Elwood's understanding of himself while situating the audience firmly in his perspective, though Ross makes certain visual adjustments along the way. While the camera's movements mimic reality, cinematographer Jomo Fray uses soft focus and telephoto lenses to strip away the image's topmost naturalistic layers, especially in moments of extreme close-up. While still captured from a distinct perspective, these highly textured shots zero in on sensory details in ways that make them feel like nostalgic memories. When Hattie's cake knife rattles along a plate, as she cuts Elwood a slice of a homemade, spongy delicacy, you can practically smell the warmth and love with which it was baked.
This impressionism is complemented by an essayistic use of archival footage, sourced mostly from the African American Home Movie Archive. (Some of it also comes from NASA; the Space Race, with "Whitey[s] on the Moon," is the grand American antithesis to the reality of Black boys at Nickel.) Old film footage of Black children and families in joyful moments is intercut and contrasted with the boys at the Academy, matching their movements, and transporting us rhythmically from the confines of their harsh surroundings to a wider world outside, albeit briefly. The movie, despite its mimicry of human perspective, employs a narrow 4:3 aspect ratio, creating a sense of tunnel vision that keeps Elwood and Turner practically blinkered. They can't see past their oppressive confines — and so the film, in a way, imagines the outside world and its liberation for them. The viewer's desire to see them freed becomes all the more pressing.
However, when the movie's borrowed footage begins incorporating the magnetic flaws of video tape — a format that wouldn't be popular for decades after the film is set — it pulls the viewer forward through time, in a way. This takes the form of vignettes of life in Harlem in the '80s, where we also glimpse an adult Elwood, but this isn’t the only way the movie signals its cinematic time travel.
While the use of interspersed archive footage is intentionally scattered, almost random, the way the narrative hops back and forth is much more precise. In a moment when Elwood becomes the victim of his school's corporal punishment, Ross makes a masterful switch with disquieting impact and presents him from the rear, shooting his back as though he had slipped outside himself. This moment of traumatic dissociation carries over into the movie's future scenes, wherein Elwood (Diggs) is shot exclusively with a "Snorricam" rig attached to his body from the rear, matching his every moment so that we remain fixed to his point of view — but so that his perspective is now removed from his sense of physical self, thanks to the violence he endured as a child.
This is also when the movie begins employing real-world photographs and news footage of the Dozier Academy, the actual school on which Whitehead modeled Nickel, down to the shed reserved for the boys' harshest physical punishments. Although we don't spend much time with the older Elwood, he becomes the center of some of the most emotionally striking scenes. Diggs effectively "operates" the camera through his body language. When Elwood runs into a now-adult schoolmate who recounts his own harrowing tales — a tremendous one-scene performance by Craig Tate — his hesitance to chat, and his reluctance to be vulnerable, become heartbreakingly embodied by the minor movements of the frame.
There's no such aesthetic equivalent for trauma in literature, or in any other medium, but Ross' film deftly captures the silent poetry between Whitehead's words, making it a particularly potent work of adaptation.
Nickel Boys is a magnificent literary translation.
While there are minor plot departures along the way, the biggest difference between Nickel Boys and Whitehead's novel is the way it expands upon (and arguably deepens) the material through sheer aesthetic force. Some of this occurs during fleeting moments — Alex Somers and Scott Alario's rustling, clanking score captures the academy's foreboding when it first appears — but much of it comes down to Ross' approach to translating between mediums.
The director only has one other feature under his belt, the immense and oblique documentary Hale County This Morning, This Evening, but it makes for a perfect B-side to Nickel Boys. The Oscar–nominated doc uses similar techniques, with close-ups of sensory moments disembodied from time used to illustrate the daily lives of Black residents of Alabama. Whitehead's novel comes with a similar level of detail, with each description of a person, object, or even surface hinting at a deeper history, which Ross subsequently captures through Elwood and Turner's eyes, focusing on each fleeting feature just long enough to conjure thought and feeling.
However, the film practically outdoes its source material in its conception of both leads. In portraying the world through Elwood and Turner's eyes, Ross confers a constant sense of personhood upon the camera, forcing the viewer to reflect on each moment as an extension of someone's humanity. But in switching between the two boys' points of view, Nickel Boys also takes on a more traditionally cinematic form when they're together, cutting between their close-ups, as though their connection had inadvertently conjured familiar comforts. The film, in this way — and through its deeply considered performances — approaches a love story. Whether or not it's remotely queer or romantic, it features a sense of gentleness that must exist by necessity, in order for the two boys to simply survive.
The film's use of POV also brings to mind the work of Barry Jenkins — who, as it happens, adapted another Whitehead novel, The Underground Railroad. Jenkins' work makes frequent use of characters looking straight down the lens so we can reflect on their humanity, a technique that was further emphasized in The Gaze, a video exhibit that spun out of Railroad. Ross' approach, however, plays like its equal and opposite. In employing a first-person perspective to this degree, Nickel Boys presents each supporting character — those who love Elwood, and those who would do him harm — through similar shots of them staring at the camera, and revealing their most honest selves in the process. However, they act as mirrors too, constructing numerous conceptions of Elwood's humanity as well, just from the way they look at him.
The result is not just dehumanization at close proximity, but what critic Robert Daniels calls, in his review of The Underground Railroad, a subsequent "re-humanization." In Nickel Boys, the camera constructs a powerful sense of self and personhood through the kind of thoughtful, propulsive artistry the American mainstream has seldom seen, making its opposition to violence and racist oppression wholly self-evident through its visual approach. The film is unlike anything else, but it feels intimately familiar.
Nickel Boys was reviewed out of its New York Film Festival Premiere. It will open on Dec. 13 in NYC and in Los Angeles Dec. 20.
