SELMA (2014)

Many people have died in their fight against injustice. As Martin Luther King Jr. (David Oyelowo) prepares to accept the Nobel Peace Prize in 1964, the tragically premature deaths of those who followed him weigh heavily on his shoulders: “I accept this honour for our lost ones, whose deaths pave our path.” What’s more, he knows that the fight still isn’t won, as the movement is approaching one of its greatest obstacles yet.

Dramatising the 1965 marches from Selma to Montgomery, Ava DuVernay’s Selma is a stirring film which documents a historic fight against systematic injustice. As King and his inner circle protest for the African Americans’ right to vote, challenging an apparatus built to facilitate and maintain oppression, a tale of significant social importance is brought to light. However, what is perhaps more commendable about DuVernay’s film is that it also divulges King’s private life with an intimate sincerity, revealing a man plagued by doubt, characterised by conflicting natures, and loaded with the heavy weight of a people’s dreams.

Selma achieves a terrific equilibrium over 128 minutes. Two hours breeze by as we’re given insight both into the King household and the political manoeuvrings of the civil rights movement which he spearheaded. Unlike some biopics, DuVernay’s film never becomes overly ambitious. The director (who reportedly also contributed large sections of dialogue to Paul Webb’s screenplay) focuses on a specific battle in a man’s life that was filled with them, presenting a concise plot that doesn’t break under the weight of its own narrative aims.

As a result, the film never meanders, and not once is the story tedious. Chronicling the various manifestations of segregationist repression, as well as the figures who aided or attempted to thwart the Southern Christian Leadership Conference’s (SCLC) efforts, the film remains enthralling even after a decade. There’s simply so much history to cover, something would have to have gone wrong for such a story to become uninvolving.

Webb’s script and DuVernay’s deft direction weave in dialogues between governors, advisors, security officials, and the President of the United States himself with aplomb. Neither do they neglect the incessant blackmail and malicious coercion which the FBI tortured King with throughout his life. Amidst the grand political machinations of Washington D.C., we also are made privy to the in-fighting which plagued the civil rights movement. Principal among them is John Lewis (Stephan James), who believed in the merit of “good trouble, necessary trouble,” yet finds himself at odds with MLK and his movement.

It’s King’s conversations with Lewis and his wife Coretta (Carmen Ejogo) that reveal the struggle for justice as one fought by human beings: these people may be heroes, but they are also fallible, prone to doubt and guilt, and never quite as imperturbable as their stoic visages make them appear on posters. When people are hurt (bludgeoned with billy clubs, beaten with fists, or whipped from horseback), it’s another instance of violent oppression which King must justify as a means to an end: the world has to see the horrors being inflicted upon them, or they will simply continue.

For this reason, when we watch protestors being murdered in cold blood, the visceral quality of these sequences feels shockingly unembellished. Simply put, DuVernay’s film often proves difficult to watch: as so many defenceless men and women (of all ages) are savagely beaten, it becomes truly upsetting, particularly because we know such inhumane treatment of others not only existed but has persisted in the 60 years since.

An important aspect of DuVernay’s direction which deserves commendation is how she never once romanticises protest: it’s shown to be fraught with political hardship, emotional turmoil, and personal loss. Unlike The Trial of the Chicago 7 (2020), where social activism is practically commodified as the fun, riotous rock-and-roll lifestyle of the virtuous, King is shown from the very first scene to be a reluctant hero: he wants an easier, quieter life. Yet, he has been burdened with great purpose, and he knows he must follow this path to the end.

The power of the film’s script reveals the power of King’s rhetoric: words spoken in this film will have the hairs on your neck standing on end. There isn’t a shred of pomposity or magniloquence in his speeches—they are potent words uttered with serious emotional heft, and the effect is deeply moving. As King stands in front of a congregation, he defiantly inquires: “Who murdered Jimmy Lee Jackson?” Proclaiming all who watch injustice and remain silent as culpable in the young man’s murder, the theme of collective responsibility is made starkly apparent, yet never obvious.

There have been a plethora of films focusing on the quest for civil rights, so it might have been difficult for DuVernay’s film to distinguish itself from the crop. However, it does precisely this, simply by providing an earnest character study: MLK is made familiar to us, not as an icon, but as a person. Truthfully, I think DuVernay should have invested far more in this aspect of the story, as it would have made for a more memorable film.

Spike Lee’s Malcolm X (1992) soars because he analyses its subject with unwavering scrutiny (and occasional adulation), and my one serious point of criticism against DuVernay’s effort is that there was more to be explored in King’s life. Malcolm X is almost three-and-a-half hours long, and while Selma didn’t have to be extended to such epic proportions, an additional half-hour spent with Martin Luther King (the man, and not the legend), would have augmented the film’s emotional heft by a large margin.

Still, Webb’s script, DuVernay’s direction, and Oyelowo’s performance bring him to life all the same. Though Martin Luther King Jr. is shown to be aware of his nascent status as a soon-to-be martyr, he’s never deified, nor depicted as a saint. There is nothing in his behaviour that leads the viewer to believe he is fundamentally different. He, too, can be snappy and subject to ill-temper, making cutting remarks to his wife while under great stress. And he’s also guilty of temptation, expressing shame and remorse for his extramarital affairs.

Oyelowo’s stunning showing provides an intimate, sensitive portrayal of him as a troubled man, burdened by the weight of millions of dreams. Blood has been spilt due to his call to action. People have died in their fight for freedom, based purely on the rousing quality of his speeches. That’s a lot to carry on one’s back. It’s for this reason that, though his wife may accept his transgressions with equanimity, he knows that his life is not his own to lead—any personal failing of his, no matter how small, will be magnified by malicious agents to discredit and destroy the movement.

More distressing is how his efforts have spilt over into his home life—the scene where he has a conversation with Coretta about the obscene death threats she receives nightly is uncommonly moving. Poignantly, his wife reveals she’s come to accept a lot, but that the inferred violence and prospect of her husband’s martyrdom are something she will never be able to accommodate in her life: “But what I have never gotten used to is the death—the constant closeness of death.”

In addition to the superb script and capable performances from Oyelowo, Wilkinson, Roth, and Ejogo, the cinematography is exquisite. Chiaroscuro lighting is employed frequently and to mesmerising effect. Conversations in churches, jail cells, and cars are visually imbued with a solemnity that demands the viewer pay attention.

And while some have pointed out that the film features historical inaccuracies (particularly in the vilification of LBJ, who probably wasn’t as opposed to King’s campaign as depicted here), nothing depicted feels like an excessive deviation from the truth. More to the point, I don’t think there can be any portrayal of brutality too excessive in adequately capturing the misery inflicted upon African American people of the Deep South.

Because as harrowing a film as Steve McQueen’s 12 Years a Slave (2013) may be, and as sweeping in its scope as a tapestry of human suffering, these films can only ever strive to depict a personal story of hardship within a social system defined by it. One life of agony and hardship reflects the institution that creates it, a microcosm of societal inequity, abject racism, and intentional disenfranchisement. Though McQueen and DuVernay succinctly explore its manifestations adeptly, there can be no one film that captures the extent and magnitude of that apparatus.

King’s final speech in this film rouses emotion, but this should come as no real surprise. From the mouth of the man who gave his life to cause, knowing it would likely result in his premature death, a message for tolerance, love, and acceptance emerges. However, it’s also his eloquent speech on the importance of strength, courage, and fortitude that gives chills: “With our commitment, each day we give birth to a new energy that is stronger than our strongest opposition.” 10 years on, it’s a moral that’s worth remembering.

USA • UK • FRANCE | 2014 | 128 MINUTES | 2.35:1 | COLOUR • BLACK & WHITE | ENGLISH • PORTUGUESE

Cast & Crew

director: Ava DuVernay.
writer: Paul Webb.
starring: David Oyelowo, Tom Wilkinson, Carmen Ejogo, André Holland, Giovanni Ribisi, Lorraine Toussaint, Stephan James, Wendell Pierce, Common, Alessandro Nivola, LaKeith Stanfield, Cuba Gooding Jr., Dylan Baker, Tim Roth, Oprah Winfrey, Colman Domingo, Ruben Santiago-Hudson, Stephen Root & Tessa Thompson.