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Malcolm and Marie

 

Where do I begin with Sam Levinson’s new film, Malcom & Marie? If I were writing a normal review, I would probably give it a 2/5. I found this feature-length argument between the titular Malcolm, a bombastic Black director (played by John David Washington) coming off the high of his recent film premier, and Marie, his unappreciated muse (performed by the exceptional Zendaya), to be overwritten and akin to an empty water truck driving down a country road—loud but lacking substance. But Levinson also attempts to add in some half-baked ideas about filmmaking through Malcolm, which results in the film becoming Levinson’s vendetta against film criticism spiced up with some self-serving ideas about race and identity. And in the spirit of the Anti-Racist Film Review, I want to expand on why that narrative decision, vocalized through Black actors, transforms Malcolm & Marie from a mediocre film into an exploitative one.

Race and racism are not the central themes in Malcolm & Marie, though Levinson employs them to insulate his film from criticism. Moments after the pre-credits, the ever-ranting Malcolm takes issue with the constant politicization of films by Black directors. Malcolm argues that white college-educated critics latch themselves onto political readings of Black-directed films, regardless of whether or their narratives are political in the first place. Malcolm makes an important point since Black art often face political scrutiny by default, unlike their white counterparts. Levinson even adds in some nuance when Marie pushes back against Malcolm’s viewpoint, signaling that Black art will be inherently political as long as African Americans are politicized. There are interesting thoughts about the link between Black artistry and the political at play here, and I was excited how Levinson would develop these complex themes as the film continued.

My excitement quickly turned to disappointment when, midway through his argument with Marie, Malcolm erupts after reading a white LA Times writer’s piece on his film (an important detail for later). The reviewer praises Malcolm's depiction of racism in the healthcare system and ability to subvert the white savior trope, yet takes issue with him “revealing in the trauma of his Black female character for so long.” Malcolm then pontificates about the insignificance of identity in filmmaking, where he argues that this particular critic hung her review entirely on his identity (lauding him for avoiding the white savior trope because he is Black, but criticizing him for focusing too much on a woman’s trauma because he is a man). Malcolm's fit, mixed with Marie’s limited push-back, signal that Levinson wanted to analyze artistic freedom (who should tell what stories) and the pitfalls of film criticism through the perspective of race.

At this point, the jig is up. The concerns Malcolm voiced are not those of a Black director whose art had been stymied by the white gaze. Rather, they are those of Levinson, who uses this film to lament about the negative reviews of his previous works. His first directing credit, Assassination Nation, received some harsh but valid criticism by Katie Walsh of the LA Times—perhaps the inspiration for Malcolm & Marie’s ominous LA Times reviewer. In her review, Walsh panned Levinson’s “ugly exploitation of sexual violence,” and argued that his film preached about objectification while simultaneously objectifying its female characters. Critics of Levinson’s HBO show, Euphoria, have also taken issue with its pornographization of addiction, teen sexuality, and sexual violence. Levinson has often invoked feminist and adolescent themes into his narratives but botches them with poor taste, conflicting messages, or both.

If Levinson wants to attack the critics of his previous narratives, then I say, “fill your boots.” If he wants to do so by completely missing the point of their criticism—which are complaints about the style and substance of his social commentaries—then have at it. But Levinson decides invoke both while using a Black director as his personal mouthpieces. The heart of Malcolm's ranting and raving about the LA Times reviewer whittles down to “I am an artist and I should be able to depict what I want without criticism.” Levinson, however, is not brave enough to say that in his own voice. He needs to hide behind Black characters because that comment coming from him—the privileged son of a more famous director—would be deemed as ignorant, especially given his past inability to develop non-problematic depictions of social issues. So, Levinson uses John David Washington as a human shield to deflect criticism away from his shitty ideas of artistic freedom—a textbook example of exploitation. Near the end of his fit, Malcolm pontificates that directors should be “fucking bold” and “fucking reckless” in honing their craft. It is a shame that Levinson's work continues to emulate the latter rather than the former.

 

Score: 1/5

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