‘American Fiction,’ Black culture, and the nature of joy

The premise of “American Fiction” feels stranger than fiction. This isn’t an indictment of the satirical film, which has an exceptional plot and cast. What comes off as absurd is our current landscape of race relations and culture.

Director Cord Jefferson, who wrote the screenplay from a 2001 book by Percival Everett, touches on these challenges while providing a Black lens into the strength of people – family and community. This search for humanity starts with a writer aptly named Thelonious “Monk” Ellison, who is deliberate in his approach to race but is aloof when it comes to most everything else.

As a Black man and writer, I couldn’t help but empathize with Monk’s attempts at finding balance. The history of the arts, like the history of being Black in America, is perilous. There are moments when advocacy and authenticity can leave one without livelihood – or life itself. Jeffrey Wright, who rightfully earned an Oscar nomination for best actor for his performance as Monk, approached this role with the gravity and perspective needed to convey such duality. (Co-star Sterling K. Brown, who plays Monk’s brother, also received an Oscar nod for supporting actor. Jefferson, too, earned one for the screenplay.)

Monk, a novelist and professor, deals with professional frustrations that tie into who he is as a Black man. At the university level, it’s a conflict similar to the ones we are seeing in real time – ones that relate to critical race theory and which words we should or should not use. As a writer, Monk finds his more serious and polished work in competition with salacious and entertainment-driven
content. Those works are a form of “Blaxploitation,” a term coined in 1972 by Junius Griffin, president of the Beverly Hills Hollywood branch of the NAACP.

Wright, the actor, is well aware of this angst and its origins. It’s what made his recent tribute to Bert Williams, a pioneering Black comedian and vaudevillian, so poignant. In an Instagram post, Wright highlights the career of Williams, which he considers the “beginning of American cinema – not just Afro-American cinema – American cinema.”

Wright’s honoring of the “next-level” talent contains bits of comedy and tragedy. He offers dignity for a man who was forced to wear blackface, a man whom W.C. Fields described as the “funniest man I ever saw and the saddest man I ever knew.” 

Whether it’s Blaxploitation, blackface, or navigating the arts space in a country and world not truly honest about their racial past, the duality of being funny and sad – think the iconic comedy and tragedy masks – means something different in the Black experience. It represents trying to conjure up joy and happiness while sadness and calamity are not just around the corner, but on the other side of the proverbial street.

What differentiates “American Fiction” is its ability to tap into Black joy through its mastery of interpersonal relationships. Early in the movie, we see the dichotomy of the Black upper middle class and the Black working class. As the film progresses, we see the triumph of the latter in a way that uplifts everyone in the film. This is the Black experience, as many of our gains as a community historically come from the heroes who dared to boycott the bus or defund the police.

Those interpersonal relationships are also a celebration of modern Black artists. Wright, always a team player, makes room for sterling performances. Brown, as Monk’s brother, is on a reckless journey to find truth and acceptance as a gay man. Also terrific is Tracee Ellis Ross, the daughter of a pop icon and a five-time Emmy nominee. She plays Monk’s sister and is the overwhelmed caretaker of their mother, who has dementia. Issa Rae, of “Insecure” fame, plays Monk’s literary rival.

It is ironic that “American Fiction” critiques the glorification of drug use and violence in Black culture, because one of Wright’s most recognizable performances is that of scene-stealing Peoples Hernandez in the 2000 remake of “Shaft.” Monk also has an alter ego/pseudonym in “American Fiction” – Stagg R. Leigh, the name he uses to pen a book with odious Black stereotypes. That’s a play, of course, on Stagger Lee, the nickname of a notorious pimp and gambler whose myth exceeded his cultural impact. 

Altogether, “American Fiction” provides some real lessons for how we might deal with the absurdities of life to craft a better future. The criticisms of white politics (liberal and conservative) and Blaxploitative elements of entertainment culture are biting. Yet, the deep and abiding love of Black people and family overtakes them. As I watch Monk’s transformation from self-aware to fully aware of his surroundings, I find inspiration in my own journey and my own search for work-life balance. 

I’m similarly reminded of the graciousness of the jazz artist whom Monk shares a name with. Thelonious Monk, ever the improvisationalist, reserved himself enough grace to be versatile in his art. “The piano ain’t got no wrong notes,” he famously said. And so it is with life.