In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blond(e) ·

31 May 2024, 00:00

How much time away from art do we need to consider it a classic? A few months? Years? A decade? The most immediate title for art is the “new classic”, usually crowned to at least three or four films and albums respectively each year. But context is important, isn’t it? Especially in a world where the most coveted awards in media (arguably the Oscars and the Grammys), still set the tone for what we will be talking about all year and beyond (although the more the scope of these artforms expand and grow, the more the snubs sting). In the past few weeks we’ve celebrated the four year anniversary of two “new classics'' that have become bigger than themselves. Birthed in late 2016, in the eye of the storm of that crazy election cycle, Barry Jenkins’ Moonlight (an adaptation of Tarell Alvin McCraney’s masterful play In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue) and Frank Ocean’s Blonde album touched their respective audiences in new ways, acting as two glimmers of hope in a dire world.

As Twitter does, it “did its thing” to celebrate the anniversary of these staple pieces of art. Various pop culture accounts shared their favorite Blonde lyrics and tracks, and the “best” scenes in Best Picture winner Moonlight from Janelle Monae's stunning turn as Teresa, to Teen Chiron and Teen Kevin’s tender moment together on the beach, bathed in those gorgeous blue and purple hues. These scenes and songs are timeless, filled with endless gems to take away and learn from even four years later.

In 2016 I was living in Pittsburgh, deep in my senior year of college. I remember the Fall day when I first heard rumblings of this little movie called Moonlight. From the first time the poster came up on my phone screen, I felt a flutter in my chest. It literally took my breath away; Black, queer vulnerability unlike anything I had seen before, especially on Deadline. Immediately, as I tend to do, I tried to absorb as much information on the film as I could. But at the time I a) wasn’t even remotely attuned to film twitter and b) could only find information on all of the screenings popping up in the coming months, none of which were in Pittsburgh.

I genuinely didn’t think I would ever get to see it (I know this sounds silly considering the film’s eventual trajectory, but the film really did start relatively small before it took on a life of its own). I even tried to find screenings that lined up with my Thanksgiving break so I could take a trip to NYC, but the dates didn’t line up. But luckily, as award season ramped up and early reviews came in, it was clear the movie was something special, which led to an extended and wider release. Finally, a charming little indie movie theatre in Pittsburgh (The Manor) added it to their website. I immediately bought and reserved tickets with my friends, eager to finally see this film I had heard so much about.

But before I finally sat in that seat with my glass of wine at The Manor, Frank Ocean burst into my life yet again and opened me up in ways I could have never predicted. Like most albums, and like most things twitter obsesses over, Blonde has apparently aged “like a fine wine” (cringe). It’s true, though. Blonde, at first listen, is like opening to a random page of Frank’s diary and rushing through it. Flipping through each page as fast as you can, and then stopping when you feel you’ve almost read too much. But all of his opening up and revealing only deepens his trademark mystery: the more you see, the more there is to unpack. With a badass roll-out (He famously put out a visual album Endless , to finish out his contract with Def Jam, only to surprise drop Blonde the next day), Blonde took over my whole life as I myself was in a crucial turning point in my journey.

The songs in Blonde are mini-movies, each with their own distinct sonic temperature and world, yet they still blend together perfectly as a cohesive album. They have Ocean’s signature depth, wells of emotion and insight in each phrase, constantly pulling you into his mind. “I’ll be your boyfriend, in your wet dreams tonight” he croons on fan favorite Self Control, one line out of 100 that took me out at first listen. His delicate meditations on desire, control, longing, love, sexuality and self are a masterful trick. By revealing himself, he forces you inward, to look at all of the dark, twisty and vulnerable parts of your own life. His winks, his savvy, his earnestness, all shine through, painting the picture of a complex, layered and deeply talented queer Black man at the top of his game. His craft isn’t just songwriting, or production, it’s storytelling. No matter the genre, he hooks you from beginning to end. Oh, and one track is a monologue of his mom warning him about weed, adulthood and famously getting “sluggish, lazy, stupid and unconcerned”: a true 2020 mood.

These insights and discoveries in Blonde only enhanced my experience with Moonlight. Like a little warm up, I’d spent most of my Fall in Frank’s world, examining my own vulnerability, my own desires and depths of my queerness and Blackness, finding myself in the world as a 21 year old man eager to break out, but for the first time with no clear roadmap telling me where to go. Watching Chiron and Kevin navigate each other’s orbit in all three parts (I. Little, II. Chiron, III. Black), I saw moments of my own life, my own identity, sprawling across the screen at The Manor theatre in Pittsburgh, miles away from where I grew up, although I was still growing myself. As I watched Teresa’s moment with Chiron in Part I, “Stop putting yo' head down in my house! You know my rule. It's all love and all pride in this house! Do you feel me?”, I thought of little Jared. Of what it would’ve been like to hear that at Chiron’s age, of how many kids need to hear that and of how I needed to hear it at 21, as I faced unknown unlike anything I’d seen before.

I could go on and on about every part of these two pieces, but the reality is, I’m aware of why I lean into Moonlight and Frank Ocean a bit more than others. Frank’s identity and how I can relate to him play a huge part into why I’ve taken to him and frankly why I’ve held on to Moonlight as tightly as I have. But, what does that say about representation in the media as a whole? I love plenty of albums by people I don’t necessarily identify 100% with, albums that are touchstones for me that I can’t imagine my life without. The same goes for films. But I suppose, I have been conditioned to do this from the second I started consuming media. The mental acrobatics taught when you are other in any way, to see yourself in someone else, in a different scenario, is a form of empathy taught not out of kindness but of necessity. Out of survival. Who would I be had I not seen myself in all the stories brought to me as a child? What parts of myself would lay dormant and never see the light of day if I hadn’t adapted to use my imagination in such a specific way? The power of both Blonde and Moonlight lie not only in the art itself, but in their immediacy. In the *not having* to do any sort of mental acrobatics to feel seen. Or heard. And at first...it’s incredibly scary. It’s a vulnerability unlike anything I had ever experienced before in art. And this is a running thread I still get hit with every now and again. I saw the incredible A Strange Loop at Playwrights Horizons last summer, and there were numbers, songs, even lyrics that hit me harder than any musical theatre I have ever encountered in my life (and I have a degree in the damn thing).

This “pop” isn’t meant to be a “representation is important” takeaway piece (although representation is incredibly important, vital and necessary for all of us and all of the people coming up after us.) This is merely me, Jared, savoring two pieces I love, four years after I first encountered them. Enjoying them still. Taking it all in and taking care of the boy who didn’t have this art growing up, who yearned for a type of connection he didn’t even know he was missing. Maybe that’s why four years later I’m still dissecting and learning from these pieces. In a way, they found me just as much as I found them. Chiron and Kevin, driving together with Frank in his White Ferrari in my mind, in all their gorgeous, dizzying and mystical vulnerability. And what a lovely thing that is. To feel found.

In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blond(e)

How much time away from art do we need to consider it a classic? A few months? Years? A decade? The most immediate title for art is the new classic, usually crowned to at least three or four films and albums respectively each year. But context is important, isnt it? Especially in a world where

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