“Selma,” the Martin Luther King Jr. biopic that covers the events in 1965 that led to the Voting Rights Act, in its very essence is about work.
In each shot, you can see the immense and thoughtful work director Ava DuVernay put into the film, taking the story from a piece of history to an explosive narrative. In every pause in speech, you can see the work David Oyelowo put into making King the living, breathing, human man so far removed from a historical rendering. And in the film itself, you see the outstanding amount of work, sweat, tears, sacrifice and death it took the people of Selma, Alabama — and Americans across the country — to march across Edmund Pettus Bridge and eventually gain equal voting rights.
We also see — perhaps in the timeliness of the movie’s release, or in images of police brutality that parallel those we’ve seen all too recently — that while we’ve come a long way, the fight portrayed in Selma is far from over.
This is DuVernay’s overarching message. While the film does reach the hopeful conclusion of King’s speech in Montgomery, or with President Lyndon B. Johnson signing the Voting Rights Act into law, the final minutes are not the crux of the film. Neither is history, although it makes for an incredible story.
Instead, the film focuses on racially fueled violence and raw human emotion. This immediacy gives the illusion that these events happened yesterday, rather than a half-century ago.
A large part of this feat is the performance by Oyelowo, who transforms King from a yearly holiday tribute to a human with flaws, passion and courage. He also embodies King’s love for the theatrical — after all, he goes to Selma specifically because of the possibilities of garnering national attention.
While Oyelowo’s speeches are grand and incredibly King-like, the most incredible theatrical moments come in silences. When an African-American church is bombed and four young girls are killed, silence creates a haunting, emotional picture. This silence continues across many traumatic points in the film, showing nightsticks and rifles aimed at a community with no voice. These moments allow for simultaneous reflection and wide-eyed horror.
The cinematography, while subtle in comparison to art-house Oscar contenders like Grand Budapest Hotel, just builds upon DuVernay’s laser-focused intent. Each shot seems to have been chosen based on importance rather than beauty. Because of the talent of cinematographer Bradford Young both are accomplished. Scenes are concise and packaged well with wonderfully lit black actors — it's perhaps the only movie to do so. Shots do not distract from what DuVernay is relaying, but instead complement the strong actors and stronger message.
This movie is reminiscent of past Oscar winners — Oyelowo’s speech at the beginning is akin to Daniel Day-Lewis’s initial speech in "Lincoln" and how Chiwetel Ejifor's performance in "12 Years a Slave" humanized and unabashedly portrayed the history of African-Americans.
One can’t help but wonder why this film, while nominated for Best Picture, was noticeably ignored in the Best Acting and Best Directing categories when the film was carried by both. Marked by speculation (is it due to the 2014 win of "12 Years a Slave"?) and the #OscarsSoWhite hashtag, this awards season has generated a conversation based on principles from "Selma" while simultaneously contributing to the issue at hand.