FROM THE BLACK we hear Emile Mosseri’s score. The track is King Jimmie. Let it play for a few seconds before you FADE IN on “Mont” Allen coming up the sidewalk (01:21:33). When he stops at the doorway, we get the Tangent 1985 Presents graphic. Have it appear over the footage. No glitz. White text. Maybe smaller than usual. It should be gone by the time the scene cuts to Jimmie sitting on the railing.
Just so it’s not too long, you may want to cut from the low-angle shot of Jimmie straight to Mont’s line, “Jim… spoke to the realtor” (01:22:29). Let the scene play until Jimmie’s line, “I’m the last one left,” and HOLD on him for as long as you can until we SMASH TO TITLE: Again, simple. White text on black. The Last Black Man in San Francisco followed by Identity and Ownership. I’ll provide titles as soon as I figure out what font that is.
This might be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write, which, friends, is saying something because, by and large, I don’t consider myself a great writer. Sitting before a blank Word doc can, to me, at times, feel like standing in front of a firing squad. Or not. I guess. I don’t know. What I’m saying is, it’s not something that comes naturally to me. I bang out words on the keyboard a few at a time until I have something looks like a sentence, and then I do it again. And again. And again. Repeat until satisfied or deadline, whichever comes first. Usually the latter. Occasionally, I stumble into passages I like, phrases that make me smile and stave off the endless Imposter Syndrome I feel anytime I publish something to this platform, and those… well, those are good days.
They can be few and far between.
If you’ve followed this channel for even a little while now, you already know this was my favorite film from last year, and despite neither winning nor even receiving any nominations at the 92nd Academy Awards, it has steadily ascended a not-at-all unimpressive grade of films to take its rightful place as the best movie to come out of 2019. For me, anyway. Not a lot of people saw it. In fact, I think there might have been as many as… five other people in my auditorium, which was probably, in hindsight, a good thing because it meant I didn’t have to subject any innocents to my crying come the closing credits.
Fletcher’s, “Oh my dear God! Are you one of those single tear people,” from Whiplash
I wish. No, it was ugly. Many tears for, like, several minutes.
You see, I don’t just love this movie. I am in love with it. And in that way, a very small part of me kind of likes that so few people saw it, and even fewer still took the time to write about it. It makes the whole thing feel, I don’t know, like it was just for me. That said, the greater part of me, the part that knows it’s wrong to hoard miracles, wants, like, to an irrational degree, for everyone on Earth to see this film, and as many times as possible. It is a once-in-a-generation marvel that manages to somehow speak across entire regions and experiences and demographics and lifestyles, which is stunning considering how it positions itself: an insular tale on the verge of gate-keeping, one that should by all rights be nigh-inaccessible to anyone who didn’t grow up in the Bay Area.
But it isn’t. I’m not from San Francisco. I’m not even from the Western half of the United States. I’m an East Coast beach kid who, at a glance, has about as much in common with these characters as I do with the astronauts on the ISS, but I’d be flat out lying to you if I said I did not connect with these characters and their stories on more and deeper levels than I could have ever hoped or predicted. I never show my face on this channel, so you all may not know this about me, but…
Dead Mike’s rap, “I’m black, y’all! And I’m black, y’all! And I’m blacker than black, and I’m black, y’all!” from CB4
…so I ended up having a lot to say about this. The Last Black Man in San Francisco is… I don’t want to say “beautiful.” Not because it isn’t, but because that just seems like too small a word. It fails to capture the myriad of emotions evoked by its eclectic and atypical execution and falls oh-so short of describing the indelible mark the film left on me. And I’d be lying again if I said one of the reasons it’s taken me this long to put out this video is because I just didn’t think I could. I didn’t think I had it in me. What words could I summon that would do the painful odyssey these characters undertake justice? Plus, I have no idea how many of you are even interested enough in this film to listen to me talk about it. We’re a small channel right now, and I’m not certain devoting valuable time to focusing on an esoteric independent feature no one’s ever heard of is the fastest way to grow our subscriber count, but this movie is phenomenal, it had me feeling some type of way, and sometimes you just gotta say, “Fuck the algorithm.”
The Last Black Man in San Francisco is the story of Jimmie Fails, played by… Jimmie Fails in his theatrical debut, and his best friend Montgomery “Mont” Allen, played by Yale Drama School grad Jonathan Majors of the recent and striking Spike Lee Vietnam joint Da 5 Bloods. Oh, and while we’re here, Delroy Lindo for literally all the awards. Lead, Supporting… Original Song, Hair and Makeup – Everybody else, go home. But that’s a rant for another day. Last Black Man is helmed by first-time director Joe Talbot, who is… very White as it turns out, which is something that has rubbed me the wrong way in the past. Not him being White; that’s not what I mean. I mean him being a White filmmaker attempting to tell a story about Black people. Hollywood’s success record where this type of thing is concerned has been, and I’m being generous here… inconsistent.
Tony Lip’s line, “You people love the fried chicken, the grits, and the collard greens,” from Green Book
But that’s not the case this time, thank Hera, owing to a few key factors, the greatest of which being Talbot and Fails are not only both San Francisco natives, they’re lifelong friends who crafted the story. A story that is, largely, based on Fails’ own life, making them both uniquely suited for the subject matter. So suited, in fact, that the endeavor earned Talbot, who shares a screenwriting credit with Rob Richert, the Best Directing Award at Sundance and a Special Jury Prize for Creative Collaboration. The story is as much his as it is Fails’, and I’m certain the absence of either of their considerable contributions to this would have surely doomed the production. But I’ve stood on ceremony long enough. Let’s get into it.
Title: Truth in a City of Facades
The first thing you notice about The Last Black Man in San Francisco is Emile Mosseri’s haunting and versatile score. It is so wholly original. It drifts in and out of scenes with a kind of ghostliness, subtle and understated when necessary, and conversely boisterous when called for. Its purposeful use of vocals, especially, give it a home in your soul, making it impossible not to carry it with you when you leave the theater. I have been listening to it on repeat, on the verge of tears, for weeks. As always, you’ll be hearing selections from it throughout, so if you like it, please download a copy wherever soundtracks are sold. Don’t your ears deserve a present?
Now, I almost don’t want to talk over this scene, but there’s just too much to say and, guys, at times it’s going to get personal, so here’s your one warning. The film opens on a shot of a little girl staring into the face of a Hazmat suit-adorned city sanitation worker. The juxtaposition is stark and immediately off-putting, innocence and danger, eye to eye. She skips off, blissfully unaware of the telltale signs all around her, her innocence, for the moment at least, intact. In five years, this area will be unrecognizable. In five years, she and her family will probably be gone. She leads us to a preacher on a milk crate, who voices the concerns of the audience barely before they’re fully formed.
Preacher’s line, “Why do they have on these suits, and we don’t?” 00:01:39
He makes a good point. One we’ll come back to shortly. When the shot reverses, we’re introduced to Jimmie and Mont, waiting for the bus. He’s hyperbolic, the preacher, but he isn’t wrong, even as Jimmie dismisses his roadside sermon as the incoherent rambling of an institutionalized former convict. He’s glib, but there’s also a hint of anger in his voice, of defiance. It’s the kind of angry you get when you know someone’s telling the truth but you’re not ready to hear it yet. Mont is, as always, introspective. Always seeking to understand, to connect with those who inhabit his world. He’s a writer and an artist. He’s working on a play, but he doesn’t quite have it all figured out yet. I get that. I get him. I love these guys, but Mont is my favorite. By the end, you’ll know why.
There’s a kind of loneliness draped over nearly every frame of this movie. It’s in its gorgeous visuals, brought to you courtesy of Euphoria’s Adam Newport-Berra; it’s in the faces of the many wonderful souls we encounter along the way, and it’s hidden in each and every line of dialogue. So, when Jimmie says things like:
Jimmie’s line, “We’re not gonna make it, bro.” 00:02:59
We know he’s not just talking about the bus.
And now we’re into the intro proper, this peculiar and reckless skateboard-propelled journey through San Francisco, past the shipyards and along city streets lined with the first of scores of unforgettable faces that populate frame after frame. I invite you to listen to the preacher’s sermon that plays over this scene in its entirety. It’s something.
Through this inspired bit of match-cutting (00:05:45 to 00:06:04), we see that Jimmie Fails is San Francisco, is this house, in the same way the Black Experience is intrinsically American. It’s in our roots and in our blood, but also like us, this house doesn’t belong to him, and for as long as Jimmie can recall, outside forces beyond his control have sought to keep him separate from the world he made, ever pushing him aside to make way for those long-deemed more desirable. Yeah. This movie is about gentrification. Not all of it, but, y’know, enough of it that I can say that. So, what is:
Hooper-X’s line, “Gentrification!” from Chasing Amy
The socially-acceptable, dictionary-approved definition is, “the process of renovating and improving a house or district so that it conforms to middle-class taste,” in effect changing – many would argue forever – the “character of a neighborhood through the influx of more affluent residents and businesses.” The act is, at best, controversial. At worst, diabolical. Like most things, it favors the already wealthy, astronomically driving up housing costs by altering entire communities swaths at a time until lower-income tenants and families can no longer afford them and are forced out to, well, wherever. The topic of gentrification is, honestly, one too broad to properly cover here, and I’ve made my last feature-length video for a while, but believe me when I tell you I went down just… the worst rabbit hole to gain the little bit of perspective I do have on it.
Roy Batty’s line, “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe,” from Blade Runner
So here’s a much-abridged history of the subject as it pertains to the events of The Last Black Man in San Francisco. Jimmie’s house, this majestic Victorian, which he’s been obsessively caring for, much to the chagrin of the couple who currently owns it, the same couple whom he would say is, “Killing it,” is located in the heart of the Fillmore District, an area once known as the “Harlem of the West.” Boasting a thriving jazz, arts, and literary scene, its many nightclubs and hotel lounges played host to the likes of Charlie Parker, Billie Holiday, and Dizzy Gillespie, among so many others. San Francisco and, especially, the Fillmore District’s then-burgeoning Black population, which grew from just over 4800 to more than 43,000 in the 1940s, is owed to a few key factors.
The amoral and unjustified internment of Japanese Americans in 1942 left many homes and businesses within the district largely unoccupied, allowing Blacks fleeing the insidious and cowardly Jim Crow laws enacted and enforced throughout the South to take up much-needed positions at the San Francisco shipyards. After all, there was a war on at the time, and there’s little a sluggish economy enjoys more than a good war.
Now, I don’t want this to turn into a history lesson, but the history is essential if for no other reason than it provides a necessary context, a focused lens through which to view the film. I’ll provide links in the description to additional reading on the topic of gentrification, specifically in San Francisco, so feel free to avail yourselves of them.
For the purposes of this film and this video, all you really need to know is this has been going on in phases since 1947, with the most recent stage beginning around the time of the dot-com boom of the mid-90s, which has only accelerated in recent years. To put it all into perspective, Jimmie’s house, which probably cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $5000 in 1945 would go for a million dollars today, meaning anyone living there now would need to be earning at least $100,000 a year in order to afford it.
What we don’t yet know is that Jimmie and his family used to live here. He grew up here. This house is in his blood, and he has built his entire identity around it and getting it back. I want you to remember that. Jimmie and, in truth, his entire family fell and, regrettably, continue to fall victim to what film critic and columnist Robert Daniels accurately refers to as “the fairy-tale of Black homeownership,” and I’ll leave a link to his review of the film below as well. It’s both brilliant and insightful.
There’s a concept in storytelling called, “The Lie Your Character Believes,” and it is an essential cog in any good character arc. Simply stated, it’s a fallacy the protagonist – or anyone, really – either accepts about themselves or their world as fact, and before they can change or grow or move on, they must first confront this falsehood, which can prove challenging because within the lie rests the power to destroy your hero. It can be the thing that breaks them. You’ve seen this a million times even if you don’t realize it. In Jurassic Park, it’s the illusion that the power of God can be controlled by Men:
Ellie Sattler’s line, “You never have control; that’s the illusion!”
In Toy Story, it’s that Woody believes he is nothing if he cannot be Andy’s favorite:
Footage from the “Strange Things” montage wherein Andy’s room slowly shifts from being Woody-themed to Buzz-themed while Woody watches
In Aladdin, it’s the fear that Jasmine will reject Aladdin if she learns the truth about him.
Aladdin’s line, “If Jasmine found out I was just some crumby street rat, she’d laugh.” The next line from Genie comes super fast, so you might have to use it, too. :/
Oh, and not for nothing, but Disney and Pixar kill at this. They’ve built an empire on its back. Much of the narrative centers on the lie Jimmie subscribes to, an intertwined, two-part misbelief that one: the house was built by his grandfather, and two: he is nothing without it. Jimmie doesn’t have a home of his own. He doesn’t even have a car, as we’re later told it was stolen by a man who ironically dealt with the issue simply by refusing to acknowledge he’d done it. We’ll talk about him in a moment, though.
Jimmie lives with Mont and his father, played by the great Danny Glover, who is, sorely, in this film for too short a time. It’s a theme tethered to the earlier one of gentrification, but more character-specific, in effect asking the question: Who am I if I have no home, no roots? Am I anyone if I don’t come from somewhere? From something? I often think about this one line of dialogue from Roland Emmerich’s turn-of-the-millennium, historical… fiction – and that’s “fiction” in all caps, 72-point Impact Bold font with a drop shadow – Revolution-era war film The Patriot:
Cornwallis’ line, “When this war is over, the new aristocracy will be landowners.”
“A home is an escalator to wealth,” someone said somewhere once, but it is a luxury that continues to elude the vast majority of Black Americans, whose ownership stands at around 40% compared to the over-70% rate of White home ownership, forcing most Black families into the zero-sum predicament of renting. If you rent a home for thirty years, you’ve nothing to show for it at the end of that thirty years save for memories, if you’re lucky. And most live under a near-constant threat of the knowledge that one unanticipated expense is all that stands between them and eviction. Contrast that with a family who pays into a thirty-year mortgage. Once paid, the house becomes something that can be handed down, inherited, even leveraged, if necessary, to cover college costs, unforeseen medical bills, and the like. It becomes wealth. But this is a fiction many Black Americans chase and largely fall short of capturing their whole lives.
But let’s switch gears for a moment. I don’t really care where you’re from, if you’ve ever lived anywhere with even a moderate Black population, you’ve probably encountered these guys before. They were a staple on the corner at the end of the street where I grew up, and while most have since gone on to, at best, unspectacular, and at worst, unfortunate ends, one doesn’t need to look hard or far to find the latest generational incarnation of them. They’re constant as the Northern Star. It’s probably not difficult to imagine, but the corner was never my scene. I’ve admitted as much in previous videos.
I’ve never understood the appeal, personally, of surrounding yourself with people who seem to delight only in tearing you down, but it takes all types, and everyone exhibits affection in their own way. Friendship comes in all shapes, even if those shapes aren’t always immediately recognizable. It’s so easy to dismiss these guys, to ignore them as they openly mock one another and anyone else who happens to stray too near, safely content in the verbal crossfire of their insults and casual homophobia. It requires less than no effort to make an assumption about the kinds of men they are, what their lives are like, and just keep walking, but the movie doesn’t discount them, and pays the lot a noble respect more than once. Kofi, especially, whom I’m also very fond of. He takes more abuse than the others, which is made worse, no doubt, by the fact he doesn’t want to push back. It’s not in his nature, despite how it might appear at first glance.
I liked Mont from the start, but these quiet moments with him speak to me loudest, these moments of him attempting to connect with a world he seems fated to exist on the fringe of, the only way he really knows how – through his art.
Mont studying Kofi and the corner boys, then practicing in the mirror. No need for sound. This is just a good reference for the visuals you can use. 00:18:20 and 00:18:42
He does this a few times, and each time it endears me to his character more. But this isn’t my favorite moment of his. That comes later. We’ll get there.
Title: You Never Own Shit
Oh, here’s that guy I was talking about earlier. The one who stole the car Jimmie used to live in, and has just been driving around in it the whole while, pretending like it never happened, which is based on something that actually happened to him in real-life. I love how close he gets to wrecking
into this car here (00:21:58).
Bobby, played by Mike Epps of more movies and shows than should really be physically possible, hangs around just long enough to set up Jimmie’s estranged father and reinforce the film’s theme of gentrification: someone who just shows up one day and takes everything right out from under you, and then has the nerve to tell you they’ve done nothing wrong. That, in fact, you’re the one who’s wrong for ever having such an unrealistic expectation in the first place: a car that won’t be stolen, a home that won’t be burned to the ground.
Bobby’s line, “It was a hundred motherfuckers in there, rent-controlled. They thought they owned that shit. The landlord burnt all them people out of there. You see, Jimmie, you never really own shit. This car ain’t mine, but it never was yours.” 00:22:14
It’s a brief burst of harsh reality, the first of a few, but it’s quickly and intentionally followed by the reveal that the woman who owns Jimmie’s house in Fillmore is moving out, owing to the death of her mother and the onset of a vicious battle over the property with her sister, which immediately sets the wheels in Jimmie’s head to turning.
To Jimmie, it’s not just chance; it’s providence. This unexpected turn of events allows him to banish Bobby’s words and indulge in an ill-advised, undercooked flight of fantasy with the potential to fulfill his greatest dream or bring about his complete and utter ruin. So he and Mont go visit the realtor, who is every bit as slimy as you might imagine.
Realtor’s line, “It’s so fucked up. Like, it bothers me. All these people on the street, and these big old houses are just sitting there collecting dust. Shit. What else can you say? Fuckin’ – the injustice of it!” 00:26:20
He has plans of his own, but Jimmie has blinders on to the world, so he doesn’t see it coming. When they break in, we get to see it at last, the star to which he’s hitched his wagon. The film makes us wait for nearly half an hour before revealing the house’s interior, and when it finally does, it takes its time with it. Because, of course, it does. It’s not just a house; it’s the introduction of a new character, but an introduction that comes from an unreliable narrator. When Jimmie overhears an approaching Segway tour outside, he interrupts its guide to “correct” him on the facts of the house’s origins.
Tour Guide’s line, “No architect in the 1940s was building in this style,” and Jimmie’s reply, “That’s probably true, but this wasn’t built by an architect. My grandfather built this. He came here in WWII; he bought this lot, and built this house. The stairs, these windows, the columns, the archways, the witch hat, the balustrades, the fish scales, this balcony, that wall to keep y’all the fuck out. All of it… by Jimmie Fails I with his own two hands in 1946.” 00:29:23
It’s a beautiful story, uniquely American, which is why it’s so important to Jimmie that he lets them know. He needs it to be true, that his grandfather, a recipient of the GI Bill, purchased the land and built the house. The reality that his family simply moved in once its previous owners were ripped out of it is unthinkable. The house’s legacy is tied to the legacy of Jimmie’s family. The truth is at odds with the fantasy he’s constructed, the fiction he’s built his entire existence around, and that is simply unacceptable to him. So when Jimmie wakes up Mont the following morning and informs him:
Jimmie’s line, “Got a plan.” Keep the music cue that starts here and let it play. 00:32:44
…we head into Act II.
Title: You’re Okay There
Jimmie visits his Aunt Wanda, played by Tichina Arnold of Martin and Everybody Hates Chris fame, and his Uncle Ricky, who’s played by world-famous Skateboarding Hall of Fame inductee and Thrasher Magazine’s 2006 Skater of the Year Daewon Song, which makes this moment the funniest gag in the whole movie:
Wanda’s, “Ricky, do that trick you used to do, baby,” and Ricky’s lame kick flip. 00:34:16
We learn Wanda has kept all the furniture from when the house was still in their possession, revealing that she lived there was well, and had to leave when they did, which is something else I like. The movie gives you information about the characters in subtle ways. We’ll see this done again later with Jimmie’s parents. So Wanda lets Jimmie and Mont take the furniture home, bringing him one step closer to being whole.
Now, there are scenes in movies that, once you’re aware of them, upon repeat viewings, you kind of have to guard yourself against, emotionally, because you know they’re coming and, for some reason, they never get easier to watch. We all have at least one. I have… scores. Just off the top of my head, there’s the letter Brooks wrote that Andy Dufresne reads to the other inmates once he’s been released from Shawshank, the one that heralds his suicide; the countless photographs of all the adventures Rose went on in the years since the Titanic sank, assuring us that she kept her promise to Jack to live every day of her life to its fullest; this ruthless barrage of emotional onslaughts from the Pixar archives (Ellie’s miscarriage from Up; Andy reflexively clutching Woody close when Bonnie reaches for him in Toy Story 3; when Miguel plays “Remember Me” for Grandma Coco in Coco; when Bing Bong sacrifices himself so Joy can escape from Inside Out) – they each hit me like a freight train every time I see them, and The Last Black Man in San Francisco has, like, three! This is the first.
This scene hit me hard. Harder than I expected. We’ve been here before. The corner boys are at it again, haranguing Kofi for something not entirely clear but we surmise was an altercation with another man that resulted in his backing down, a thing none of them can forgive. Straight men can be toxic that way. This scene is sort of a perfect storm. It’s everything: the song, the slow motion, the look in Kofi’s eyes, but that’s not all. That’s not the homerun. It’s not even the pitch. It’s the windup. The pitch is this moment:
Nitty’s line, “Hit me, bruh.” Let it play until Kofi grabs his collar but backs down. 00:42:41
The swing comes when Mont breaks up the scuffle, distracting Nitty to take the heat off Kofi and shift their attention to him, again, the one way he knows. Through his art. He has a play to finish, after all, so for a moment, he plays the part of director.
Mont’s line, “I believe you… but I know it can be deeper.” 00:43:30. You may want to use a little more of Mont’s dialogue here. I’ll leave it to you to decide.
The hit? The hit, however, is here:
Mont’s line, “You’re okay there. You’re okay there.” 00:43:58
The homerun… is the look on Kofi’s face when Mont leaves 00:44:15). You’ll notice he’s the only one who isn’t shouting after him, isn’t calling him names. It’s not difficult to imagine no one in his life ever told Kofi it’s okay not to be the tough guy, to not have to or even want to fight everything and everyone, that having nothing to prove to anyone doesn’t make you weak. It probably never felt like an option. You see, there are only so many different kinds of Black man the American narrative will accept, will let us be.
You’ve got your rap stars, your athletes; you’ve got your ballers, and your thugs. And I almost said your movie stars, but then, how often do you get to see us play something that isn’t one of the other four? Don’t get me wrong; we do. But not enough. This scene goes to work on me because it, and more scenes that follow, tells us that we can be more, that we are more, and we do not have to agree to exist in the narrow boxes this country constantly wants to put us in. We are more than categories. But some of us, sadly, buy into that false narrative, too, and it simply can’t go on this way.
If I had to, with a gun to my head, I don’t think I ever could have written a character quite like Montgomery Allen, and that is an odd realization. It’s odd because he’s me. I am Mont. I understand myself better through him. And if there is greater praise a viewer can give a work of art, I don’t know what it is.
But now we gotta talk about Jimmie’s dad, seen here literally spitting on the people beneath him, which is not unintentional. Jimmie’s dad breaks my heart. He’s played by Rob Morgan, whom you’ll recognize from Mudbound and, if not that, the Netflix Daredevil series, where I swear he’s thirty years younger despite that show airing only five years ago. He’s in three scenes, and he crushes me in two of them. He’s so hurt and sad and angry with himself, and Morgan sells it because we don’t even know what he’s upset about yet. But that’s coming. He’s proud of Jimmie, at first, when he learns he’s found a place to call his own, even if it is under dubious circumstances.
James Sr.’s line, “You put the gas and the electric in your name?” and Jimmie’s reply, “Right. I’m gonna do that next. You know I know,” and James’ line, “Okay. Doing it like your old man. That’s good.” 00:47:05
But when he learns which house Jimmie has moved into, the civility he’s struggled to maintain throughout the scene crumbles, exposing that cavernous hurt:
James’, “Then you know that’s not your old house and your Black-ass neighborhood!” 00:48:21. And then cut to the line, “You know we don’t talk about that house no more. Put the shit down and go!” 00:49:06
We still don’t know how they lost the house to begin with, but from James’ reaction, it’s clear he had a hand in it if it wasn’t his fault entirely. Losing the house is his greatest failure, one so powerful it derailed his whole family, stripping them of safety and security, scattering them all to the wind where they have struggled to recover ever since, and the humiliation of being confronted with that failure is overwhelming.
This is daring, given the themes the film presents us with, the notion it’s always outside forces that are responsible for our lot, but Jimmie’s father has only himself to blame for his son’s homelessness. There’s no boogeyman here. No predatory loan or greedy corporation or unfair practice at fault. It rests solely on his shoulders, and it’s something he can only try to forget because it’s obvious at this point he hasn’t forgiven himself.
Title: Not Better
Disillusioned with his father, Jimmie sets himself to fixing up the house even as doubt starts to creep in. When Mont invites over Kofi to see the place, the film again offers us a vital peek into Jimmie’s heart and mind. We already know Jimmie and his father slept in a car, later stolen, after they lost the house, and the previous scene tells us outright how they bounced from place to awful place, some of them not even houses, but Kofi is about to drop a bombshell here:
Kofi’s line, “Jimmie used to talk about this spot all the time! But you know how niggas be in a group home. Over-exaggerating and shit, trying to be all special.” 00:54:54
I love how so many scenes in this inform the ones that immediately precede them. It’s never stated outright, but what we learn here is either that Jimmie’s father put him in a group home because he couldn’t take care of him on his own, or Jimmie was taken from his father by Child Protective Services, which isn’t hard to believe when the man openly refers to one of the places they previously stayed as an:
James’ line, “Old drafty-ass roach nest.” 00:46:46
Either way, the ongoing damage losing their house has caused in Jimmie’s life cannot be overstated. The evening ends on a lighter note, with Jimmie and Kofi reconnecting over their shared experience in the group home, but even this isn’t meant to last, and what comes of it all hurts too. Jimmie offers Mont his own room in the house, a considerable upgrade from the broom closet he presently occupies at his dad’s, but while helping Mont move out, Nitty and the corner boys are up to their usual hijinks.
It starts off harmless at first, but soon takes a vicious turn, with Kofi crossing a line even this group normally doesn’t.
Kofi’s line, “Hey! Just like your daddy! I remember your crackhead-ass daddy and your dope fiend-ass momma,” all the way to, “You’re not better than us!” 01:02:00
There’s a lot to unpack here. In the same manner the film has perfected, we get information here that answers questions from earlier scenes, filling in the gaps, and we learn Jimmie’s parents were addicts, that his father lost the house and, in all likelihood, custody of Jimmie because of that addiction. But as awful as all of this is, and it is awful, it’s made worse by Kofi, who either feels slighted because Jimmie didn’t extend an invitation to him as he did Mont, or because he sees Mont leaving as Jimmie taking the only person who was ever unconditionally kind to him away. He came so far in those two scenes, but here Kofi both fails Mont and himself, falling back into the box, into the group’s poisonous rhetoric, which is only made worse by the way they encourage him.
All he had to do to earn their respect… was destroy someone else. And while we don’t yet know it, this is the moment when the movie tells us Kofi can no longer be saved. He is shot dead not one day later, it seems, for, in Gunna’s words:
Gunna’s line, “He was talkin’ shit to the wrong niggas.” 01:11:07
Jimmie wants answers, but no one wants to give them. So much so, that Jordan wants to fight him over it. He wants so desperately to do what he knows, probably what he’s always done. What he’s always relied on. He has to go somewhere with his feelings, do something to make sense of what’s happened, and just when it looks like it’s going to come to blows, Jordan breaks free of the box and does the bravest thing he can. He sheds the façade he’s worn since we met him, probably for his whole, difficult life… and cries. Because what has it gotten him? What has it ever gotten any of them? The events surrounding Kofi’s death leads Jimmie to the realization:
Jimmie’s line, “You know, it sounds weird, but I kinda feel like that could have been me. If not for the house.” 01:13:37
You can tell from the look on his face after he says it, this is an idea that frightens Mont. Jimmie has tied not only his identity, his whole sense of self and self worth, to this house that he possesses only by way of the most tenuous and unstable of circumstances, he’s now tied his fate to it as well, reasserting that, in his mind, he is doomed without it.
Title: Two Houses, One Myth
I want to talk about Parasite for a moment, the one that deservedly swept the Oscars earlier this year, taking home not just a Best Picture Award but a Best Directing one as well for its flawless execution under the meticulous and loving care of Bong Joon-ho. Parasite is the story of a poor Korean family who, one by one, infiltrates the home of a wealthier one, taking up vacant service positions and, in some cases, outright supplanting the family’s regular servants through various deceptions in a devious but understandable gambit to improve their quality of life, to climb the social strata.
It’s a film about class, wealth disparity, and the lines society – particularly late stage capitalist society – draws for us and, in many instances, leaves us little choice but to cross, forcibly when necessary. It’s also a film about the near-inescapable life sentence that is poverty. At the movie’s end, Ki-woo, the son of the impoverished Kim Family, who had devoted the majority of the film to posing as a tutor for the well-to-do Park Family’s daughter, is driven back to his previous life when the ruse collapses, reaping untold devastation on both families. The film ends with a heartbreaking voiceover:
Ki-woo’s letter, beginning from, “Dad, today I made a plan,” to, “All you’ll need to do is walk up the stairs.”
Compare that with the scene that follows Jimmie’s discovery that the house has been put on the market, all their belongings tossed out onto the street. Seeing no other way, Jimmie goes to the bank and makes his intent to buy the house clear. I want you to listen to his words but, more so, his desperation, his need, and the lie he tells himself.
Jimmie’s lines, “I get it. I’m young, I’m Black, I’m not rich,” all the way to, “I will pay back every single cent. I will pay back every single cent.” 01:17:38
Like the scene from Parasite, it’s heartbreaking because it’s never going to happen. It isn’t possible. It’s a fantasy. Like Ki-woo, no amount of menial work will ever be enough to purchase this house. A work ethic can only take you so far, especially if you’re starting from zero. “You can’t pull yourself up by your bootstraps… if you have no boots.”
While this goes on, Mont visits the first realtor, the one responsible for their current crisis. And this is where he and the audience learn the truth.
Mont’s line, “You’re lying about the history of the house,” all the way to, “Your guy Fails lost it in the 90s.” 01:20:22
Mont returns to Jimmie, bringing us full circle, back to where we started. He’s carrying a loaded gun, but he doesn’t have it in him to pull the trigger. Mont knows that all Jimmie is, everything he believes about himself, is tethered to this house, and the truth about it could be the end of him. When asked to come back with him and stay in their old room at his dad’s, Jimmie says:
Jimmie’s line, “Can’t go back there, bro. Mont, this house, is what I do.” 01:23:47
Mont knows what he has to do. Not surprisingly, it’s the same thing he always does, connecting with his world and the people in it… the only way he knows how.
Title: Beyond the Stories We’re Born Into
I love that the first person who shows up for Mont’s play is James Sr. One: it gives him a chance to reconcile with his son over their last meeting, and two: it acts as the resolution to his own story. The strength it must have taken for him to return to the site of my worst failure, to step through the threshold into a place that has been a source of so much pain and self-loathing for so long… is unbelievable. I also love this moment:
James plays the organ, and says, “My daddy hated when I played that shit.” 01:29:40
He comes alive there, for just a few seconds. It’s a shame it’s fleeting. In a way, it’s too late for James Sr., but not for Jimmie. Jimmie can still be saved. So Mont puts on his play, and it’s at first peculiar, this offbeat one-man show recounting the path that led Kofi to his end, but then the play’s structure shifts. Mont reads off a handful of social media posts regarding the passing of his friend. They’re empty, surface-deep, and not at all reflective of the life he lived. Merely a facet, a sliver of that life as seen through a keyhole. He asks the audience to tell their stories, in a way, asking us to do the same, to look past the facades, and to see more in those we meet and dismiss daily. Jimmie sums it up best, though:
Jimmie’s line, “My last memory of Kofi was him talking shit to me. He said some of the most fucked up shit anybody’s ever said to me. But Kofi also got jumped for defending me from the older kids in the group home. He didn’t like to fight, but he fought for me then. People aren’t one thing.”
That shot of James Sr., by the way, says more with a look than whole pages of dialogue. What’s amazing about this moment is, the person who said the one thing Jimmie most needed to hear ended up being Jimmie himself. “People aren’t one thing.”
And then it turns. Mont has been in Jimmie’s corner from the beginning. He’s in his corner still. More so now, even, than ever before. But what he can no longer do is continue to aid and abet his illness. For all his love of it, for all his want of it, for all Jimmie Fails’ need of the house, it is his prison, keeping him from becoming… more. He knows what’s coming. He’s always known, yet he still tries to stop it, to hold onto the dream and the myth and the lie, because holding onto it means he never has to fly.
Mont’s line, “Your grandpa didn’t build this house! He didn’t build it, Jimmie!” 01:38:36
What follows is what I was referring to earlier when I said that while it’s too late for James Sr., it might not be for Jimmy. When pressed for the truth, Jimmie’s father can’t admit what Mont said was true, that the house wasn’t built by his grandfather. He’s carried the lie his whole life, let it define him the same way Jimmie has, but now we see, like the Ghost of Christmas Future, what awaits Jimmie when the house is lost to him as well, and he will lose it. He will become his father, bitter and alone, if he cannot break free of the house. So… he has a choice. He has a chance. But the first step is always the hardest.
Title: It’s Not Your Loss
I can’t end this without talking about this scene on the bus wherein Jimmie runs afoul of a character who has lovingly earned the nickname “the Enid who never got off the bus,” a reference to the resolution of Terry Zwigoff’s 2001 black comedy Ghost World starring Thora Birch and Scarlett Johansson. The exchange is brief but poignant as Jimmie interjects himself into a conversation between these two passengers, who’ve been mercilessly deriding the city for several seconds now, blissfully ignorant of their not-at-insignificant role in the very upheaval they’re griping about. So he tells them:
Jimmie’s line, “You don’t get to hate it unless you love it.” 01:46:26
That line… knocks me out. I mean it, it takes me off my feet, and it does it every time. Because it’s true. There is no love like the kind that burns you, the kind you give every fiber of your being into feeding, into making it work until it becomes poison in your veins because no matter how hard you try, how much of yourself you pour into it, it cannot love you back. At least, not in the way you believe you deserve, and I think that’s what allows Jimmie to finally make his peace with it all and, especially, with Mont.
He spends one final night with the Allens, in his old shared room, and then he’s gone.
And this is where the waterworks start for me, watching Mont retrace their steps, haunting all the places that belonged to them for so long, which are so much lonelier now without him. The part that kills, though, that just reaches in and grabs your heart and twists it, is when he revisits the house, and it’s been flipped, turned into this sterile, soulless, bullshit, IKEA reflection of itself. It’s like attending the funeral for a murder.
But I thank heaven for this little moment because it lets me get in a much-needed laugh between the sobs. This moment that says in no uncertain terms that yes, this may be yours now or someone else’s later, but you will never know it the way I do. 01:52:15
But no sooner is that over than when the heartache finds its way back to me. We don’t normally talk about too much behind-the-scenes stuff in these videos. That kind of content we tend to save for our Best of the Rest series, but I’m going to break protocol for this one because it’s just too good not to tell you. The penultimate shot of this film finds Jimmie Fails in the Bay, rowing out to sea, leaving San Francisco forever. And this, like most things, can be interpreted in a number of ways, but from a filmmaking standpoint, Jimmie Fails, the actor, had never rowed a boat before in his life until this day of filming, especially on anything as choppy or as massive as the San Francisco Bay. This was totally new to him and terrifying, and it’s for that reason this ending tears me to shreds.
Jimmie is free. Free of the house, free of the myth, free of all the things he tried to own, that tied him down and told him who he was, what he was worth, and what he could be. He’s in uncharted waters for the first time, a blank canvas, with only himself to tell him who to be. He’s been caged for so long, and the time’s come for him to fly.
Hey, guys. Well, that was… challenging. I’m emotionally tapped out. We’ll do something lighter next time, I promise. If you stuck through this, I really appreciate it. And if you enjoyed the episode, consider subscribing to the channel. Feel free to leave a comment, give us a like, and ring that bell so you never miss an update. Tangent 1985 is on Twitter as well, so follow us there for more. Thank you all so much for going on this journey with me. As always, I’m M. Glenn Gore, and I hope to see you all again.
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