Medicine for Melancholy

THE FLICK
Dictionary.com defines melancholy as "a gloomy state of mind, especially when habitual or prolonged."  That is an appropriate description of the main character's in Medicine for Melancholy, a slow, methodical story focusing on the building of a gradual relationship over the course of one day.  After a night of partying and no strings attached sex, Micah and Joanne (Wyannt Cenac, Tracey Heggins) spend a day getting to know one another as people.  Their tour of San Francisco leads them not only to physical landmarks, but also on a journey of self-discovery.  That's the titular medicine for these two.  Discover oneself and a new world opens up allowing for the current mindset to be lifted.  In effect, they are each others medicine.

Medicine for Melancholy could only have been made by a first time writer/director.  Barry Jenkins (his two other films both run under 10 minutes) isn't concerned with grand political statements or having Micah and Jo live happily ever after.  He's only concerned with this very specific moment in time, from the initial awkwardness of waking up next to a stranger to the way two people find enough mutual interests to create the framework for a friendship.  Jenkins asks the actors to go on the journey with him, to truthfully experience this situation instead of allowing the film to become a generic Hollywood production.  By keeping the pretentiousness out of the script, he almost perfectly emulates how real individuals could potentially handle the same situation.  There's a palpable tension in the air as the two grapple with their actions early on.  A strained conversation over breakfast, a cab ride where the short space between them seems like a canyon.

Part of the reason for tension certainly is the previous night.  But there's something else at work, too, which only comes up later.  Both have notions of the other: Joanne is dating a wealthy white man and Micah is the embodiment of a black male.  From his perspective, she is selling out each and every black person by being a "kept" woman.  Joanne has no need to work and has largely removed herself from the greater world of black culture.  That, in turn irritates Micah, a man proud of who he is and unafraid of tackling the bigger issues in the world.  Not that he is a political advocate or ready to overthrow the government; rather, he keeps abreast of the issues surrounding blacks in San Francisco.  They are a greater minority in this city than in most major urban settings, comprising only 7% of the population, according to Micah.  What does that mean?  To Joanne, not much.  For Micah, it's damning evidence of a population being pushed outside the city.  A conversation about rent controls and what that term means hammers home the point in the second half of the film.

Jenkins creates moments designed to build the relationship in little ways.  After Joanne forgets her wallet in the cab they share, Micah searches for her.  He stands on a street corner, cell phone affixed to his ear, trying to track down an address.  The camera circles him dizzily, mimicking the ride he's been on until this point.  Though it's a limited number of revolutions around Micah, it puts the audience back on their collective heels, searching for a way to force everything to make sense.  The mere fact he'd go to this much trouble to find her-after all, it is her wallet and not his-with no expectation of reward or compensation is a testament to his soul.  That, in turn, feeds into his decision making process in her apartment.  She teases him by going into the shower.  Does he follow?  No.  It's never stated, but he's not after more sex.  At this particular moment in time, he is interested in knowing about Joanne.  Before that, as he sings "Won't You Be My Neighbor" from Mr. Rogers, it's the first time she smiles at him.  As such, her cold exterior begins to warm up, allowing herself to be taken with someone she doesn't completely understand.

It's at this time the previously quasi-black and white, sepia-toned film begins to take on a modicum of color.  This is important as a stylistic choice as well as a storytelling mechanism.  See, both live in their own black and white worlds, ostensibly separated from the other.  When those two cultures begin to merge, color is produced.  It's a signal to the audience that Joanne's attitude is thawing toward Micah, as if the mention of taking a shower isn't a strong hint already.  For Jenkins and cinematographer James Laxton, it opens up the world for the audience, helping to keep the events grounded in reality instead of fantasy.  (Not to mention allowing Medicine for Melancholy to continually reinforce it's independent cinema credentials.)

Of course, the lyrical, hazy quality of Medicine for Melancholy wouldn't be possible without the stars.  Both Cenec and Heggins are perfect in their roles, betraying no signs of being anything but their characters.  There's an earnestness to both of the performances, a truth which can only come out when the world around them stops.  It's hard not to get the sense they both know they're involved in a different kind of project, something that allows the camera to trace each and every step in the relationship.  The format of the film makes them be emotionally honest at all times; there are no quick cuts or special effects to hide behind.  Emotions are laid out for everyone to see in every scene, even the moments when Joanne is closed off.

THE LOOK
I've said it before and I will say it again: it is unfair to criticize the transfer on some films.  A documentary, for instance, will necessarily include archival footage which is not of the best quality.  And here, Jenkins purposely goes for a different aesthetic, a mixture of faux black and white and color without any real interest in a crisp, clean picture.  The anamorphic transfer replicates that intent with a purposely murky presentation.  At the beginning, areas on the outer edge of the frame seem to be out of focus on purpose, as if the audience is barely awake to take in the events.  Later, whites tend to be blown out on building exteriors, almost making the screen hard to watch without turning away.  Grain permeates every scene, dirtying up the white portions and turning the blacks to gray.  There's a stray artifact or two about halfway through the film which are of no consequence.

THE SOUND
An English 5.1 mix is the only audio track included.  To be honest, Medicine for Melancholy doesn't require the use of an entire surround sound set up; a simple 2.0 iteration would have been plenty.  What the additional speakers do is cleanly separate the soundtrack from the dialogue with the intention to create a full sensory experience.  The issue isn't with intent.  The issue is in the original sound elements.  There isn't much there to pump through the speakers.  Certainly, the brief musical montage interludes are well done-one sounds as though there's a source problem, but there isn't-while dialogue comes across cleanly.  Ambient sounds are quite forceful when they're available.  In the end, the film revels in the quiet moments between two people.  And those are the times the audio track really shines.  English SDH and Spanish subtitles are available.

THE STUFF
Packed in a black keepcase, Medicine for Melancholy is broken down into 16 chapters accessible from the main menu.  No insert is included.  Trailers for Lemon Tree, Filth and Wisdom, My Effortless Brilliance and Before the Fall.  A podcast discussion (21:28) with director Barry Jenkins from the Director's Notes show is included in the bonus material.  Strictly an audio interview, stills from the film run on the screen while Jenkins muses about everything from self-financing the project to the types of cameras used and the photographic effects employed to give the production it's unusual look.  The interview was recorded during the London Film Festival in a very loud, crowded area.  These background noises almost drown out the conversation several times and make the balance tough to hear.  The trailer (2:04) for this film is also available.