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I am tired of suffering being the primary lens through which we understand Black identity.
I am tired of being so hungry for Black joy and Black representation that scraps feel like a meal.
I am tired of thin characterization and milquetoast social messaging being the kind of representation Black folks receive.
I am tired of films likeAntebellum.
Instead,Antebellumreaffirms the very horror its trying to critique.
A world of picked cotton and casual cruelty, prim southern ritual and uninhibited brutality.
After 40 minutes of unrelenting torture in antebellum dress, the film turns on its axis.
The line suggests a multitude of fantastical pathways forAntebellum.
Is this story like something out of Octavia ButlersKindred?
Is the Monae we saw before a figment of the memories of Veronicas distant relatives?
Is there something supernatural afoot?
The filmmakers choose a more banal explanation.
The genre, at its best, lets us explore cultural taboos and fears with an unvarnished alacrity.
So the white people have no internal logic, no gravitas.
Who even is Veronica?
(I lost count at how many times she shoved the word patriarchy into her sentences.)
The effect is wholly distancing.
