i. Little — “Learning to Swim”
The sea is a part of us. It is change. A life force. A womb. It is death and resurrection and a whole life in between. The majority of our body is water, so in a way, wading into the ocean is like returning to ourselves.
Juan leads Little into the sea. The boy hops over gentle waves, he stares at his hands as water glides against them. It’s a new sensation for him, a new experience—but somehow familiar.
Juan takes Little into his arms, helping him float on his back, asking the young boy to trust him, to let his teacher and father figure lead the way.
Little floats, staring up into the cloudy blue sky.
“You feel that right there? You’re in the middle of the world, man.”
The intimate handheld camerawork, half-obscured by blue-green waves puts us right next to Little as he feels weightlessness and freedom for the first time in his life. We learn to swim, taught by our “father,” right alongside Little. The score flourishes around us, a heavenly amalgamation as this boy learns how to keep himself from drowning. How to survive and fend for himself. The metaphor extends to the shore, when Juan tells Little: “At some point you gotta decide for yourself who you gon’ be. Can’t let nobody make that decision for you.”
It’s a revolutionary day for Little. For a moment he is freed by love, reborn in the waves. But the reality of life looms over him. He is still a child, helpless against a world that seems to only inflict pain. His mother is an addict. His father figure in Juan is a drug dealer who feeds that addiction. The people who love Little, who should be the ones protecting him, are inadvertently hurting him. But none of the environment that Barry Jenkins paints in this film is black-and-white. Every single frame is rooted in compassion. Paula is not an irredeemable addict; she’s a person subjected to a society that has seen incredibly addictive drugs injected into communities of color. Juan is not a merciless kingpin; he’s an immigrant who probably found a way out of poverty through dealing drugs. It’s all just pain, systematically imposed by the government and powers that be. Kids like Little are left in the wake.
ii. Chiron — “Turn Into Drops”
Chiron (Little) and Kevin talk about the ocean breeze that blows through their neighborhood. How good it feels—that cool, salty air. How the entire world seems to pause as it washes over the land. Everyone stops and takes a moment to let in life. Little moments like that, connective moments of shared experience and compassion and love, are what holds back all the pain.
But Paula’s addiction is worsening, her verbal abuse turning almost physical. Juan has passed away, no longer able to guide Chiron into the next stage of his life. And Chiron himself is bullied even more now that all his peers know he’s gay. This horrific combination breeds so much anger inside him. His love for his mother is turning into hate, and he closes in on himself, feeling better in isolation.
The only person his age who’s there for him is Kevin, a boy who can’t think for himself, but knows, deep down, that he’s different, just like Chiron. Sitting on the shore, under the moonlight, the two boys talk about that ocean breeze, and Kevin mentions how it feels so good he could cry. To which Chiron, taken aback, asks, “You cry?”
It’s an innocent question, but there’s so much weight behind it. It’s as if he’s asking permission. Like if Kevin cries, then it’s okay for him to cry too. It’s clear that Chiron doesn’t see vulnerability amongst his peers—just facades of rigid masculinity—and even Kevin puts up a front when he says he doesn’t cry. But Chiron can admit that he does. There’s bravery in that. It’s one of the bravest moments in the film for Chiron, who spends so much of the runtime searching and struggling to find the right words. He puts it so simply and poetically: “Shit, I cry so much, sometimes I feel like I’mma just turn into drops.”
Under the moonlight, Chiron and Kevin can reveal some of what lies beneath their shells. That vulnerability allows them to share an intimate, sexual moment. Chiron’s first. Maybe Kevin’s too.
But as Chiron learned in childhood, the people he loves can also hurt him. At school, Kevin is pressured into fighting Chiron, and they’re both taunted by bullies. This ignites Chiron’s anger, setting him on a path to prison and dealing and becoming like Juan.
iii. Black — “Heir to the Throne”
Black (Chiron) is the facade. The hard, unfeeling, dominant display of masculinity that Chiron built up since he got to Atlanta. The new city meant he could remake himself. A sort of faux-rebirth. It’s him, changed, but it’s not authentic in any way. It’s more of a method of survival—probably just like how Juan was when he immigrated to Florida. Black speaks a lot more now, commanding others and riding around with a crown on his dashboard just like his father figure used to.
He learned to swim so many years ago, learned that it’s him who decides who he’s going to be, no one else. So he created Black and rid himself of all external fear. But inside, he still questions himself, and he has nightmares of his childhood and his mother. Even with all the muscle, the money, the power, Little is still inside of him, afraid and searching desperately for love.
Out of the blue, Kevin calls Black, and his tough exterior crumbles away. In an instant, he’s that same little boy with the parted mouth and quivering lip. Kevin apologizes for what he did all those years ago, and he offers to cook for Black if he’s ever back in town.
That phone call sets Black on a course toward home. He visits his mother in rehab, and they share a beautiful, poignant conversation. She apologizes to him, professes her love for him, but says that it’s okay if he doesn’t love her back. She’d understand if he hates her. It’s such an impactful moment, showing the full arc Paula has gone through with her addiction and recovery, and also the compassion Jenkins has for every one of his characters. All she wants for Black is for him to be at peace, to open himself back up to the world. She pleads to him, “Your heart ain’t gotta be black like mine, baby.” And it’s not. Neither is hers. Black hugs her, and they cry together.
Without the reconciliation with his mother, Black might not have gone to Miami to see Kevin. She helps him let go of his hatred and end his suffering, and it gives him the courage to leave. To return to himself and reunite with Kevin.
The act of forgiveness is powerful. Yes, it is acceptance, it is letting go. But it’s also recognizing that you are capable of growing beyond the wrongs done to you. It’s like a willful step back into love. Black could be viewed as easily forgiving, as he doesn’t outwardly hold grudges against the people he loves, and he rarely expresses his anger toward them. He’s almost just waiting for them to say “Sorry,” and that one word quells every bit of the pain. It’s a blessing and a curse for him: it allows him to feel love, deeply, but it also repeatedly puts him in a position to be hurt. He doesn’t seem to care about that though, as long as it gives him another chance.
The restaurant where Kevin works is homey and lived-in. He prepares a special dish for Black, and the way Jenkins captures that moment is stunning. Dramatic lighting, slow-motion shots to emphasize the care and love that Kevin puts into the dish, and a beautiful score behind it, reinforcing everything else. Black is given food a few times in the film—by the people who love him—but this sequence in particular is made to feel special. Black may not have even had a home-cooked meal like this since Juan and Teresa. Kevin’s meal for him is like one fit for a king.
Throughout the night, Black and Kevin talk about who they were and who they’ve become. Kevin points out the facade that Black has up, but also notes how he was once someone who did only what others thought he should be doing. The sound of waves comes at multiple points, and in a lapse in their conversation, Black hears it, blowing in the wind. Another pull toward himself, toward the calm.
The culmination of the story comes when Black is able to be brave and vulnerable once more. He breaks down the walls of “Black” and tells Kevin that he hasn’t been with a man since him. He has never been with anyone else. The unspoken becomes clear: all those years, he kept himself isolated, denied himself connection. Perhaps out of fear, or self-loathing, or maybe it was just a need to cultivate strength. To rid himself of vulnerability. But the years are long. They take a toll on a yearning heart. Black hasn’t known love, and he craves it so much he drove all the way down to Florida for it. He left his kingdom behind for a chance at love.
There’s something very special about witnessing this hard, almost hyper-masculine Black man discover love and freedom in his queerness. It’s truly a transformative moment in cinema.
The sound of waves breaks through the present moment. The final shot is of Little, bathed in blue moonlight, surrounded by the sea, and it evokes a feeling of peace. He gazes back at the camera with a knowing look in his eye. He is home. He is his true self.
00Cinema 