Considering the ferocity of Steve McQueen’s small
but impressive oeuvre and the subject matter of his latest film, I never
expected to be in for an easy ride with 12
Years a Slave but nothing, not the trailer, the word of mouth nor my own
imagination could prepare me for both its excellence and the horrors to be
found within it. The director’s third feature is based on the memoir of one
Solomon Northup (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a free black man from up-state New York who was
kidnapped and sold into slavery in 1841. The film charts the following decade
and the unimaginable ordeal that is daily life for a slave.
It’s rare these days that I can
report to have sat through a film screening in a packed cinema without seeing
at least one or two phones light up in front of me. Talking and popcorn
rustling are two other offenders which take one out of a film and back to the
annoying reality of the fact that there are other humans around you. Throughout
the two and a quarter hours of 12 Years a
Slave however I didn’t hear a peep from the audience besides a few sniffles
and yelps. The film gripped one and all from its opening frames and touched
myself at least (but I suspect most) with a profound sense of heartache,
perplexity and dare I say it, guilt.
Following a brief few scenes
which outline Solomon’s life as an accomplished and well respected musician,
living in middle class surroundings, side by side with blacks and whites, the
film takes the turn you know to expect. Cinematographer Sean Bobbitt presses
his camera uncomfortably close to the actors during these scenes in a trend
that continues during Solomon’s kidnapping. The screen becomes claustrophobic
and seems to envelop the audience as though we too are being taken against our
will. I struggled for breath and my palms were clammy, as they remained so long
passed the credits began to roll. The camera is unflinching, not allowing the
audience to avert their gaze from both the kidnapping and the horrors that are
to follow.
