Twelve Years a Slave
was part of a literary tide. When the memoir was published in 1853, Uncle Tom’s Cabin
and Frederick Douglass’ autobiography were bestsellers, helping to fuel the abolitionist movement. But Solomon Northup’s story was different. Born a free man, he led a comfortable life as a carpenter and violinist with his wife and children in upstate New York in 1841, when he was kidnapped and sold into slavery. Northup managed to regain his freedom 12 years later and soon published Twelve Years a Slave
, which became a bestseller of its own. But at some point, Northup disappeared and his book fell out of print. Now, it’s little-known outside the halls of academia. All of which makes British director Steve McQueen’s 12 Years a Slave
an even more staggering revelation. The film is agonizing but not lurid, compassionate but not melodramatic, patient but still thrilling. McQueen exposes the full extent of slavery’s physical cruelty, from the endless hours of cotton-picking to the capricious acts of violence, as well as the system’s psychological toll. Chiwetel Ejiofor, with stoicism and crushing reserve, plays a man forced to keep his head down and feign illiteracy. Despite its handful of vicious instances of violence, 12 Years
has none of the garish extravagance of last year’s Django Unchained
, in which Quentin Tarantino perverted a historical atrocity into a hip-hop-scored spaghetti Western. Alongside the film’s occasional brutality, McQueen stages takes of astounding beauty and surprising tranquility. He’s a patient filmmaker, favoring long shots and wide angles over the quick cuts and close-ups that can sap scenes of their impact. Most impressive is that 12 Years a Slave
does not feel like an ethical or educational obligation. While its instructive value is undeniable, this is also a rousing portrait, a morally complicated tale and a masterful work of art. It’s not perfect, but it comes damn close.