If Beale Street Could Talk

Time to catch up and movie binge, award season is quickly approaching.

I’m disappointed in myself that I waited so long to watch If Beale Street Could Talk. A romantic story that appears all too perfect in the beginning.

What I love about this film is that the story was not rushed but instead told through the eyes of a black women transitioning to adulthood and starting out her life.

The soul of the south blended over the streets of Harlem. Viewers are challenged to identify with a time in history where laws were designed to keep people of color in their place without question or any logical addressing.

If Beale Street Could Talk sheds light on the unjust and immoral system that dehumanizes blacks. The movie highlights and contrasts treatment of black people. It demonstrates how black women often find themselves victims of sexual assault with little or no recourse. Black women are often considered to be equivocal objects lacking emotion.

I guess it can’t be too often that two people can laugh and make love, too, make love because they are laughing, laugh because they’re making love. The love and the laughter come from the same place: but not many people go there

The film stars KiKi Layne, Stephan James, Colman Domingo, Teyonah Parris, Michael Beach, Dave Franco, Diego Luna, Pedro Pascal, Ed Skrein, Brian Tyree Henry, and Regina King.

I recommend seeing this film when you have a day around the house while doing laundry and listening to the rain. Based on a novel written by James Baldwin Barry Jenkins does a magnificent job directing and adopting to screen.

More excepts:

Only a man can see in the face of a woman the girl she was. It is a secret which can be revealed only to a particular man, and, then, only at his insistence. But men have no secrets, except from women, and never grow up in the way women do. It is very much harder, and it takes much longer, for a man to grow up, and he could never do it at all without women. This is a mystery which can terrify and immobilize a woman, and it is always the key to her deepest distress. She must watch and guide, but he must lead, and he will always appear to be giving far more of his real attention to his comrades than he is giving to her. But that noisy, outward openness of men with each other enables them to deal with the silence and secrecy of women, that silence and secrecy which contains the truth of a man, and releases it. I suppose that the root of the resentment—a resentment which hides a bottomless terror—has to do with the fact that a woman is tremendously controlled by what the man’s imagination makes of her—literally, hour by hour, day by day; so she becomes a woman. But a man exists in his own imagination, and can never be at the mercy of a woman’s.—Anyway, in this fucked up time and place, the whole thing becomes ridiculous when you realize that women are supposed to be more imaginative than men. This is an idea dreamed up by men, and it proves exactly the contrary. The truth is that dealing with the reality of men leaves a woman very little time, or need, for imagination. And you can get very fucked up, here, once you take seriously the notion that a man who is not afraid to trust his imagination (which is all that men have ever trusted) if effeminate. It says a lot about this country, because, of course, if all you want to do is make money, the very last thing you need is imagination. Or women, for that matter: or men. — James Baldwin

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