In “Get Out,” one of the greatfilms bya first-time directorin recent years, Jordan Peele borrows tones and archetypes from horror movies and thrillers, using them as a framework for the most personal of experiences and ideas: what it’s like to be a young black man in the United States today. The film follows a young black photographer, Chris Washington (Daniel Kaluuya), who goes with his girlfriend, Rose Armitage (Allison Williams), who is white, to her family’s suburban home. She hasn’t told her parents that Chris is black; she tells him not to worry, that they’re not racist at all. Her parents, Dean (Bradley Whitford), a neurologist, and Missy (Catherine Keener), a psychiatrist, are warm and welcoming, yet Chris senses that something is amiss. Rose’s brother, Jeremy (Caleb Landry Jones), a medical student, is oddly aggressive. The family’s staff, Georgina (Betty Gabriel) and Walter (Marcus Henderson), middle-aged black people, seem oddly distant, mentally neutralized, remote-controlled. A gathering of family friends thrusts Chris among clueless white people (and one clueless Japanese man) who make grossly insensitive, racially charged remarks that are meant to seem friendly; he meets another young black man, Logan King (Lakeith Stanfield), whose behavior seems whiter than white; and, when he realizes that he needs to get out, it’s too late—the dreadful plot for which Rose’s family is grooming him has already been set into motion.
Peele tells this story by way of clearly delineated, skit-like scenes featuring sharply aphoristic writing and precise (often uproarious) satirical comedy. But, above all, he does so through an ingeniously conceived and realized directorial schema. “Get Out” isn’t an innovation in cinematic form butin the deployment of found forms. He uses familiar devices and situations in order to defamiliarize them; he relies on sketch-like foregrounding of genre characters—nearly stock characters—in order to make commonplace, banal experiences burst forth like new to convey philosophically rich and politically potent ideas about the state of race relations in America. The story itself, with its sense of nefarious purpose hidden beneath a warm welcome, only hints at the depth, the complexity, the subtlety, and the radicalism of his vision.
The depiction of a prosperous suburban white experience is a long-standing cinematic banality, and the depiction of the life and experience of a young black man—particularly one who isn’t a gangster, a criminal, or a street-smart hustler—is a cinematic curiosity and rarity. But Peele does more than depict Chris—he depicts the white world as seen through Chris’s eyes. “Get Out” contains some of the most piercing, painful point-of-view shots in the recent cinema. When Chris arrives at the Armitage estate in the passenger seat of Rose’s car, for instance, he looks out the window and sees Walter, the black groundskeeper, at work; he sees Georgina, the black housemaid, serving the family at an outdoor table, and sees her, later on, through the lens of his camera. At the garden party, the Armitages’ friends are introduced from Chris’s point of view, and Logan, discerned by Chris from afar, appears in his field of vision like a welcome companion with a sense of relief that the image itself captures.
The very pivot of the film—a mind-control scheme to which Chris is being subjected—involves hypnosis, which Missy accomplishes by way of a distracting object, a spoon tinkling in a fancy teacup. It’s the dainty sound made by objects and gestures of genteel dignity and refined luxury. (Chris suffers, in effect, from aspirational hypnosis.) Peele fills the films with other objects, sounds, phrases, and gestures that take on a comically, insidiously outsized significance, from Dean’s greeting of Chris as “my man” and his use of the word “thang” to Jeremy’s mention of Chris’s “genetic makeup” and Georgina’s curious translation of Chris’s word “snitch” to the much whiter-sounding “tattletale.” Through Chris’s eyes and through Peele’s images, seemingly innocuous or merely peculiar things become charged with personal and political meaning: the childlike count of “one Mississippi, two Mississippi,” a wad of cotton, a set of shackles, partygoers holding up numbered paddles like bidders at an auction. The sight of a police officer and his request for I.D., the very notion of genetic qualities, and, for that matter, the very concept of seeing and being seen—or of not being seen—emerge in “Get Out” as essentially racialized experiences, fundamentally different from a white and a black perspective.
This subtle, strange, bitterly comedic emphasis on the totemic and symbolic power of objects, as seen through the eyes of the film’s protagonist, lends Peele’s direction classical reverberations. Even more than a Hitchco*ckian tone, Peele recaptures and reanimates the spirit of the films of Luis Buñuel, whose surrealistically eroticized Catholic heritage made him a supremely sly Freudian symbolist. In “Get Out,” Peele’s own cinematic historical consciousness, transformed through his own inner architecture of political thought, blasts this classical style into the future.
Spoiler alert: the macabre plot of “Get Out” involves some weird science that’s meant to create black bodies without blackness, black minds devoid of black consciousness.I confess: I expected that, because Chris is a photographer, the movie would offer a photographic resolution to Chris’s drama—something akin to the way that, in the dénouement of “Rear Window,” Jimmy Stewart uses flashbulbs on his camera to blind his assailant, Raymond Burr. What Peele offers instead is something much wilder, something ingenious. At the time of dramatic crisis, Chris is denied the tools of his art; he has no camera on hand, and, what’s more, he’s being force-fed an audiovisual diet—through a nineteen-fifties-style television console—that is the very essence and tool of his captivity and his subjection. The Armitages aren’t creating slaves; they’re doing something that’s in a way even worse. Slaves are, at the very least, conscious of their situation and can, at least theoretically, if the opportunity arises, revolt. What the Armitages are creating is inwardly whitened black people—black people cut off from their history and their self-consciousness and, therefore, deprived of the power to rebel and to free themselves.
Peele’s furious, comically precise lampooning targets two intersecting strains of racism. The Armitages’ friends see Chris’s blackness; they don’t see Chris, but they at least perceive that blackness as a fact, a phenomenon, albeit one that they have no idea how to deal with. The impeccably liberal Armitages, by contrast, are color-blind; in their cosmopolitan embrace, they affirm, with the best of intentions, that there’s no difference between blacks and whites, thus, in effect, denying that blackness—the distinctive black experience—is real. Rose even brings the matter directly into the film, asking Chris, “With all that ‘my man’ stuff, how are they different from that cop?”—the cop who had requested Chris’s I.D. when they hit (or, rather, were hit by) a deer, with Rose behind the wheel. That is the question: How are white liberals such as the Armitages different from racist oppressors who assert their power over blacks in terms of their presumptions of black people’s inferiority? Peele, boldly and insightfully, offers an answer: the cop sees differences, albeit the wrong ones; the Armitages see no differences. But the actual differences between white and black Americans aren’t, of course, biological or qualitative but political, psychological, experiential. The reality of the black experience, in “Get Out,” is revealed to be historical consciousness.
For all the talk of “Get Out” being slotted into the genre of a horror comedy, the horror elements are strongly—and, clearly, intentionally—underplayed. The biggest jump moment is utterly innocuous, a middle-of-the-night apparition that’s in no way physically menacing—but gives a hint of the menace looming beneath the family’s placid surfaces. There’s violence and blood, but Peele deliberately hides the worst of it with sharp editing and canny framings; he’s interested not in the physical horror but in moral ones, and in the moral clarity that comes from common wisdom infused with tradition. Chris, a photographer who moves in artistic circles, is himself a sort of black liberal, overcoming his doubts about the weekend as he tries to persuade his best friend, Rod (Lil Rel Howery, in a scintillating comedic performance), a T.S.A. officer, that no harm can come of the visit. Rod’s suspicions, which he delivers with sharp common sense, no-nonsense vigor (and acts on by way of his professional skills), cut closer to the truth of his and Chris’s shared experience than does Chris’s cultivated sophistication. The revelation of the racialized world surrounding Chris comes off as his personal discovery of it as well. In its own way, the experience that Peele dramatizes is as cautionary as it is self-cautionary.
