Review: Medicine For Melancholy

While reflecting on the hugely entertaining “Medicine For Melancholy” I realized I felt guilty for liking it.   As a white New Yorker who is actively aiding the gentrification of Brooklyn I can’t help but feel somewhat culpable after watching Barry Jenkins’ grossly personal film about two black San Franciscans waxing on the evils of gentrification, class and race.  And saying I felt a connection to it feels like another case of the phenomenon that some people think got our latest president elected.  Did I mention this is a romantic comedy?

The premise, on paper, is simple enough.  The film chronicles 24 hours post one night stand between two twenty-somethings.  Mr. Jenkins wastes no time with exposition and begins right in the middle of things as Micha (Wyatt Cenac of Daily Show fame) and Joanne (Tracey Heggins) stumble through the uncomfortable morning-aftermath of their dizzy encounter.   We aren’t given many clues as to what happened the night before, just that they didn’t exchange names.  Joanne, a distant, enigmatic beauty, is  at first eager to forget the incident (she even gives a fake name) but, Micha’s offbeat charm, which won me over immediately, is able to penetrate Joanne’s steely demeanor and the two become companions for the day.

Demonstrating chemistry to die for it’s not hard to fall in love with Joanne and Micha.  Wyatt Cenac, a successful stand up comedian, is another strong case for comedians being good dramatic actors (not necessarily vice versa).  Though not a comedic script, Cenac finds multiple opportunities to inject his easygoing brand of humor, even managing to slip in his brilliant Bill Cosby impression, “every black guy’s got one” he explains.  With frequent but uncontrived humor, they achieve some very rare moments where we’re laughing right along with the characters, as if part of the conversation.  The scripted comedic banter thing, a la “Sex and the City”, has always been one of my pet peeves, often ringing false.  But “Medicine for Melancholy” gets it just right and the spontaneous interactions exude the exhilaration of brand new love.  We’re discovering these characters, as they bike, stroll, chat, argue and laugh their way through San Francisco, at the same time they discover each other.

For those who doesn’t know the city (guilty as charged), we’re discovering San Francisco as well.  Dedicated to an accurate portrait, Jenkins avoids the cinematic staples we’re used to.  No Golden Bridge in a San Fransisco movie, crazy (I really appreciate this as New Yorker, it always bugs me in movies when Washington Square Park and the Flatiron Building end up on the same block).  But beyond serving as a setting, when conversations drift to the very real housing problems facing San Fransisco, the city evolves into a full fledged third character, turning the film, in the directors words, “into a love triangle.”

While debating these issues, as they do throughout, Micha constantly traces it all back to race, a topic he just can’t seem to stay away from.  It’s not without cause, only 6.3% of the city is black and rising housing costs forcing relocation is somewhat of a trend.  But for Micha it’s more than just a social matter.  For him, it seems, everything is boiled everything down to black or white.  As he explains, if using one word to describing himself he’d say he’s black before he’s a man.  This grates against Joanne’s point of view who doesn’t acknowledge labels.   To her, he’s Micha before anything else.

As these disputes progress it begins to sound like two opposing soapboxes.  Often I find a detectable agenda can bog down a narrative, for example “Crash” (I swear that wasn’t planned but it’s a perfect example).  But Jenkins’ film rarely strays into that territory.  Only once, when the camera drifts away from our protagonists to observe a small local organization does it feel a little contrived.  While the content is informative and engaging, I think Jenkins could’ve gotten what he wanted without it having to be directly explained.  Fortunately, the infectiously watchable Tracey Heggins and Wyatt Cenac are more than just vessels carrying a message and they keep the storytelling from becoming too didactic.

The look is so desaturated it’s only a tick or two above black and white, like the color has been physically drained out, giving things an appropriate mood that’s both beautiful and sad.  The film is scored with an eclectic mix of what my limited music knowledge can only describe as “indie”, giving it a very personal feel.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re listening to a playlist on Mr. Jenkins ipod.  In one particularly lovely sequence where the music strikingly enhances the action, Micha and Joanne playfully ride a Merry-go-round.  The scene plays out over the entire song suspending the fleeting, wonderful moment between the two whirling among the brightly painted equine.  When the song ends and the ride creaks to halt, giving way to familiarly abrasive organ music, the air is filled faint regret, like someone turned on the lights signalling that the party’s over.

At once funny, romantic, political and thought-provoking, “Medicine For Melancholy” is littered with moments that are simultaneously comic and disturbing.  Early on when Micha refuses Joanne suggestion they go to MOMA because, “Black people don’t go to MOMA.”  She responds, “What do two black people do on a Sunday afternoon?”  He counters,”Go to church, what to two black people not do on a Sunday afternoon?  Go to MOMA.”  When you think about the reality of that statement, it’s not funny, but I still laughed, because it was.  That’s what makes this film so confusing.  It it there to be enjoyed or contemplated?  I think, finally, it’s best not to worry and just tip my hat to Mr. Jenkins, any film that makes me feel bad for living in my apartment is well worth the price of admission.  Here’s hoping Jenkins is able to cut as close to the bone in future work.  And that at least a few of his contemporaries follow the lead.