Broth­er review – touch­es on a spec­trum of per­ti­nent issues

Climb­ing an elec­tric­i­ty pylon is not an obvi­ous metaphor for life. But, like life, scal­ing an elec­tri­cal tow­er does present a cer­tain lev­el of risk. That’s what the open­ing scene of Clement Virgo’s adap­ta­tion of David Chariandy’s 2017 nov­el sug­gests, where we see two young, Black males gear up to make the ascent in what feels like an ini­ti­a­tion task passed down from Fran­cis (Aaron Pierre) to his younger broth­er Michael (Lamar John­son). The ten­sion estab­lished here between the two makes it feel like this film is going to be about peer pres­sure and sib­ling rival­ry, but this is not the case.

Instead, Broth­er is about fam­i­ly, mas­culin­i­ty, and the com­plex web of bound­aries dic­tat­ed by race and class. Although the film’s chop­py nar­ra­tive is hard to fol­low at times, we’re still able to appre­ci­ate the con­nec­tion between Fran­cis and Michael, through ten­der moments from the boys’ child­hood: Fran­cis often takes the role of father fig­ure, pro­tect­ing ner­vous Michael in their sparse Scar­bor­ough apart­ment against a back­drop of indis­tinct shout­ing and police sirens that wail beyond the walls. The film’s bleak out­look is bol­stered by a grey and gloomy aes­thet­ic as the two sons of Jamaican immi­grant par­ents nav­i­gate iden­ti­ty on the cusp of adult­hood in ​’90s Toronto.

Speak­ing to the love and sac­ri­fices immi­grant par­ents make for their chil­dren in a new coun­try, Broth­er cap­tures the intense frus­tra­tion that comes from one family’s fail­ure to cul­ti­vate a ​‘nor­mal’ and com­fort­able life. Mar­sha Stephanie Blake negates any pos­si­bil­i­ty of one-dimen­sion­al female or ​‘per­fect moth­er’ tropes as Ruth, Fran­cis and Michael’s moth­er, embody­ing vary­ing emo­tions that nod towards the spec­trum of feel­ing in response to loss.

Johnson’s over­whelm­ing inse­cu­ri­ties as Michael feel almost pal­pa­ble, tap­ping into the relat­able dis­com­fort around estab­lish­ing one’s own iden­ti­ty. His blos­som­ing sense of self becomes crushed once he finds him­self bur­dened with the respon­si­bil­i­ty of being his mother’s car­er, shin­ing a light on the lim­i­ta­tions in health and social care for poor Black fam­i­lies. The sto­ic, tough-guy demeanour inter­twined with an inner sen­si­tiv­i­ty make Fran­cis’ loss acute­ly felt.

With hopes of becom­ing a hip-hop pro­duc­er, Fran­cis takes inspi­ra­tion from Ruth’s record col­lec­tion, which also pro­vides a start­ing point for the film’s sound­track. Reg­gae, hip-hop and Nina Simone tracks bring forth bursts of joy and nos­tal­gia that when jux­ta­posed against the stark, omi­nous tones that build ten­sion else­where in the film, become sym­bol­ic of how music unites peo­ple both in times of cel­e­bra­tion, and times of mourning.

Ten­sion engen­dered by the loom­ing police pres­ence through­out comes to a crescen­do towards the cli­max. The open­ing scene’s pylon becomes a metaphor for the del­i­cate line young Black men must tread in order to nav­i­gate a sys­tem that wasn’t designed for them: if you make it, you’re good. If you put a foot wrong, you die. Aside from well-trod­den social pol­i­tics, Brother’s exam­i­na­tion of the myr­i­ad ways we respond to grief is what sets it apart from oth­er films that delin­eate the Black experience.

Lit­tle White Lies is com­mit­ted to cham­pi­oning great movies and the tal­ent­ed peo­ple who make them.

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