Mark Reviews Movies: JUDAS AND THE BLACK MESSIAH

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Review by Mark Dujsik | February 11, 2021

In co-writer/director Shaka King's Judas and the Black Messiah, the true story of the assassination of Fred Hampton, the chairman of the Illinois chapter of the Black Panther Party, becomes a multifaceted tale of politics and power, framed as a Shakespearean tragedy about a king-like figure brought down by forces outside of his sphere and sniveling just beside him. It's a potent piece of historical fiction—not in the meaning that it's made up, but in the sense that it finds meaning by living with its characters in scenes founded upon history, supposed by historical records, and likely invented within the scope of who these people are and for what they stand.

The film involves politics, obviously. It would be impossible to tell this story without diving into the beliefs of the Black Panthers, the specific ideology of Hampton, and the leader's expert ability to unite people of various races, ethnicities, and cultures under the single banner that the United States has not lived up to its founding principles and values when it comes to the oppressed and impoverished.

A lot was written about the Panthers at the time, and much of that—headlines dubbing the group as "terrorists" and explicitly or implicitly poking at racial fears—has come to define how people view the organization, even to this day. King's film, co-written with Will Berson, doesn't ignore or evade the threats and actual violence that surrounded the organization, but it does put those words and acts in a broader, more thoughtful context. The Panthers weren't looking for a fight. They saw themselves caught up in one from time they were born, as well as decades and centuries before that.

It's not just societal, historical, or theoretical to the group. It's personal. In one scene here, Hampton, played by Daniel Kaluuya, recalls how his mother used to babysit a young Emmett Till, who was viciously murdered by two white men in Mississippi when he was 14. Hampton lived just across the street from the boy's home in Chicago, but his mother couldn't bear to attend the funeral. Since then, Hampton has seen Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X assassinated, and in one of many rousing speeches re-created here, he makes it pretty plain that he suspects or even knows that his end will be a violent one, too. If that's to be the case, Hampton at least wants to know that he died fighting for others.

He does work for others here, organizing food and education programs in Black communities. Hampton even makes the case to an armed pool hall club, a leftist group of migrated white Southerners, and a Puerto Rican gang that they should work together to serve all of their communities. They all just want "housing, justice, and peace." Hampton sees no difference between those desires and the words of the Declaration of Independence: "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." When it's in that document, it's called "democracy," Hampton notes, but when poor people ask for such rights, they call it "socialism."

The young man, who was only 21 when he was killed, has the weight of the world upon his shoulders (Kaluuya, who imbues the character with seemingly undeterred strength and unshakeable confidence, displays that sense of vulnerability and humility a few times, making them all the more impactful). The other key player in this inevitable tragedy, though, can barely keep his head above his own shoulders.

He's Bill O'Neal, a career criminal who works in grand larceny but whose personality and belief system can only be described as petty. He's played by LaKeith Stanfield in a performance of constant, internalized anxiety and mounting shame (There's a chilling long shot of the actor, just before O'Neal has to make his final decision about Hampton's fate, as those qualities come together, while Stanfield's entire body subtly twitches—trying to prevent himself from erupting). In King and Berson's interpretation, O'Neal is portrayed, not as a conniving villain (although he certainly is one within the context of Hampton's story, which is given equal weight in the narrative), but as a man without bearings.

He has no interest in politics. He's only out for his own betterment, stealing cars and, when FBI agent Roy Mitchell (Jesse Plemons) threatens to put him in prison for five years for impersonating a federal agent in order to steal one car, infiltrating the Panthers as a criminal informant.

FBI director J. Edgar Hoover (Martin Sheen) sees Hampton as a direct threat to "our way of life"—a Black man of power, influence, and political intelligence. The FBI must put a stop to him, before his reach extends beyond Chicago. A counterintelligence operation unfolds, and even Mitchell is unaware of just how many pawns are in play beyond his own informant.

The resulting drama is equally political, historical, and personal. The politics have been discussed, but it's impressive how well King weaves them into this story, without overwhelming us with lectures and philosophy. The history recalls major events, such as a standoff/shootout between the Panthers and the police at the group's headquarters, and some relative footnotes, primarily the violent and/or suspicious deaths of various members.

The personal side of both Hampton and O'Neal's stories, though, is where the film really makes an impact. Hampton has a romance with Deborah Johnson (Dominique Fishback), which seems shallow at first but grows exponentially as the two discuss politics and how Hampton seems to leave Deborah out of the equation of his destiny (The tragic, climactic moment of this story occurs in the backdrop of a close-up on Deborah's face, trapped in helpless grief). For O'Neal, his scheming is nothing more than another game for his financial gain, until paranoia about his own safety and freedom (brought about by misinformation and threats from Mitchell) comes into conflict with his growing admiration for the man on whom he's spying.

All of these threads come together with the mournful inevitability—based on our understanding of these characters and our knowledge of historical fact—of a classical tragedy. Judas and the Black Messiah is a confident and potent work of history, as well as about the people and ideas within that history, come to cathartic life.

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