Mark Reviews Movies: PASSING

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Review by Mark Dujsik | October 26, 2021

Much of Passing, the writing and directorial debut of Rebecca Hall, is about what isn't said. One character, a Black woman who "passes" herself as white and has married a wealthy bigot, cannot say certain things, lest the truth of her background ends up destroying the life she has worked so hard to create for herself. Another, a Black woman who could "pass" but would likely have to abandon her current life if she decided to, will not say certain things, lest the terrible truth or her most feared possibilities become a reality. The film, based on Nella Larsen's 1929 novel, is a tragedy, obviously, and that's even before the story's climactic incident, which solidifies it as such.

The central tragedy is that Irene (Tessa Thompson), the woman who could but chooses not to "pass," and Clare (Ruth Negga), the woman who has chosen to do so, are trapped within a society that even suggests such a decision might be beneficial or necessary to a person's success and happiness. This story is set at some point during the 1920s in New York City, the bustling metropolis that more or less represents the liberal values upon which the philosophy of this country was founded—and that it has so long and frequently failed to live up to in practice.

Those failures within the country and in this place specifically are occasionally referenced throughout the film (A major debate within Irene's house revolves around news of a lynching in Arkansas). Like so much of what these characters think and experience, though, many of these issues are left unspoken or vaguely insinuated.

The point is engrained into the story, by way of geography, as most of the story is set in Harlem, and how these characters see it and the world outside the borough—as Irene leaves it in order to test her ability to "pass" for a day, as Clare visits more frequently to feel at home, as a few white characters come for the "experience" of the place. The location and how it's perceived by these distinct characters bring with them ideas of segregation and the kind of prejudice that, in a way, itself "passes" as either innocent or naïvely ignorant. More vitally to this particular tale of these two women, it's home—a place of comfort that, as the hatred of the outside world becomes harder to ignore and Clare's presence becomes a source of such uncertainty, gradually begins to fall apart for Irene.

Irene has left home in the film's opening scenes, which also immediately give us a sense of how strongly Hall and cinematographer Eduard Grau use black-and-white photography and the frame of a boxy aspect ratio—not only to stylistically re-create the period, but also to generate an initially romantic mood that gradually becomes more oppressive. She's visiting downtown and coincidentally meets Clare, a friend who left New York about a decade ago, in the restaurant of a fancy hotel. Clare has come from Chicago with her well-to-do, white husband John (Alexander Skarsgård), who doesn't know Clare is Black and believes the same about Irene, considering how freely and comfortably he drops a racial slur in front of the two women.

After that incident, Irene refuses to answer any of Clare's letters, looking for some company while John is away, and tries to appreciate her marriage to Brian (André Holland), her role as a mother to two sons, and her work for a civil rights organization more. Clare, though, comes to see Irene at her home, anyway, and invites herself to a dance being held by that organization.

From there, the film, already dependent upon loaded looks and elliptical conversations, becomes even more enigmatic—at least in terms of what's vocalized by these characters. By then, we have a solid sense of the one-sided conflict between Irene, who disapproves of her old friend's denial of her history and tacit acceptance of her husband's racism, and Clare, who makes it no secret that she is willing to do whatever she needs to in order to get what she wants.

The performances from Thompson and Negga are essential here, and they're particularly notable, as well (It's little surprise that Hall, an extremely talented actor herself, would choose such performance-focused material for her debut as a director—or that she would center so much of the storytelling around the performances). Negga possesses a carefree energy that is equal parts charming and deceptive, as quieter moments display a longing that suggests inner turmoil coming to a head. Thompson has a distinctly but equally tricky role, as Irene's resentment and jealousy of her friend burdens her with guilt—a guilt that fades as her own insecurities and uncertainties become focused on Clare.

Holland is also quite good here, with Brian serving as a voice for the horrors and oppression of a world that his wife wants to ignore, avoid, and/or forget. Bill Camp occasionally appears as a novelist and visitor to Harlem, whose motives are either sincere or condescending, and Skarsgård plays the racist husband with sinister matter-of-factness.

In general, Hall shows an admirable level of restraint, which, in turn, transforms Irene's unspoken sentiments and repressed feelings into a kind of psychological and societal confinement. Passing is a thoughtful reflection on ideas as large as race and as specific as what these characters choose to do and to say, as well as how those choices define them and expose the greater ills of society. There are no easy or definitive answers here, because, just as the story's final act is either an accidental reflex or a conscious choice, the result of this situation doesn't change.

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