Mark Reviews Movies: QUEEN & SLIM

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Review by Mark Dujsik | November 26, 2019

They're young and on the run from the law. Queen & Slim makes a blatant connection between its protagonists and another pair of outlaws, with one character greeting them as "the black Bonnie and Clyde." In a way, then, the film almost feels as if it's daring someone—anyone—to condemn its main characters.

After all, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow murdered people—members of law enforcement and civilians alike. They became contemporary folk heroes and have remained as such 85 years after their deaths. The main characters in this film—who, unlike the other two, are entirely fictional, mind you—kill one person in an act of clear-cut self-defense. The filmmakers' dare is plain: Go ahead and romanticize the real people, while trying to damn these fictional ones.

Here are two people, stopped by a white cop (played by Sturgill Simpson) for questionable reasons, who proceed to face a drawn-out traffic stop. Eventually, the cop draws his firearm and aims it at the head of the driver, a black man, played by Daniel Kaluuya, whose name comes up in background news reports but, for the sake of clarity, we'll refer to as Slim.

Emerging from the car in that critical moment is the passenger, a black woman, played by Jodie Turner-Smith, whom—for the same reasons as her partner—we'll call Queen. Queen, an attorney, has been challenging the officer on legal grounds. When the gun comes out, her verbal challenges become louder and more forceful. Meanwhile Slim is on his knees with his hands atop his head, repeating over and over that the cop doesn't have to do this.

The cop doesn't, but he has. He goes further, too, shooting Queen, who's standing a dozen or more feet away from him, in the leg. Slim rises, tackles the cop, and ends up in a grappling match with him. Breaking free, Slim crawls for the pistol, and as the cop approaches, still filled with rage, Slim fires a single round. The cop falls.

All of this, as well as one previous scene, occurs before the film's opening credits. The rest of Melina Matsoukas' debut feature is a chase story, in that Slim and Queen spend the rest of the tale trying to get ahead of and evade the police in multiple states—from Ohio down to Florida. The genuinely daring part of the film, though, is that it's a quiet, tender, compassionate, and thoughtful character piece about two people who, having nothing to lose, learn just how much they have to gain.

The chase is almost secondary to Lena Waithe's screenplay. It constantly reminds us that Slim and Queen are on the run, but the film simply leaves it at that. That's the motivation for days-long road trip, where Slim, a somewhat awkward and timid man, and Queen, a strong and resilient woman, get closer and closer, even as the cops are always on their heels.

These are rich characters, and Waithe and Matsoukas are wise to let them, not the mechanics of a plot, drive this story. Their first meeting (the only scene before the traffic stop) is on an uncomfortable date, arranged online. Slim is eager to please, and Queen just wants some company, after one of her clients was executed by the state. They're forced together after the killing, with Queen deciding to get out of town, because she knows almost for certain that no cop will let either them even make a case in court.

On that trip, the two connect, of course. Their budding romance—built on each of them learning from and changing because of the other, while coming to accept and respect each other, too—is like an antidote to the violence that put them on this path, the public debate about their actions (which, smartly, is only suggested by way of news reports in the background and the brief appearance of various characters who either support them or think they were wrong), and the characters' own awareness of how they'll be perceived and a fate that seems inevitable.

The relationship between Slim and Queen is the core of this story, and from that, Waithe makes salient points about racial politics (After Queen calls herself an excellent lawyer, Slim wonders, "Why do black folks always need to be 'excellent'," before adding, "Why can't we just be ourselves?") and a sense of fear that goes beyond this chase (Slim also mentions how he has become used to saying he's okay, even when he obviously isn't). Some people—such as a bar filled with patrons, who recognize the two and let the couple have a night of dancing, and a young boy, who sees them as symbols of a movement and whose later actions serve as a devastating counterpoint to the couple's freedom—support them. Others—such as a black auto mechanic, who grudgingly fixes one of their getaway cars, and the wife of a man willing to help them—most definitely do not.

For all of the scenes examining and commenting upon the politics of the situation, there are two or three others that do simply allow Slim and Queen to exist, to reveal themselves, and to grow—together and as individuals. The story of Queen, who isn't much of a people-person, comes after the two show up at the home of her uncle Earl (Bokeem Woodbine), who—for a reason that shows just how strong she is—owes her at least a place a stay, some money, and a car. Slim, who hates the idea of leaving his family behind (He later calls his father, who says he loves his son—and then shows how much he does by hanging up before Slim says too much), explains the kind of love he wants in this world. He knows he won't amount to much, and whomever he loves will have to be his legacy.

While they have undeniable chemistry together, Kaluuya and Turner-Smith also create fully formed characters out of figures who could have been pawns in a chase story. Queen & Slim is many things—a crime story, a revisionist folk tale, and a thoughtful political piece, for sure. It transcends all of them, though, because the filmmakers are adamant in the idea that the characters—their lives, their beliefs, their desires, their needs—are the first priority.

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