Mark Reviews Movies: TILL

Till, United Artists Releasing

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Review by Mark Dujsik | October 13, 2022

Mamie Till-Mobley's gravestone reads, "Her pain united a nation." That's undeniably true to a certain extent, although co-writer/director Chinonye Chukwu's Till reminds us of the painful ways in which it wasn't. More importantly, the film makes it clear that it wasn't only Till-Mobley's anguish over her son's murder that helped bring change—no matter how belated and delayed—to this country. Grief is natural, but the strength Till-Mobley displayed in responding to her only son's brutal, unnatural killing rose to something far beyond what many people would think humanly possible under such circumstances.

Chukwu, Michael Reilly, and Keith Beauchamp's screenplay does revolve around Till-Mobley, from the day before her son would travel to visit relatives in Mississippi, through the 14-year-old boy's funeral, and to the trial of the two men indicted for his murder. In terms of structure, the story here is both limited and straightforward, but we already know this story (or, at least, we should, although one does wonder how much of this piece of history is still taught and talked about beyond Chicago, where Till-Mobley and her son lived).

The film's point isn't to recount the cold, hard facts of historical record. It's to bring us closer to Till-Mobley in these moments of uncertainty, agony, and strength, brought about by a righteous and necessary purpose.

In the film, Mamie is played by Danielle Deadwyler in a performance of such clear internal depth that her eyes speak as loudly and plainly as any outside showing of pain. The story begins in August of 1955, with Mamie and her son Emmett (Jalyn Hall), nicknamed "Bo" or "Bobo" by those who know and love him, living a relatively safe and comfortable life in Chicago, with her mother (played by Whoopi Goldberg) living nearby and often visiting.

The two drive to a department store, singing along together with a tune on the radio. When Mamie is stopped by a security guard at the store with the "suggestion" she could do her shopping in the basement, she openly wonders if the man has suggested the same to other customers. Depictions of racism here aren't restricted, as racism itself wasn't at the time (and still isn't, for that matter), to the overt use of racial epithets in public and vicious acts violence. It's in this place, too, although more mildly spoken, and maybe even on the faces of a white couple, who watch the news of Emmett's murder soon after with impassive looks.

Mamie knows this, and still having relatives in Mississippi, she certainly knows how different and worse things could be for her son during his forthcoming travels. The film knows what is soon to happen to this boy, who smiles and laughs and loves music and dances with his mother and is excited to go on an adventure to see cousins who live in another state. Even with all the happy and ordinary scenes of Mamie and Emmett together before his trip, Chukwu interrupts these moments for flashes of dread.

The camera pauses, for example, as it moves back and forth between the singing mother and son in order to move toward Mamie's eyes, watering with fearful tears. This happens often, as the camera locks on to the mother's face, while the soundtrack is invaded by the discomforting sound of dissonant strings.

The rest of the story is a matter of history, although the screenplay is wise to show the logical "worst" of what might have happened with a white woman (played by Haley Bennett) at a shop in the small town of Money, which is to say that it's the innocent curiosity and playfulness of a 14-year-old boy, and wiser still not to show Emmett's murder after two men, the woman's husband and his half-brother, abduct the boy from his great-uncle's home. The sounds coming from a barn in the distance are horrific enough, and the sight of his body—disfigured by violence and nature beyond any recognition, except that of a mother's eyes and touch—is all we need and, to this day, barely can stand—even though we must confront it, if only as a reminder of what happened and what still happens to this day.

All of this—the discussions of using political means to hopefully find just ends and the trial in Mississippi—is fairly familiar, especially when the story does become about courtroom proceedings and drama. The key to the film's impact, though, is how Chukwu maintains the same unwavering perspective on Mamie as it does when the story is about her fear and those fears becoming horrifyingly realized.

None of this works as well as it does without Deadwyler's performance. There are too many noteworthy moments to mention about her work here, but one comes as she weeps into her son's body, only for the realization of what she must to do for him and for much more to put a stop to those tears. Later, she watches the woman whose false accusations led to the murder tending to her son in court, and the display of conflicting emotions—of recognizing a fellow mother and knowing what this woman has done to her son and her—is staggering. Chukwu's camera doesn't evade the pain, the conflict, or, as that woman's testimony fades out of focus in the background to find Mamie's reaction, the repressed or vocal anger of these moments.

It's necessary to see, to recognize, and to feel all of this. While Till keeps some of those emotions at bay with its procedural elements and a final scene that adds one dramatic beat too many, Deadwyler's ability to navigate and communicate all of this pain and inner power ensures that we do see, recognize, and feel all that matters the most.

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