The shadows have received a reputation as an undesirable place to be. We want only what the light touches. It’s only in those moments when we stand toe to toe with an enemy, a fear, or the uncertainties of life and big brother’s shadow envelopes us, stepping up to take on all that we can’t, that the shadows signify peace and rest. What happens when Big Brother goes where you can’t follow? What happens when Big Brother’s shadow is no more? Brother, written and directed by Clement Virgo tackles the subjects of identity, family, safety, and security from the lens of masculinity and to a soundtrack of Toronto in the 90s.
Michael, the quiet and observant young man played by Lamar Johnson is coming of age behind a brother, Francis, played by Aaron Pierre, who is groomed to be a protector and helper despite his own silent struggles. The dynamic of Michael and Francis mirrors the quintessential big brother/ little brother relationship. Francis paves a path and Michael follows. Francis teaches and Michael learns in all things from how to use adult magazines to how to comply with the police while being arrested. Ruth, their overworked and sometimes overbearing mother, portrayed by the powerhouse that is Marsha Stephanie Blake, unwittingly drives a wedge between the brothers when her interactions with Francis push him further and further away.
The build-up of Francis’ pain can be heard, felt, and seen as he transitions from becoming “one less mouth to feed” to taking on the task of seeing about groceries for his estranged family. At what age do young Black men stop feeling like their mother’s children and begin to picture themselves as burdens? Aaron Pierre delivers a stoic Francis, from boy to man. His performance culminates in a weathering that shows signs of the same uncertainty he highlights in his brother.
Michael transitions from almost voiceless and observant to finding the strength in his words, though they’ve become calloused and still unsure. As he journeys through his moments to become the man his brother’s shadow grooms him to be, he witnesses a decline in the stature of his brother— the mighty shadow waning before his eyes. He finds his courage in love, building around the complications in his life with Aisha, played by Kiana Madeira. Johnson’s portrayal of Michael is gentle, cautious, and unready for the truths of the world, and his life.
Ruth’s observation, decidedly too late, that her son wasn’t safe, adds to those things she survived. There are layers of a foregone life that are alluded to but never seen. Layers of a life that belonged to Ruth, whose glimpses lead us to believe that she was happy once. These layers serve as reasons for the perpetual air of exhaustion around Ruth’s coming and going. Blake’s depiction of grief, ranging from anger to immense sadness and what appears to be a mental break makes it clear that her behavior in the events leading up to those final moments was also representative of grief. It asks the question, how do we grieve the loss of love and does it look or feel any differently when what we’re grieving is a loss of hope?
The film's structure, drifting in and out of the characters’ present moments and memories from their pasts, sets us up for questions asked and questions answered. We get to see Ruth’s sons in snapshots of their childhood— how the big brother’s shoes suited Francis in his youth and how Michael benefitted from the stature of the man that Ruth’s misery pressured Francis to create for himself. The beautiful color and composition of each scene add a visual layer of melancholy to the already heartbreaking story.
“My gift to you”, hauntingly unfolds in the story of the lives of Michael and Francis. In the end, what was gifted but a breaking of the dilapidated scaffolding of a family structure that cycled through loss without ever processing the pain.
“Ne me quitte pas,” sung by Nina Simone, seems to be the soundtrack of Francis’ life and is passed on to Michael, just like the wisdom, just like the pain —“don’t leave me.”