One of film’s universal goals is to create visual interest through the “gaze.” In most movies, there are two possible sources from which a gaze can originate: the characters and the audience. Characters’ gazes are usually constrained within the world of film, while the audience’s gaze can traverse this barrier and pierce through from the real world into the diegesis. Crucially, the characters and audience are forever separated by the simple fact of existing within different worlds. Neither can be fully aware of the other’s interiority; it’s how different films bridge this gap that creates visual interest.
Nickel Boys (2024), directed by Ramell Ross, approaches this problem like no other film has. The movie is shot from a first-person perspective — you see what the character sees. Thus, instead of maintaining the audience’s and characters’ gazes as discrete entities, it merges them into one. Watching Nickel Boys, it is clear that the film could not have been made any other way.
Ross’s Nickel Boys is an adaptation of the 2019 novel by Colson Whitehead. The film follows Black teens Elwood and Turner in 1960s Florida as they navigate the abusive reform school system. Elwood is the film’s primary protagonist, and the half-hour-long opening takes place entirely from his perspective. These scenes characterize Elwood — we see his high academic aptitude, quiet demeanor, and passion for the growing Civil Rights Movement. We learn who he is, but we don’t see him. The first-person perspective — what Ross calls “sentient perspective” — denies us a full shot of his face. His appearance is teased through deft maneuvers, like his reflection in a window. But for the most part, we look out from him, not at him. This lack of focus on his outward self forces our attention to converge with Elwood’s. It immerses us in precisely what he is focused on at any given moment.
One of my favourite shots in Nickel Boys is around the nine-minute mark. Elwood is lying on his bed, listening to a news broadcast about satellites sent up to orbit the moon. He holds a balloon, but his grip is loose. It lazily drifts upward, inching closer and closer to a spinning ceiling fan. Eventually, it hits the fan, violently bouncing away. Elwood’s gaze swings toward his TV, which shows footage of the moon. This 30-second sequence grants the audience a piercing view of Elwood’s interiority. His passion for space exploration (a recurring motif) shows that he has high ambitions; he’s a kid with all the potential in the world. But his focus is on the balloon. It creeps closer and closer to the fan, dangling on the edge of precarity. His circumstances precede his dreams, but he doesn’t let them define him. When the balloon hits the fan, he doesn’t reach up for it. He lets it go and refocuses on the TV. Even if things don’t go his way, he never loses track of his ambition — we learn this to be true of him as the plot progresses. But it was all already there, captured in 30 seconds of footage. Ross needed nothing more than a balloon, a fan, and a TV to show this.
Nickel Boys is full of moments like that. Whether it’s a magnet sliding down a fridge, a boxing match, or a bike ride at night, visual meaning is created through the gazes of our characters — gazes that, through sentient perspective, viewers can share.
Thirty minutes in, we are first introduced to the Nickel Academy, the movie’s primary setting. It is a cruel place. Black boys are segregated from white boys, and as you’d imagine, they only enjoy a fraction of the privileges. Nickel Academy is based on the real-world Dozier School for Boys, and it doesn’t hold back in its portrayal. Children are beaten, tortured, and left to fend for themselves. But Nickel Boys isn’t a one-track film. While it is unabashed in its depictions of abuse and pain, its primary concern is how our characters maintain their humanity. Elwood isn’t alone in his struggle. He meets Turner, another quiet youth trapped in the system. Unlike Elwood, an idyllic supporter of civil rights, Turner harbours a more cynical view. He urges Elwood to keep his head down and avoid punishment. Their relationship defines Nickel Boys. They grow together, fight together, and depend on each other. There’s a constant push and pull between their attitudes, a dialectic that shapes their worldviews and life trajectories.
One moment that sells this relationship doesn’t even involve Elwood. It’s a scene between Turner and Elwood’s grandmother, Hattie. After months without seeing Elwood, Hattie traveled to Nickel Academy to give him a care package. However, Elwood has just been severely beaten by the Nickel staff, and they don’t want Hattie to find out. She sees Turner and asks him if he knows Elwood. She explains that they won’t let her see him and asks him to give Elwood the package. We’re seeing Turner’s point of view, and like every scene in the film, his gaze shows us everything. His eyes shift up and down, looking Hattie in the eye but then drifting down to her feet. Hattie makes a request: she explains that she can’t hug Elwood, so Turner will have to do. As they go in to hug, rack focus shifts Turner’s gaze from Hattie to the sidewalk behind her. He’s sheepish; it’s like he’s ashamed of his cynicism. In his years at Nickel, Turner forgot why people resist. But now, he sees Elwood’s point of view. How could one not fight for that humanity? Again, this meaning is derived from the nuances of a first-person gaze. It could not be captured any other way.
Nickel Boys is my pick for best picture at the upcoming Academy Awards. It is fresh and unabashedly genuine. It proves the legitimacy of the sentient perspective, a new and innovative filmmaking technique. Most importantly, it captures a distilled humanity — the purest kindness, cruelty, and drive you can imagine. If you haven’t yet, please watch Nickel Boys.
Nikhila Shanker