Blindspotting

Collin is a felon with just three days left on probation before he’s a free man. He’s trying really hard to stay out of trouble and turn his life around after being convicted of an assault that left another man hospitalized. By day, he works for a moving company in Oakland along with Miles, his best friend since childhood. By night he reports to a detention facility where he has an 11 p.m. curfew. The problem is that Miles, who doesn’t exactly go looking for trouble, has a way of attracting it. It isn’t just that Collin is on probation, but that he’s black and Miles is white, and after witnessing a white police officer gun down an unarmed man in the street one night, Collin knows all too well how one false move could mean his life.

written by real-life best friends Daveed Diggs (Colin), of fame, and Rafael Casal (Miles), isn’t always subtle in the ways it explores the racial differences between them, but it does so in a way that feels natural and authentic. Miles is a hotheaded young man, blind to the privileges that allow him to get away with a lot more than perhaps Collin would. But the bond between them is strong, and they treat each other like brothers. Race is mostly a non-issue in terms of their friendship.

If the film sounds heavy, it is, but it is also filled with dialogue that’s sharp-witted and, at times, hysterically funny. Both men notice the local corner market is now stocking a new, healthy green juice. They eye it suspiciously and are appalled at its exorbitant price tag. Collin buys it anyway; Miles quips that it won’t be long before Collin is shopping at Whole Foods. Without missing a beat, Collin replies, “They have great produce.” He’s hoping to impress his ex-girlfriend Val with his pretend interest in health and well-being and makes a show of drinking the juice in her presence. He’s concerned she sees him the same way she sees Miles, whom she can’t stand: as a troublemaker.

Despite the racial overtones running throughout the film, these nuanced characters are never stereotyped. Collin never comes across as anything other than amiable; he is pained by the thought that Val doesn’t really see him for who he is. Even on the night of the fight that landed him in jail, he was pushed to his limits — it’s revealed midway through the film — by a belligerent drunk. Switching back and forth between the evening of the incident and the present, where Collin is sheepishly listening as a witness relates what happened to Val, the film pulls off a difficult feat of combining poignancy, comedy, and gritty violence into one effective scene. Miles isn’t aware of his privilege, mostly because he grew up with a lot less than many in his demographic. When a white hipster at a party reveals they have the same tattoo, he’s offended, rather than moved, by the coincidence. It isn’t who he is. Yet it is. He fears that.

But then there’s the gun, which has a habit of showing up so often you’ll practically be shouting at the screen for him to get rid of it. It’s a given that a when a gun is shown in a movie as often as this one is, it’s bound to go off at some point. One particularly tense scene involves Miles’ son handling the weapon, unaware of the danger he’s in. Collin, meanwhile, is plagued by nightmare visions of the dead — young black men and women — and by the face of the white officer who shot the unarmed man early in the film, the setup for a late confrontation involving Collin, said officer, and said gun. While the film’s events may strain Collin and Miles’ relationship, the camaraderie and love between them transcends all that.

— Michael Abatemarco