The Gaze That Holds You
Call it the signature shot, the intimate close-up, or the fourth-wall break. It’s a technique as old as cinema, but in the hands of Barry Jenkins, it feels entirely new. The shot is deceptively simple: a character, often at a moment of profound vulnerability
or quiet revelation, turns their head and locks eyes directly with the camera—and by extension, with us. It happens in Moonlight when Chiron, in all three stages of his life, confronts the audience with his searching, wounded gaze. It happens in If Beale Street Could Talk, where the shared looks between Tish and Fonny are so full of love they feel sacred. Unlike a winking aside in a comedy, this isn't a gimmick. It’s an invitation. In these moments, the artifice of filmmaking falls away, and the emotional barrier between the audience and the character dissolves. Jenkins holds the shot just long enough for it to feel uncomfortable, then profound, forcing a connection that passive viewing doesn’t allow.
A Language Born of Collaboration
This visual language wasn't conceived in a vacuum. It is the product of a nearly two-decade-long collaboration between Jenkins and his cinematographer, James Laxton. The two have been friends since meeting at Florida State University's film school, where they were roommates before ever collaborating on a project. Their shared aesthetic was born from late-night conversations about film and a mutual appreciation for still photography. Laxton has described their process as one built on instinct and trust, often discovering a shot's power on set rather than planning it weeks in advance. For both Moonlight and Beale Street, Laxton often operated the camera himself, keeping the crew small to maintain a deep sense of intimacy with the actors. This closeness is key to the signature shot's success; it’s a technique born not from a technical manual, but from a friendship dedicated to finding the most honest way to capture a feeling on screen.
An Engine for Radical Empathy
So why do it? Why break the cardinal rule of narrative film and have the actors acknowledge the audience? For Jenkins and Laxton, it’s a tool for creating what can only be described as radical empathy. By having a character look at us, they are asking a direct and challenging question: “How would you feel if you were in this character’s position?” It’s a demand to be seen. In a world where the lives of Black characters have often been presented through a lens of stereotype or pity, Jenkins uses the direct gaze to bypass the narrative and forge a direct human-to-human connection. It’s a subversion of the traditional cinematic gaze, which often objectifies its subjects. Here, the subject looks back, asserting their humanity and challenging the viewer to see them not as a character in a story, but as a person with a soul.
From 'Moonlight' to 'The Underground Railroad'
The shot has evolved across Jenkins's work. In Moonlight, it serves as a triptych of identity, linking Little, Chiron, and Black across time as one man pleading to be understood. The anamorphic format makes the frame feel wide, highlighting the character's solitude when they stare into the lens. In If Beale Street Could Talk, the same technique is transformed into a language of love. When Tish and Fonny look at the camera, they are looking at each other, and the audience is placed directly inside their unbreakable bond. The effect is one of warmth and inclusion. Jenkins continued to explore this device in the series The Underground Railroad, where the direct address serves to recontextualize history, forcing viewers to look his ancestors in the eye and confront the human reality of slavery without the buffer of historical fiction.
More Than a Shot, It's a Philosophy
Filmmakers like Jonathan Demme were famous for their character-to-camera close-ups, a style Paul Thomas Anderson once told Jenkins he had perfected better than anyone. But what makes Jenkins's use of it so distinct is its deep thematic resonance. It’s not just about creating intimacy; it's about centering the experience of being a Black person in America. The shot gives characters agency, allowing them to control their own image and confront the viewer directly. It’s a quiet but powerful act of reclamation. In a world that often refuses to truly see them, Jenkins’s characters demand it. What may seem like a simple directorial choice is, in fact, the core of his artistic mission: to make you feel, to make you connect, and most importantly, to make you see.
