The Poetry of the Close-Up
More than perhaps any other working director, Barry Jenkins understands the power of the human face. In his films, the close-up isn't just a shot; it's a conversation. His characters, often marginalized and rarely granted such on-screen grace, frequently
break the fourth wall, looking directly into the camera and, by extension, at the audience. This technique, sometimes called the "Jenkins Gaze," creates a radical sense of empathy. We aren't just watching Chiron in Moonlight or Tish in If Beale Street Could Talk; we are in communion with them. It’s an invitation to see their soul, to acknowledge their humanity without filter. This direct address challenges the viewer to be a participant rather than a passive observer, fostering a connection that lingers long after the credits roll. Jenkins uses this intimacy not for confrontation, but for vulnerability, turning the camera into a tool for seeing and being seen.
Color as Mood and Meaning
Working closely with his longtime cinematographer James Laxton, a collaborator since their film school days at Florida State University, Jenkins paints with a palette that is both vibrant and emotionally precise. The world of Moonlight is awash in deep, oceanic blues and luminous pinks and purples—colors that render the harsh realities of Miami's Liberty City with a dreamlike quality. These aren't the gritty, desaturated tones often used to signify urban struggle. Instead, the rich color gives the characters a sense of dignity and inner life that transcends their circumstances. For If Beale Street Could Talk, the palette shifts to warm, romantic golds, yellows, and greens, reflecting the deep love at the story's core. Laxton has spoken about how this approach was a conscious effort to properly and beautifully light Black skin, a consideration historically overlooked in cinema. For Jenkins, color isn't just background; it’s a central character in the story, communicating mood and theme in every frame.
Lyrical Movement and Swelling Sound
Jenkins’s camera rarely stays still, but its movements are far from chaotic. It glides, swoops, and circles characters with a dancer's grace, creating a feeling of being swept up in their emotional current. This kinetic poetry is often paired with the swelling, classical-inflected scores of composer Nicholas Britell. Think of the swimming lesson in Moonlight, where the camera bobs just at the water's surface as Juan teaches Little to float. The combination of the unstable, fluid camera and Britell's soaring violin score elevates the scene from a simple moment to a baptismal, life-altering event. This synthesis of image and sound creates what can only be described as a cinematic swoon. It’s a technique that imbues ordinary moments with extraordinary weight, suggesting a world where every touch, glance, and memory is saturated with significance.
A Legacy of Seeing Anew
The claim that Jenkins’s style is “imitated for generations” speaks to its profound and immediate impact. While direct imitation can be hard to trace, his influence is undeniable in the shift in how Black stories are told on screen. After Moonlight won the Academy Award for Best Picture, there was a discernible change in the visual culture of film, television, and even high-end advertising. The combination of lush, expressive cinematography and tender, intimate portrayals of Black life set a new standard. Jenkins demonstrated that stories centered on marginalized characters could be, and should be, rendered with the highest level of artistry. He provided a new playbook for a generation of filmmakers, showing them how to use the tools of cinema—light, color, and movement—not just to tell a story, but to convey the feeling of an experience. His work has become a key reference point for creating visual poetry and empathetic narratives.
