SORRY TO BOTHER YOU**** Featuring a new and brilliant voice


Cassius Green (Lakeith Stanfield, in what must be a break-out role for him), which is pronounced cash is green is a Black, easy-going down-on-his-heels slacker. He needs to get a job, partly to pay off his accumulated rents to his uncle (in whose garage he lives) and to justify the love of his partner (Tessa Thompson). His desperation is the catalyst for him to try to out for a job at a call-centre. This he does with a counterfeit trophy and a fabricated story as his resumés. The manager easily sees thru his BS. But, to the manager, this shows chutzpah.

And that’s all that’s needed: BS and fabrication.

But Cassius is lousy at the job…until he’s offered some timely advice from a grizzled ‘old timer’, (Danny Glover): “Speak in your White voice” he is told. And he discovers he’s superb at this mimicry of White speak. After all, it’s just another kind of counterfeiting. And so, to his cold-called listeners on the phone, the voice they hear is no longer that of an unsure Black (i.e “not to be trusted”) man, but that of a confident, preppy, believable White confidant. He may be selling merchandise, but his real success lies in offering his customers an ideal they can buy into…an ideal of stereotypical aspiration.

By changing identity, he changes his life: from impoverished loser to rich winner; from hesitancy to confidence. So it goes as you shape-shift from Black to White. This is broad, hammer-on-the-head satire (and so far, somewhat reminiscent of Spike Lee’s Blackkklansman). It’s wonderfully well done. Stanfield’s dead-pan, WTF demeanor is as pitch-perfect as his (cleverly dubbed-in) White voice.

The point is black and white clear: if a Black person is to get on in the White world (in this case, a future dystopian world), he’s got to remove as many traces of his Black identity as possible. (The writer has a field day here with pointed barbs at cross-overs, Will Smith and Denzel Washington). In a world that’s all about the money, White is the only way forward.


At what point however does the fake identity (which delivers the riches) begin to threaten the real identity? Is it possible to bridge the two worlds, not merely of White and Black, but of rich and poor; of managers and mere employees; and more acutely of the dishonest and the authentic?

There’s more to it than that. And almost as if the (newcomer) writer/director Boots Riley is imitating his apologetic cold caller, “Sorry to bother you…” there are deeper issues he must speak of. It’s really all about the money.

For even as Cassius is climbing the corporate ladder with his voice recognition con and an increasing self-centredness (The Whiter he identifies, the more estranged he becomes from his friends and his ecosystem), his partner and call-centre colleagues are fighting for the basics of a living wage, for greater income equality, for an end to the approaching apocalypse of slavery. The story suggests that there is a threat to identity even deeper than that of race. In this future world, an Amazon type fulfilment-centre seeks to institute the ultimate capitalist dream: unpaid labour exchanged for free board and lodge (i.e slavery).

This is no mere loss of identity, it’s a loss of humanity.

It is at his supreme moment of triumph, when in a glittering Wolf of Wall Street type party, complete with sex drugs, and rock ‘n roll, that Cassius realises just how little he matters, despite all the money he’s made. To the ruling class of gorgeous White women ‘cheering’ his success, he has no real identity. He’s nothing more than their stereotypical idea of the Black man: the performer with a penis like a horse and an intuitive knowledge of how to “bust a cap” and sing hip hop. “Nigga, nigga, nigga” he shouts (much to their delight).

And here, at the centre of the movie, with the realisation that to the White world, he is no more than Eldridge Cleaver’s “super-masculine menial”, the movie’s tone does an about turn. The story shifts from satire to surrealism.

I won’t give away what happens next, but the story becomes a dramatisation of the shift from the (cosy) belief that you have some control over your identity (and can simply create a fake one to get on in life) to the realisation that you’ve been suckered; that the only real empowerment comes perhaps from the overthrow of the whole damn status quo.

Arnie Hammer is the attractive master of all things, the dark status quo, the Jeff Besos of a post-racial, post-human future that is siren calling us all to a new slavery.

What starts with laughter ends with tears
It’s Christmas time. You’d better watch out


SORRY TO BOTHER YOU. Dir: Boots Riley. With: Lakeith Stanfield, Tessa Thompson (Creed II, Westworld), Jermaine Fowler, Danny Glover, Steven Yuan, Armie Hammer. Cinematographer: Doug Emmett



FINAL PORTRAIT*** The Artist as Obsessive

THIS IS A small, carefully crafted, nicely written movie about the making of art. The story is centered on Alberto Giacometti’s execution of a portrait of an American writer, James Lord (Armie Hammer who has clearly survived “The Man From U.N.C.L.E” and “The Lone Ranger”) whose book of the experience was director Stanley Tucci’s source material.  Lord had been assured that his sitting would take two or three days. It took over a month as the obsessed artist painted, erased, painted again and erased again Lord’s face, all the while cursing himself, cursing the canvas, oblivious of Lord’s deadlines. Indeed, oblivious of Lord himself.

Lord may have seen himself as the subject of the painting. But really, he was just its catalyst; mere fodder, like the artist’s mistress, Caroline, and his wife Annette, for Giacometti’s devouring obsessiveness. Tucci (who also wrote the script) offers us a portrait of the artist as a man outside the boundaries of time, of – sensitive – human relationships, of any of the rules and codes of bourgeois life. For the artist, the only relationship that really mattered was the one between himself and the art he was making. He was indifferent to Lord’s needs, to any trace of fidelity to his wife, to her emotional needs, to his mistress, beyond that of ‘muse’ and lover, to money (bags and bags of cash stashed under beds, in attics, wherever), even to himself.

All that mattered was the art.

He was its servant, as much as he assumed that those close to him would be his’.

He may have been a great artist, but (like so many others), this unyielding dedication to his art clearly demanded its own very special kind of relationships…he was a bit of a shit in other words. But as Giacometti, Geoffrey Rush (“a bit of a ham” Tucci calls him) offers up an engaging, otherworldly, unflattering but ultimately, sympathetic portrait. (The meta fiction of an artist creating a portrait of an artist painting one).

The small cast complements and counterbalances Rush’s at times, over-the-top style nicely. Tony Shalhoub is a quiet, solid presence as Giacometti’s brother, Diego, the voice of whispered reason amidst the chaos and clutter of the artist’s studio…and life. As his long-suffering wife, Sylvia Testud evokes a gentle dignity despite her husband’s unthinking assaults on it. And as his mistress and muse Clémence Poésy (so brilliant as the autistic detective in “The Tunnel”) flits in and out of his studio like a glowing fairy (To which you’d be tempted to remind the director that she was after all a whore. Where was the grim reality beneath the glamour?)

There’s not much of a narrative arc in the story, other than the evolution of the portrait from a few dabs of paint to, eventually, the finished object (though the artist felt his art was never really finished). But the world that’s created, due in no small part to James Merifield’s meticulous recreation of Giacometti’s cramped, untidy, shoddy studio and the restless, roving camera work of master cinematographer Danny Cohen (“Florence Foster Jenkins”; “The Danish Girl”), is watchably credible.

The flaw in the movie is that it often feels thin; its shoe-budget financing is often obvious. Tucci felt the need to bring such a degree focus and fat-free precision to his storytelling that as a result there’s no room for interesting asides. I missed the (further) exploration of the nature of observation (hinted at, but underdeveloped), the underlying roots of Lord’s acceptance of Giacometti’s Bohemian lifestyle (He was himself a homosexual fleeing the homophobia of 40’s USA), the tension between Giacometti’s wealth and the seeming poverty of his lifestyle (he wouldn’t buy his wife a new coat, but would lavish money on his mistress) etc.

It’s one of those rare movies that actually comes in just under 90 minutes. Maybe 30 minutes more would have created a more nuanced portrait


FINAL PORTRAIT. Dir: Stanley Tucci. With: Geoffrey Rush, Armie Hammer, Clémence Poésy, Tony Shalhoub. Cinematgorapher: Danny Cohen. Production Designer: James Merifield