We’re Going To Fight About American Fiction. That’s The Point.

On a street corner in the wee hours of the morning is where the best conversations are bound to happen. I’ve spent my whole adult life in this city walking these streets and yelling my opinions — the good, the bad, and the shut-up-your-frontal-lobe-isn’t-even-formed-yet takes. I remember fighting with a friend just steps from Scotiabank Theatre after watching The Help about how Blackness should show up onscreen (spoiler: that was not it). They argued that, sure, maybe the movie was offensive, but parts of it were true. Why shouldn’t that story be told? (Their frontal lobe wasn’t fully formed either.) Over a decade later, I found myself on those same streets debating the very same topic, except this time, the film in question wasn’t a trope-ridden, objectionable, white saviour narrative; it was a brilliant, ripe satire consumed with tackling the very conversations that Black media professionals have been having for decades. In American Fiction, it’s not about whether representation matters but rather what kind matters, and to whom? 

Acclaimed TV writer turned first-time director Cord Jefferson expertly adapts Percival Everett's novel, Erasure, about a Black novelist, Theloneus “Monk” Ellison (the inimitable Jeffrey Wright at his finest), who is becoming increasingly dissatisfied with his career and the expectations placed on certain storytellers. His latest book is having trouble finding a publisher because, according to his agent (John Ortiz), white literary executives think his work “isn’t Black enough.” Conversely, another Black author is rising to fame. Issa Rae plays Sintara Golden, whose novel We’s Lives In Da Ghetto is heralded as “authentic” and “raw” — you know, those cliched words white people love to attach to Black work, like “important” and “timely.” So incensed at the idea that a narrative could be classified as “Black” just because it’s rooted in trauma and stereotypes, Monk dismisses her book without reading it and proudly proclaims about one of his books that “the Blackest thing about this is its ink!” It’s in these pretentious and contradictory moments (in another scene, Monk says in response to publishers wanting a “Black book”: “They have one. I’m Black and it’s my book.”) of feigned superiority that Monk becomes a frustrating protagonist who at times feels like a stand-in for the respectability politics I thought we retired when Bill Cosby was cancelled. 

But that’s also what makes Monk the perfect character to mine these fraught topics. He is the Black intellectual who feels personally attacked by stories of Black trauma because he can’t relate to them — so much so that he concocts a convict alter ego and writes My Pafology, a mess of the most stereotypical, offensive shit he can come up with. The white publishers eat the novel up, and it becomes a bestseller. Monk proceeds to insult the intelligence of the audience, and of his fellow Black writers who have written similar narratives (including Rae’s Golden) in order to remain on his high horse of Black exceptionalism. He pushes away his family (Tracee Ellis Ross shines despite minimal screen time as Monk’s older sister, and Sterling K. Brown is electric as the wildcard chaotic little brother) and his girlfriend (an underused yet effective Erika Alexander), all while exposing the bullshit Black creatives have to face in publishing and in Hollywood. Monk’s gripes about who gets to define Blackness are correct, but his obsession with proving that he isn’t that kind of Black person (poor, incarcerated, or marginalised) sometimes feels patronising to those who are. I think that's on purpose.

Monk’s actions will elicit anger and easily stir up controversy throughout awards season (Wright is already receiving well-deserved buzz). That’s the point. If the argument is that Blackness is not a monolith, of course, there will be dissenting views on a film dissecting what Black stories are valid. It also helps that the riveting family drama unfolding in the B-plot is exactly the nuanced portrayal of a dysfunctional Black family (albeit an upper middle-class one) that he’s arguing we need to see more of on screen. 

At least that’s the stance I took in the friendly debate I got in with one of my colleagues after American Fiction’s premiere. This friend, also a Black media professional, texted me halfway through to say that he was loving it. By the end, he hated it. He didn’t like how certain moments depicting very real racism were played for laughs; he felt it was the work of a bougie Black person disconnected from reality (an apt description of the character Monk). On another street corner a couple days later, I got into it with two more of my colleagues, both also Black critics, who liked the film but had some notes. One, a man, said he didn’t love that the white characters felt so obnoxiously racist that white audiences would be able to absolve themselves from any association to the kind of white liberal bigotry they continually participate in. The other, a woman, disagreed and thought the absurdity of white ignorance was spot on (I was on her side), and that if white execs only want us to write “about Black shit,” then fine. Why shouldn’t we? While I agree (I do write for a Black publication after all), to me, it’s the white people in power deciding what “Black shit” is that’s the problem. They’re stripping certain creators of choices that others have an abundance of. Articulating that frustration is where American Fiction shines. The one thing we could all agree on, though, was that American Fiction — like Bamboozled before it — illuminated discussions we’ve been confronting our whole careers. It made us think, and at times, it made us laugh, and ultimately, it made us realise that we were going to be entrenched in this conversation on our timelines for months after the movie’s release. 

When I get to hear from the filmmaker himself, Cord Jefferson (best known for writing credits on Succession, Watchmen, and The Good Place) the next day at the St. Regis hotel in Toronto, I tell him that I’ve been debating his film for days. “That's great!” he says enthusiastically with a smile. “That's the intention.” Here, Jefferson talks about why Black women are the heart of this story, whether Wright should win an Oscar (and if we should even care about Oscars), and, even though I promised not to spoil the film’s ending, we get into his thoughts on white people laughing during, ahem, certain moments. 

Cord Jefferson: This was something that I dealt with as a journalist — I'm sure you deal with it too. I got to a point in my career when the thing that people wanted me to be writing about was the latest Black tragedy. It’s like, “Write about Ferguson now and write about Mike Brown being killed and write about Trayvon Martin being killed.” I actually wrote this article called The Racism Beat back in 2014. That was about the idea that [I was] the guy that they go to when it comes to Black misery. And it started feeling sort of gross to me. Why are you always interested in Black people when they're killed? Why is that the most interesting aspect of our lives to you? And when I got into entertainment, I thought, Great, I'm going to be writing fictional stuff now, so I can write anything. We can exist in any world. We can exist on Mars. We can do anything. We can put Black characters anywhere. And then I got there and people were like, “Okay, do you want to write about this slave, or do you want to write about this crack addict? Or do you want to write about this gang member? Or do you want to write about this guy in prison?” And it was like, wait a minute, we can write about anything. So why are you putting such rigid limitations on Black stories even here? It's no longer journalism. We're not working in the world of truth anymore — we’re working in the world of fiction. It was strange to me that there's still these rigid limitations on what stories we can tell about people. I just realised that I couldn't escape this dynamic no matter where I was going, that the most interesting thing about Black people is when we're suffering. 

The book was published in 2001, but it could have been published yesterday. When I read it in December 2020, I thought, Oh my God, these are the things that I've been talking about my friends forever — literally since I started working in this industry. I'd been having conversations with not even just my Black friends, my Asian friends and my Latino friends. Why does every story about a Mexican have to be about a cartel or about somebody fleeing Mexico because it's so unsafe and dangerous and miserable down there? There are a lot of aspects to Mexican life and Mexican culture that have nothing to do with any of that. I just knew I had this sense of urgency about it. I think the best ideas are the ones that you keep coming back to. I just felt it in my bones that I had to make this. 

CJ: That's great! That's the intention. My metric for great art is how long I'm thinking about it after I've seen it or after I've read it. How long does this thing linger with me? Am I still trying to put together how I feel about it? Hearing that people are leaving discussing it [is great]. I would’ve been so disappointed if you said that instead you walked out, and you guys were just talking about your dinner reservation [laughs]. That would be devastating. That you were talking about it, debating it, I love that. 

CJ: One of the scenes that's in the movie that is not in the book is the scene where Monk talks to Sintara to discuss this. [Writer’s note: In the scene, Monk confesses he’s never read Sintara’s book, and she holds him to task for his judgment of telling certain Black stories]. 

CJ: Thank you. As I was reading the book, I was so excited for when they were surely going to meet each other, but that scene never came. So that was one of the things where I had to put that in there because it was always my fear that people were going to walk away saying, “Well, this is some “Talented Tenth” bullshit, like these these people are going to be the be the ones to lift us all out of misery. I didn't want that. I never wanted that. That scene to me was very, very important, and it was also very important to Jeffrey [Wright] when we first sat down to talk about the film. I really hope that people walk away from that scene not knowing who's right and who's wrong. I really wanted to give voice to the idea that this is some people's lived reality. Sinatra says, “Maybe you’ve been in the ivory tower of academia for so long that you forgot that some people's lives are hard,” that's an important point that she makes. 

I think that it's interesting to hear Monk’s response: “I actually haven't read your book, I've read excerpts.” It's a very classic male thing to do, to have a bunch of opinions about something that you actually haven't even explored. And to be talking down to this woman who actually has done these things and knows what she's doing, and you come in and say, “Here's why it's bullshit.” I really wanted to give voice to that idea in the film, because I don't want anybody coming into the movie thinking that we're scolding anybody and that we're doing respectability politics bullshit, like Bill Cosby [saying] “Pull up your pants!” I don't want anybody thinking that I'm on Monk’s side or against him. The fun thing about the movie is that I want people to walk away discussing it and debating it, saying “Here's why I think he's right” or “Here's why I think he's wrong.”I didn't want to spoonfeed people a message. I want to just give voice to these kinds of conversations and then let people take from it what they may.

CJ: I would say no. If I were to think about what the audience might think about something as I'm writing and making something, it would just ruin the whole experience for me because I would be too terrified to do anything. “Who's this going to upset?” Obviously, filmmaking is a really collaborative effort, so there were people of all kinds who worked on this film of all races and creeds and sexual identities. I collaborated with this group of people, and then I had to let the chips fall where they may. If you get too deep in your own head about how this group of people is going to interact with this piece or this scene, that path is madness [and] a strain to the creative process. 

CJ: I understand what you're talking about because I actually wrote for Gawker about this when I saw Django Unchained. [The piece is called The Django Moment; or, When Should White People Laugh in Django Unchained?] I don't remember what I said in this piece, so you can't assume that I still believe any of it — it was a long time ago. But in Django Unchained, there's this group of slaves sitting in this wooden cage that they've constructed. Quentin Tarantino throws the bag of dynamite into the cage, and the slaves all jump back and flinch while he laughs at them. A bunch of people in the audience started laughing. And I was like, Oh, this is interesting that there's a bunch of people laughing at this. It’s a scene about exploding human beings, right? So I wrote this piece about that.

But I would never judge laughter. I don't think you can judge laughter as being something that actually explains what's going on in a person's mind. I laugh when I'm nervous. Sometimes, you laugh because you find something funny. Sometimes, you laugh because you find something uncomfortable. Sometimes, you laugh because you don't know what other response to give. People laugh and react to things for many different reasons. Especially when you're in a big group, and there's a lot of energy in the room, I don’t think I could gauge why people are laughing and take anything away from that as to what people's feelings are. I don't think you can do that. 

I will say that what I liked about the room was the energy. It felt like people really engaged with the material and were really going along for the ride. I always love when Myra Lucretia Taylor’s character, Lorraine, turns to Monk and says, “Would you walk me down the aisle, Mr. Monk?” And I hear people actively respond to that because I love her character. Myra's a ray of sunshine. I love her so much. She and Ray Anthony Thomas, the guy who plays Maynard, they're both incredible Broadway actors. I love them both. I’d never seen the movie in a room that big. We had a test screening, but that was before the movie was done. So I had only seen the finished movie with about maybe 12 to 15 people. So watching the completed film in a room that large who really, really was engaged with it and seemed like they were along for the ride to me just felt surreal. It still feels fake. 

CJ: To me, coming from a TV background, if you're writing shows that go on four or five seasons, you really need to develop who these human beings are. You can't just make them flat archetypes. I think that when it comes to those people, specifically Tracee and Erika and Myra, I think that one of the things that Monk is dealing with is his impotent rage. He has this sort of real anger that comes from the frustration and pain that he feels about his life. ot just with the world, but with his father killing himself and the frustration he has with his work not being better, with the expectations that people put on him as a Black artist, and with the alienation that he feels within his family. 

I come from a family of three siblings, and I'm the youngest, so when I was writing Tracee’s Lisa, I had my oldest brother in mind; he’s always been the one who bears the huge responsibility for our family keeping us together. When my mother was dying of cancer — she passed away about eight years ago — my middle brother and I lived away, so it fell to my oldest brother to take her to chemo appointments and radiation appointments. He was buying groceries and doing all this stuff to help her, while, my brother and I were off gallivanting around the world and working. I very much had my oldest brother in mind when I was writing that character, because she's the glue holding this group of people together. I just really wanted to point out that a lot of times, women unfairly are burdened with men's problems, and they accept the responsibility of “I guess I'm taking it upon myself to help this guy work through his impotent rage, because I see that it's there, but he won't acknowledge it.” 

That was one of the reasons that I really loved Erika for her part. I knew that Jeffrey was going to play Monk in this way, and I really loved the energy and buoyancy that she brought to the character. Monk is a closed off, isolated person, and I love that [Erika] came in and saw that she needed to do some work to draw out a smile from him, like, “I see that there's somebody of quality underneath this facade.”

As a man, the hardest thing in the world for me to say for a very long time was, “You hurt my feelings.” That, to me, was impossible to say because there's such a vulnerability to that admission. I never felt comfortable saying that. I would get very angry the way that Jeffrey gets very angry in the film; I couldn't bring myself to admit then that I was in pain. A lot of the women in the film see these men like that. “What you're going through right now is just you're in pain, and you can't admit that. So I'm going to try to help you understand that because otherwise, you're going to be on this isolated island alone.” 

I've loved Jeffrey since I first saw him act, since I first saw Basquiat and Angels in America. I've just been obsessed with him since then. He has this incredible range. This guy can do anything. He can be on Westworld, and he can play this Dominican gangster in Shaft. 

CJ: That's exactly right. I think that it makes him even funnier because you don't see him as a comedic actor. It kind of sneaks up on you. I loved Jeffrey for the role because of that. Also, I really love Sterling. Sometimes, I like to watch somebody do interviews or being interviewed on late night shows, instead of just their work, because you actually see who they are as a human being. I watched Sterling, and he just had this energy and this life about him and enthusiasm. And he's just so charismatic. I thought, “That's who the little brother is.”

As far as where the awards conversation goes, [American Fiction] doesn't it doesn't offer any easy answers. In the movie, they say “Pitting art over art for awards is nonsense. It's absurd.” But then, Issa’s character Sintara makes a very important point that awards sometimes give under-recognized things more recognition and allow more people to see them. I don't know where I come down on that. I want people to know I don't know my own opinion about some of the conversations in the film because I think that these are complex conversations. Society, in general, needs to get better at understanding that some things don't have right answers. That complexity and nuance, especially in America, is difficult. People have difficulty with the idea that there is no right answer to this sometimes. These are ideas I turn over in my head over and over, and these are conversations I would like to have with my friends over and over. 

You don't become a writer for awards or become a writer to make money. These things are not guaranteed, and if you're doing that for those reasons, then you're gonna be incredibly disappointed. But I also love that these guys are being recognised for their work. Jeffrey Wright is one of our greatest living actors, and he's never been nominated for an Oscar. [Wright has since been nominated in the Best Actor category in this year's Oscars]. That's insane. He's an amazing actor, and he deserves that. Sterling K Brown is an amazing actor. Tracee Ellis Ross. Erika Alexander, John Ortiz, Leslie Uggams. Issa Rae — these people are great at their jobs, and I want them to get the recognition that they deserve. I didn't make this movie to win awards, but the fact that those people are being recognised for their ability means a lot to me, because so many Black actors are very undervalued in this industry and under-appreciated for their talents. They aren't given the roles that they deserve. I don't want to speak for them, so I have no idea what they would say on their own. But I would just say that I made this movie because I wanted to say these things, but I also want these people to get the recognition that they deserve because they do deserve it. or so long they've been overlooked, and that's frustrating for a lot of us. 

American Fiction is now available to stream on Prime Video.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.