Soul-stirring genius pulsates through every moment of The Last Black Man in San FranciscoJoe Talbot’s Sundance-winning first feature that is as much about a voraciously gentrifying metropolis as it’s about an unfaltering fraternal partnership, a platonic bond superior in inspiringly heartfelt qualities than the most torrid of romances.   

Praiseworthy elements abound in this astonishing gem of a debut. Fundamental among them, its tender depiction of male friendship completely devoid of toxicity sings a loud song of hope for a world where most men remain terrified of their own fragility. As an antidote to archetypical portrayals of manliness, the affecting bromance at the center of Talbot’s film is the love story we need right now.  

Born out of the director’s long-standing camaraderie with fellow San Franciscan, Jimmie Failsthe first-time actor that not only stars in Last Black Man but also holds a story credit, the on-screen relationship between Jimmie, the fictional character, and Montgomery (Jonathan Majors) is unlike how most American movies would approach a tale of two buddies. What made it into the script mimics in spirit how profoundly Talbot and Fails seem to feel about each other in reality, despite the narrative not being a direct account of the affection brewing between them since they were skating the streets of their town as teenagers. In tandem with co-writer Rob Richert, the luminously sensitive filmmaker conjured up a portrait of companionship grounded on emotional synergy rather than superficial affinities.  

The protagonists are two young black men made to feel unwelcome in their home turf by the indiscriminate commoditization of a city soon to be only accessible for millionaires. Their undying loyalty for one another keeps them afloat as their surroundings mutate in their disfavor. In the midst of changing waters, Mont, a thoughtful playwright, is Jimmie’s anchor.   

Making Jimmie’s beloved Victorian home the common undertaking and refuge of the film, the creators were not interested in professing their characters’ heterosexuality by introducing an outside romantic interest or having them serve as each other’s wingmen. Neither does their enjoyment of their time together rely on demeaning banter to deter serious introspection. On the contrary, intimacy is their strength. They know each other’s fears and aspirations better than anyone else ever could.  

There’s a tendency in entertainment to restrict most friendships between heterosexual men to default activities perceived as acceptable exchanges that don’t go beyond the surface. Hollywood’s preferred examples include sports events, parties where the ultimate goal is attracting the opposite sex, wild escapades underlined with danger, or expressing affection through competition and mockery. Although not implicitly destructivetheir prevalence in media as sole modes of bonding pigeonholes men in shallow brotherhood.  

Societal rules laced with atrocious homophobia have been rigged to limit closeness between heterosexual men, to put boundaries on expressions of love and instill fear toward evidencing any traces of vulnerability. From childhood, boys’ ability for non-sexualized displays of affection towards their peers is eviscerated. Toughness has value, and tears are shameful.   

By building their own indestructible fortress of support, Jimmie and Mont retain an innocence and playfulness that’s truly endearing and untainted by traditionally masculine attitudes. Like kids in the playground who haven’t yet been told that warmth between males is wrong, they yell out of sheer joy, they ride together on a single skateboard as if pretending to be rulers of a fading world, and walk the streets side-by-side in an unbreakable union.   

For men of color and those in underprivileged communities, this burden of the masculine “ideal” is even more pronounced, as not only is their masculinity constantly a point of contention, but also their allegiance to race, class, and geographical location. Their manhood aggressively questioned based on clothing, interests, and general demeanor.   

In The Last Black Man in San Francisco, however, Jimmie and Mont dress and act as others say they shouldn’t. Labels fail to describe them and the prescribed boxes for dudes like them can’t contain who they are. Unspoken, but nonetheless present, is a collective voice that’s always insidiously asking if they are men enough or if they are black enough. Their counterparts, the other black men in their neighborhood, rely on humiliation and attacks among them and targeting others as a way to assert themselves as strong members of the group. Through Mont’s compassionate curiosity for them, the film exposes this behavior as performative. Hiding under the macho masks they wear are still vestiges of their suppressed gentleness 

In front of his crew, Kofi (Jamal Trulove), one of the black men in the periphery, berates Mont for his eccentric behavior and insults Jimmie’s dysfunctional family. Yet, behind closed doors, sitting inside a sauna with the two leads, Kofi fondly reminisces about the laughs he’d had with Jimmie before their paths diverged. Letting his exhausting guard down, he remembers a facet of himself long neglected. The spell soon breaks, however, and the mask is put back on.  

Accounting for the distinct generational implementation of gender tropes, Talbot thoughtfully confronts Mont and Jimmie’s male role models. Encouraging his grandson’s writing talents, Mont’s blind Grandpa (Danny Gloveroffers the feedback and support that have allowed the artist in Mont to flourish beyond their circumstances. The old man demands that the friends stick together, and has always welcomeJimmie as a surrogate son.  

On the opposite end of the fatherhood spectrumand unavoidably the product of the notions of blackness and manhood taught to him, Jimmie’s father, James Sr. (Rob Morgan), despises his child’s “white boy” attire and even more the fact that he skates, reacting in anger to the mere sight of the skateboard. He’s perpetuated a lie that validates his life enough to keep moving forward, in turn making himself emotionally unavailable to Jimmie.    

To an extent, Jimmie is also tied to that idealized version of his family’s history centered on the house, and in turn of his own understanding of who is meant to be. Thankfully, Mont, his trusted ally, relentlessly strives to demonstrate that his identity is not dependant on a physical space or the perception others have of him. It’s only through a tragedy and Mont’s one-man play that Jimmie realizes “people aren’t one thing.” His friend sees him for all of what he is at once 

Even if the winds of demographic change in San Francisco are blowing against them because of economic injustice, Jimmie and Mont are already pioneers in their own right. Peaceful warriors forged from the legacy of the past and the promise of the future, they reject masculine classification fueled by hurtful archaic ideas and subscribe to the power of kindness over force. The type of masculinity the pair embodies is modern because through their friendship they’ve learned that neither the glory of triumph nor the pain of defeat should be braved alone.   

“I’m with you bro,” says Mont to Jimmie in a moment of crisis. It’s an obvious statement that reinforces a sentiment he’s proven with actions for years. “You’ve always been with me, responds his best friend, not to only to validate him but also to remind him that what they have isn’t temporary but written in a substance far more indelible than the blood of genetically linked siblings. Brothers in arms, come what may, whose arms aren’t weapons but meant for support. 

In the comfort of their final embrace without reservations, we find the epitome of pure male friendship that doesn’t judge, that doesn’t pretend, that’s not conditional. Should all men be so lucky to attain a bro like that, maybe we could all finally, at long last, begin to heal.  

The Last Black Man in San Francisco is currently in theaters.

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