At the height of WWII, Evelyn, a Creole woman, comes of age in New Orleans. In 1982, Evelyn’s daughter, Jackie, is a single mother grappling with her absent husband’s drug addiction. Post-Katrina, Jackie’s son, ., is fresh out of a four-month stint for drug charges and decides to start over―until an old friend convinces him to stake his new beginning on one last deal. For Evelyn, Jim Crow is an ongoing reality, and in its wake new threats spring up to haunt her descendants: “A poignant, deeply emotional and timely exploration of systemic racism in America” (PureWow).
While seeing the film, I was having as good a time as an 11-year-old ever has. Fox was ruthless and sophisticated; he wore cool disguises and strangled unsavory people. He drove an Alfa Romeo and painted it between murders. He hid a rifle in a crutch. So my plate was full. I hadn't counted on a mammary-related Big Moment—but I got one. In the scene, it was night. The mistress-mole was slipping furtively out of bed to make a call. This was something I'd seen before, movie characters using telephones. But then the unthinkable happened: The sheet dropped. It was impossible, and it was glorious. We saw areola, we saw—was this happening?—nipple. Then we saw it again. This is what the Lumière brothers, also French, should have filmed with that very first camera of theirs instead of the fucking train rolling into the station. (What could those guys have been thinking? A train. Look at the train, 11-year-old boy! Here comes the train. Jesus.)