But Tate is not alone, from Jada Pinkett's broken ballerina to Glynn Turman's scene stealing pompous, indignant, black Republican , or Vanessa Bell Calloway as Brenda's buoyant, but sometimes mean spirited sister, the actors turned in performances that in collusion with Matty Rich's direction, and Trey Ellis (who later distanced himself from the project due to creative differences) and Paris Qualles script romanticize- in both the best and worst ways possible- a time, and segment of black life in America. I could go on a diatribe about each one of these actors at length. All black actors whose careers we're never as full and consistent as their talent and dedication demanded. Gathered here to tell a story centered around a people whose story has never been as fully and consistently told as its humanity and dedication demanded. The actors are allowed free reign, as Rich himself allows for scenes and camera work that feels alot more like extemporization, than preparation, even when sometimes some reigning in might've helped. The many subplots are mostly underdeveloped and resolved in the same way you might find in a popular sitcom, but the power of the movie is not in its technical proficiency, or scope, or its use of language. It's in the story that's being told, who it's being told about, and the love with which it's being told. It's in Terence Blanchard's score which feels like the musical version of a comforting talk with a parent. Or the costume design, and its appreciation for the multi-faceted nature of black hair, without condescension, and our dress without the superficiality of blatant appeals to nostalgia. This isn't always a recipe for success, but in the case of stories you've never been introduced to before this is often enough. The Inkwell is a lot like a summer vacation, in that it feels too short, and full of missed opportunities, but it also feels freeing, and refreshing, and is usually always remembered fondly in the leaving. The Inkwell was and is also a vacation from the dominance of whiteness in the domain of film. A vacation from the implicit denial of the importance of black contributions to the Americana. A vacation away from the implicit characterizations of black men as inherently dangerous, and menacing, and of black women as laborious nannies. It was a vacation from Hollywood’s myopic focus on black long-suffering. It took me back to weekends over my cousins house thinking of nothing but swimming pools, girls, and staying up late. Drew’s awkwardness is lingered on , but not punitively. A message so many black men who refuse to let go of their own ungraceful youth won’t stop doing to themselves. It doesn’t vilify or demonize Jada Pinkett’s young Lauren, it empathizes and understands her, as so many black men refuse to do with the young women of their past. There is no scene where Drew gets back at her, or a scene where she realizes what she’s missing out on, (a wish fulfillment fantasy of so many boys growing up and as grown ups) because the vital portion of Drew’s coming of age is learning how to cope properly with heartache, and disappointment rather than “Burning his own house down”. This learning curve is aided by a subplot where Drew - a young black male attends therapy, at the urging of his Aunt, and Mother. And that Therapy is rooted in black tradition, and spirituality. The resulting scenes between he and the therapist (Phyllis Yvonne Stickney as Dr. Wade) are so tender, so indelibly sweet, I tear up at the mere conjuring of them in my mind. Its a message, so poignant and unique I still have not seen the like in black film and it was worlds apart from its cinematic peers of the time.
