There’s a certain sensation I very rarely get when watching a film – as much as I love cinema, I’ve been conditioned to the fact that many movies are really great, and you start to develop an inability to be truly amazed by films as regularly as you used to, with that childlike wonder seemingly having faded. However, on occassion, I will encounter a film that completely blows me away and leaves me almost entirely at a loss for words, to the point where I tend to doubt that what I’m seeing is actually real. This happened with The Last Black Man in San Francisco. If you have been following my writing for a while, you’ll know how much of a champion I am for independent film, and the more audacious and daring a film is, the better. Nothing is quite as memorable as a film with a limited budget, but an abundance of ideas and the audacity to pull it all off. Yet, even the most unique independent films tend to align themselves with some sort of convention – art is inspired by other art (remember, “the text is a tissue of quotations”). However, this can’t really be extended to The Last Black Man in San Francisco, which is unlike anything I have witnessed before – I’m not implying this is a perfect film by any means, nor am I saying that this is a film that is so original, nothing can compare to it. Rather, there’s just absolutely nothing like this film – everything about it, from the story to the execution to the final emotional resonance, feels fresh, new and ultimately so unbelievably complex, it feels like something that one imagines should be made, rather than something that actually is. In this regard, I’m willing to call this film, as premature as it may be, one of the year’s greatest achievements, and a towering example of precisely why independent cinema is not only worthwhile but wholly essential to contemporary art.

At the core of The Last Black Man in San Francisco are two entities. The first is a friendship. Jimmie (Jimmie Fails) and Mont (Jonathan Majors) are two young black men living in San Francisco. Jimmie works as a nurse in a care home, and Mont as the fishmonger in a grocery store. Yet, this isn’t the extent of their lives, as both men are in actuality artists in their own way. Mont is exceptionally talented as both a visual artist and playwright, which serve to be his two passions, and what he hopes to do with the rest of his life. Jimmie expresses himself in a different way, which brings us to the second central entity in this film – a house. In the middle of a busy suburban street stands a beautiful Victorian-era home, which holds a special connection to Jimmie, who doesn’t actually reside there, but holds in great significance, as it was built by his grandfather after the Second World War when he was supposedly the first black man in San Francisco. The house is falling apart, mainly through neglect by the owners, who don’t understand the significance of the house. Jimmie covertly works to restore the house, lovingly taking care of it, much to the annoyance of the residents, who see it as invasion, but cannot do anything about it, as the young man is actually doing them a favour. However, when a tragedy befalls them, Jimmie and Mont find themselves taking over the house, finally being able to restore it to the vision Jimmie’s grandfather intended it to be – but the world around them is too far gone for them to transport themselves back to the idyllic past that they’ve been trying to capture for so long, and they start to feel like they don’t belong in this version of the world anymore.

The Last Black Man in San Francisco is an extremely unconventional film in a number of ways. First of all, it lacks a coherent structure – it starts in media res, and we are made to piece everything together as the film goes on. This is a work of art that is just about as rebellious as its protagonists, defying all expectations and opting for something that never quite can be pinned down in any logical way. This is where the brilliance in The Last Black Man in San Francisco lies, because we see far too many films try and justify itself as a meaningful work through overt commentary, which is delivered in very much the same way across the board – Joe Talbot and Jimmie Fails, in constructing this film, actively disregard conventions, going for a structure that sometimes doesn’t make much sense at the beginning, with a more dreamlike approach (however, The Last Black Man in San Francisco never once regresses into surrealism, keeping everything extremely grounded), which speaks towards the central theme of memory that underlies the film. Mainly focused on the memories of Jimmie and his attempts to recapture the past, the film flows with a certain twisted beauty, a simplicity that gets the message, both the social and the psychological, across without bombarding the viewer with an overwhelming amount of commentary, not losing the fact that it somehow, through some astonishing feat, managed to distill not only the magic of cinema, but the deep profundity of human existence, into a single gorgeous piece of semi-autobiographical fiction that pervades every expectation we have, and makes its way directly into our psyche, where it takes up welcome residence, inciting fierce thoughts and evoking the most visceral emotions, which is not an easy accomplishment, but something The Last Black Man in San Francisco does with the most effortless ease.

Another area in which The Last Black Man in San Francisco proves itself to be very different from other films of this ilk is in its stylistic form. This is not necessarily a film that wants to appear like it is from another period, and falls far from the tendency for these kinds of independent films to try and hearken back to the cinematic days of yore in its style. Rather, The Last Black Man in San Francisco is a film that doesn’t fit into any known cinematic period, past or present (if anything, this is part of the rising metamodern film movement, of which there are very few constituents so far). Everything about it is so stunning, and it captures the audience with its meticulous attention to detail, proving itself to be an astounding achievement. Visually, cinematographer Adam Newport-Berra instantly confirms himself as someone who must be subjected to a lot of attention, because what he does in this film, visually bringing San Francisco to life in a way never seen before, is nothing short of a miracle. This has some of the most gorgeous cinematography of the modern era, with the simplicity in which the city is shown working so well with the slightly detached sense of isolation evoked by the story. The score, composed by Emile Mosseri, lends the film even more gravitas and demonstrates the importance of a great musical score in bringing a story to life. It oscillates between upbeat and cheerful, to melancholy and heartbreaking, and complements each scene so perfectly, whether it is one that is supposed to be triumphant or nostalgic, with music being pivotal to the success of The Last Black Man in San Francisco. The centrepiece of the film, or at least one of its most important moments, comes in an acapella cover of “San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair)”, which is already one of the most beautiful songs ever recorded in its original form, but in having it performance by an elderly, anonymous street busker allows it to take on an even more profound and deep meaning, where the sentimental intermingles with the melancholy in a way that will move even the most cynical of viewers. If you haven’t been converted to the brilliance of the film by the time Michael Marshall’s voice pierces the cinematic ether, you will certainly be sold afterwards.

The two central roles in The Last Black Man in San Francisco are played by two relative newcomers. Do you ever have the sensation when watching a novice performer that they will one day amount to immense things, and harness a really terrific career? This certainly is the case for Jimmie Fails and Jonathan Majors, who take on two very challenging roles, and do so with such effortless brilliance, it feels almost as if they are not acting, but playing themselves (and in the case of Fails, he actually is). Both have their moments of sheer and unrelenting splendour and prove themselves to be well on the way to stardom. Fails, in particular, has a very challenging role – he takes on the part of a man who is desperately trying to find a way to overcome the crushing isolation he feels, without giving into the pressure around him to conform. It is a very quiet performance, one that relies both on Fails’ impeccable subtlety and his extraordinary ability to evoke even the most complex of emotions through an extremely subdued, quiet portrayal of a person caught right in the middle. Jonathan Majors has a more traditionally interesting performance, playing a creative man who is trying to use his art to make a statement, even to the point where it becomes unsettling, but where the discomfort provokes thought and stirs discussion. Majors’ performance, for the first part of the film is extremely subtle, which leads to a final-act monologue that serves as one of the year’s most astonishing pieces of acting, a moment filled to the brim with insatiable anger and despair over the state of the world, where people can be shot down on a daily basis, and all that results is an outpouring of support on social media, without any considerable change being done anywhere. The ferocity of this moment, combined with Majors’ otherwise very sedate performance, is the precise reason why he is one of the year’s most revelatory discoveries.

There are so many themes in this film (it often feels on the precipice of entirely losing control of all of them, but it deftly defies it in a way that suggests an underlying mastery to the craft on the behalf of debut director Talbot). One of the most resonant themes is that of the underlying masculinity to the film, which is portrayed so beautifully by Fails and Majors. Throughout the film, their characters have to perpetually struggle with the ideal images of precisely what it means to be a man in the modern world – this isn’t to say either of them are necessarily ashamed of who they are. In fact, they are extremely proud of their own idiosyncrasies, and the realization that not fitting into the preconceived notions of masculinity isn’t something to avoid, but to celebrate. However, this doesn’t make their journey any easier, and they are often at the disposal of a group of different people with more myopic views based on societal beliefs as to what makes a functional, ordinary person. These people are hardly the pinnacles of modern masculinity themselves, with their hurtful words often being overt manifestations of their own insecurity, which results in the cowardly derision of two men who are doing the most courageous thing of all: daring to be themselves, not relenting from existing on their own terms. Slowly but surely, both Jimmie and Mont change hearts and minds and show that living your truth is the most important part of coming to realize who you actually are meant to be. Its a gorgeous approach to challenging gender norms without actually venturing too deeply into obvious commentary.

Yet, if we peer deeper into the veneer of The Last Black Man in San Francisco, we see that it is also a film that is so much more than just this, as another primary theme is the experience of being black in contemporary America – this is not a film primarily focused on race issues, but they do form a much larger portion of the film than one would expect, with the commentary being omnipotent but not very obvious at the outset, with Talbot and Fails infusing the film with a fierce soul that only enhances the gorgeous underlying meaning. The film is underpinned by a background of institutionalized racism still occurring, even when it isn’t quite as clear. Throughout the film, we see moments of gentrification, gang violence (the most harrowing part of the film is when the protagonists find out that one of their friends, who they had seen only moments before, was shot dead), the evictions of black tenants for no apparent reason (and not through any ethical means, but rather through actively demolishing their homes and destroying their lives). The Last Black Man in San Francisco looks at the sometimes unconscious bias that persists in the country, asserted onto an entire group of people who are homogenized to the point where everyone has to work much harder than they should to stand out and gain the basic privileges afforded to others without any difficulty. Changing perceptions is very difficult, and often the results are either temporary or too small to actually make a difference, and The Last Black Man in San Francisco doesn’t try and assert anything beyond an objective portrayal of real experiences, which makes for a truly moving, and often hauntingly stark, commentary on contemporary race issues.

The Last Black Man in San Francisco is almost a romantic film, without actually being about love in any conventional sense. The friendship between the two protagonists is shown with a  certain beautiful tenderness that never extends into anything other than an exuberant expression of joyful compansion, and a dependency on each other to help navigate a treacherous world – it is very likely that without the support, guidance and occasional sobering criticism from each other, neither Jimmie nor Mont would actually be able to survive as well as they do. It celebrates friendship in a way that is never heavy-handed or trite, and rather just looks at it as a beautiful alliance forged under the existence of a troubling social system. Another love story at the core of The Last Black Man in San Francisco, perhaps the most significant one, is with that of the past. Jimmie, in particular, finds himself lamenting on the past and how the moments that formed us were so fleeting, desperately trying to return to those memories. This manifests in his obsession with taking care of the house, which becomes a beacon of not only a specific era in history but of Jimmie’s own past. Even when we discover that the house itself isn’t what it seems, we understand it wasn’t the actual structure that Jimmie was concerned with retaining, but rather what it represented. Through constructing it as an indelible part of his family’s history, he uses it as a way of preserving his own background and protecting himself from the harsh realities of life: there is a tough world out there, and this home, whether or not it belongs to his family, means something to the young man, who sees it as the last remaining symbol of his childhood (there are implications that their time in the house was the last time he and his family were together). It becomes a bridge between the past and the present for Jimmie, who holds onto it with a fierce conviction, not allowing the last remaining remnant of a joyful past slip away into the depths of meaningless gentrification. Yet, through the course of the events of The Last Black Man in San Francisco, he is forced to confront the past and come to terms with the fact that he exists in a world with indelible racial, social and cultural disharmony, that manifests in various different ways, and his displacement from San Francisco in particular, a city that he loves and has a deep and personal relationship with, becomes truly haunting. The sense of displacement and unbelonging pulsating through this film is tense and uncomfortable but leads to the most remarkable ending, which is just emotional catharsis in its most distilled form.

This is just an undeniably gorgeous film. There is a certain melancholy flowing through The Last Black Man in San Francisco that just can’t be described in any conventional way – one can never dare to call this film anything close to conventional. It is a very understated film, one that chooses simplicity over intensity, and finds the balance between despair and sentimentality, without ever needing to be gauche or saccharine. Talbot knew exactly what he wanted to say with this film, and the message this film conveys is nothing short of emotionally profound. There is not a stereotype to be found anything in this film, with the film taking on a message of unity, cohesion and unbridled optimism for the future, even the world that intends to divide individuals based on superficial factors. The Last Black Man in San Francisco feels almost hyper-realistic, which is disconcerting at some moments, but also wonderfully moving, as Talbot and the rest of the creative individuals working on this film remove the barrier between the viewer and the film, allowing us to become immersed in this gorgeous world, which is very much a clear representation of our own, perhaps troublingly so, because it focuses on some serious issues that define this film and propel it forward to the point where there is no option for these characters other than to rebel against a system so vehemently against people like them.

The Last Black Man in San Francisco is about some very real and relevant issues about our world and resonates a bit too harshly to be entirely easy to experience. Yet, the filmmakers compensate for this discomfort through gorgeous visuals and a beautifully sedate tone beneath the film that allows it to thrive. The Last Black Man in San Francisco has the makings of a real classic, and this is a film that is going to age exceptionally well with time. It is, to reduce it to only a few words, a gorgeous, meandering socio-cultural, metaphysical screwball romp through the racial inequality plaguing our world, but one where we are told that regardless of what hardships we encounter, resilience and belief in the fact that there is still some good around is, will show that there is always hope on the horizon. This is a film that gets right to the depths of the human soul and dares to question the pinnacle of our existence in a way that is just so undeniably beautiful. The Last Black Man in San Francisco is a loving tribute to folkloric world we live in and its unforgettable idiosyncracies, and a beautiful tribute to the ordinary people who give the world the immense heart and soul that we can find if we just look beneath the veneer of despair, and choose to celebrate differences rather than retreat from them, and understand that life is strange, full of contradictions and sometimes extremely confusing: and I doubt many of us would choose to have it any other way.