
RaMell Ross takes us inside the pages of the ‘Nickel Boys' script
RaMell Ross estimates he read a grand total of one screenplay before collaborating with producer Joslyn Barnes on the adaptation of Colson Whitehead's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel 'The Nickel Boys.'
'I have absolutely no problem walking into the woods and walking straight,' the first-time feature director says, with a sheepish smile, about his relative screenwriting inexperience. 'I got my compass, make sure I got a couple landmarks, I know where the sun's going to set. I didn't do research — I'm not interested in three-act structure — but I've watched amazing cinema.'
Since 'Nickel Boys' premiered at Telluride, much has been made of its innovative first-person point of view, which moves between its two main characters, Elwood (Ethan Herisse) and Turner (Brandon Wilson). But the focus on the film's technical mastery risks obscuring Ross and Barnes' dazzling, emotional script, which received an Oscar nomination for adapted screenplay. Below, Ross sheds light on the movie's most indelible scenes and how they evolved from script to screen.
Scene 1: The Rev. Martin
Early on, a young Elwood (Ethan Cole Sharp) is quietly affected while watching the iconic civil rights leader speak on television. King's speech is from an actual broadcast — his estate rarely gives permission for films to use his words — and later in 'Nickel Boys,' teenage Elwood is astonished to see King at a local grocery store, only to realize it's just a cardboard cutout.
Ross and Barnes had no idea if they'd be allowed to include King's speech. 'I mean, we put [the 1958 drama] 'The Defiant Ones' in [the script too],' Ross says. '[The producers] were like, 'Write your best film,' so Joslyn and I approached this as trying to make our ideal project — not thinking about money or if it could be done.'
Still, he had a backup plan: If King's estate said no, he'd go with a Harry Belafonte cutout. (The TV scene could add whichever speech in postproduction.) 'Two days before we were shooting the MLK [cutout] scene, we got permission, so we went ahead with that. But we had Harry Belafonte's there just in case.'
Did Ross still shoot a version with the Belafonte cutout, just in case the King estate changed its mind? '[The producers] asked me to, and I said no,' he replies with a grin. 'Roll of the dice.'
Scene 2: Elwood runs into Chickie Pete
In adulthood, Elwood (Daveed Diggs) unexpectedly reunites in a bar with Chickie Pete (Craig Tate), who has struggled since being sent to the Nickel reform camp. Broke and sleeping on a couch, Pete is a shattered soul. When Pete goes in to hug Elwood, 'Nickel Boys' cuts away for a moment, and then we suddenly see Trey Perkins, the young actor who plays Pete at the Nickel Academy — that wounded child still so present in the man.
The script doesn't mention this actor switch, but according to Ross, 'That [decision] happened in preproduction. Actually, the original idea was to have when Chickie Pete goes to the bathroom, the younger [actor then] comes out — and then you just run [the rest of the scene] like normal.'
Ross ended up shooting both versions, ultimately opting for the brief, post-hug appearance by Perkins. 'It was more powerful to have the punch [of just the hug] than to have [Perkins] come back and do it all. But the other one was f— interesting.'
There was ample debate about which take worked better. 'Joslyn, [editor Nicholas Monsour] and I, we each had swords, and we're just fighting in there,' recalls Ross, laughing. 'We had a voting thing where, if two people thought it was something, then you go with that. It was almost democratic, but I could override it.'
Scene 3: The trip to the White House
Nickel's Black students dread the so-called White House, the dank room where they're savagely beaten. In the script, Ross and Barnes establish the space like this: 'The stench is fierce. Urine, feces and fear are soaked into the concrete.'
'When you add smell in [the scene description], you force someone out of their head and into their senses,' Ross explains. 'It was important to remind the viewer that this place, it's not the way that it looks — it's the way that it exists in time and space and connects with the way that a person senses the world. And what better way to do that than with smell?'
Notably, however, Elwood's beating is never shown — instead, Ross marries the sound of whippings to harsh cuts of a series of distorted, grainy images of faces of students from the real-life Dozier School, which provided the inspiration for Nickel Academy. The script indicates that we would see these students as boys, then as adults, but during the edit, the director changed his mind. 'We didn't want contemporary images there,' Ross says. 'We wanted to stay with an abstract representation that's also literal of them.' The strategy was in keeping with his insistence, from his first meetings on the movie, that violence against Black bodies would not be depicted.
'You're pushing up against urges that you have allegiance to that come from a tradition of cinema — a tradition of storytelling — that quite often just imports defaults, because that's just the way that people have done it before,' says Ross. 'And you're like, 'Well, why? We could actually show not one ounce of violence and that doesn't necessarily take the power away.' If this was a story about the Dozier boys and about moving on, it would be a lot easier. But this is actually about remembering, so we tried to find other ways to remember.'
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Explore the deep mysteries while supporting our growing coverage of books, culture, and the arts: Sign up for a free or paid Bulwark subscription today. The Old Man begins to drift into his past, and into Mamet's fables, as the flight becomes more dangerous. In the first, set in a village in the 1890s, the Beggar roams the village, seeking charity, first from a pair of housewives, then from the local Rabbi, and then from the Rich Man (or, Reb Siegel, one of the few proper names in the script). As these short tales begin to take over the narrative of Russian Poland, the dialogue becomes less casual and more formal, but what's most interesting about this aspect of Mamet's script—Mamet being justly famous for his gift for stylish, stylized dialogue—is how it reflects his attitudes as a director more than as a writer. In his book On Directing Film, and more recently when promoting Henry Johnson, Mamet has said that ideally, when directing a film, it should be possible to remove all the dialogue and, as in silent films, let the images and the editing tell the story. This is, of course, the central idea behind all motion pictures, but I can't imagine following the narrative of a film as word-drunk as Henry Johnson with all the language removed. Henry Johnson is a very skillful and artful piece of film direction, but the words, and the performances of those words, are the whole show. This is not the case with Russian Poland, or it wouldn't have been, had a film ever been made from it. In the story about the Beggar, the Rabbi, and the Rich Man, Mamet lays out his scenes and his shots in strict visual terms, as directing choices he made at the screenplay stage. It begins with this image: A longshot. A road on a hill. A Beggar comes into the shot, moving across the frame from left to right. A mullioned window bangs into the shot. Camera pulls back slightly to reveal we have been looking at the scene through a window. The window frame bangs in the window. Then a cut to the Rabbi, outside the building, commenting on the deteriorated state of the window, and the Shul to which it is connected. We have also been introduced to the Beggar, and his journey. There is now a connection (ideally, anyway) in the viewer's mind between the state of the shtetl, where this is all taking place, and the Beggar. There is conflict in this connection, one that will play out as both Rabbi and Rich Man are shown to be somewhat callous towards the Beggar—though the Rabbi is perhaps more officious than callous—but the story is one of redemption. More importantly, that window, through which we were introduced to a setting and a key character, returns as an image, and through it we are shown actions the meanings of which the audience understands better than the characters do. We see, more than hear, both the Beggar and the Rich Man, independent of each other, find evidence for the existence of God, through each man's misunderstanding of events. To Mamet, these misunderstandings, and the revelations they inspire, are as true and as spiritual as would be those brought about by a literal angel appearing on the scene. Join now It's difficult, in this venue, to get across how much of Russian Poland's story is communicated visually rather than through dialogue. But this is very much a script written by a man who intended to direct: visuals, shot descriptions, and even camera edits are described at length, broken up by streams of conversation that is sometimes of a spiritual nature, sometimes just pure gossip. This is done in the same way that a film heavy with talk might find relief, or a heightening of emotion, through bursts of silence. I can imagine one fable, late in the script, being told entirely through images, with no dialogue whatsoever (not that there's so very much of it to begin with). This fable is much darker than the life-affirming tale of the Beggar (Russian Poland can get pretty bleak at times), and it ends with a punchline—I think a certain gallows humor is at play here, but as far as gallows humor goes, it's pretty heavy on gallows—that is entirely visual. (Words are spoken, but don't need to be.) Granted, these visuals include words written on a piece of paper—words that reveal the aforementioned punchline—but this is all part of the silent film grammar Mamet aspires to. Because of his outspoken conservative politics over the last several years, even well before Trump, Mamet long ago fell out of favor as an artist. Some artists, when confronting such a fate, will withdraw; others will lean into it, inflating the political rhetoric that had been subliminal or even non-existent in their work before. And while Mamet's responses in interviews and his nonfiction writing have gotten nakedly reactionary, it has not gotten in the way of his fiction. As implied earlier, this unproduced screenplay is particularly compelling when looked at Mamet's career as a film director as a whole, and especially in the context of his work during the 1990s. Once again, Homicide, his best film, can't help but spring to mind. Mamet's current politics (many say his politics have always leaned right, if not far-right, but I don't), and what I'd call the spiritual politics of Russian Poland, often seem to be at odds with each other. In Homicide, for example, the murder of the Zionist shopkeeper is not, as homicide detective Bobby Gold (Joe Mantegna) believes, an antisemitic act. In a final twist (a swing so wild I almost can't believe Mamet brings it off), it's shown to be a random act, an apolitical crime of greed, and evidence for the anti-Zionist motive is revealed as a blind alley. Though Gold has faced antisemitism in his past, and experiences it over the course of the film, his political righteousness becomes a mental trap, and his inability to view the situation from any other angle ultimately destroys him. Not the same kind of thing you'd expect from the author of Russian Poland, which radiates a kind of arcane energy. If Russian Poland can seem esoteric, especially to a gentile like myself, it is nevertheless clearly the work of an artist who sees in it a grand truth, whereas Homicide is awash with uncertainty. Yet both works are about, essentially, the same thing. And if Henry Johnson, the story of an unprincipled idiot who believes everything people tell him, doesn't seem like it could possibly have been made by someone who supports Donald Trump, well, the human brain is a complicated organ. Share this article with someone who appreciates the complicated nature of the human brain. Share