If Simone de Beauvoir is correct, “One is not born, but rather one becomes a woman,” and Spike Lee’s adaptation of Richard Price’s Clockers is proof that one is not born, but rather one is conditioned to become a drug dealer.

Set in and around the fictional Nelson Mandela Houses, if the opening scene filled with bullets and bodies doesn’t grab attention, then the run-down, yet post-modern complex with explicit references to urban decay and social neglect as Westernized Apartheid should.

A co-written feature, its critical acclaim remains relevant, as does its urgency.

Released when older members of Generation Y entered middle school, members of Generation Z may not be familiar with the title or recognize that epidemics include widespread outbreaks of violence linked to the post-19th-century drug trade. Rampant and uncharted, the illicit trade has always been most prevalent in economically distressed areas.

This film’s primary relevance has always been its ability to illuminate several facts: illicit drugs are, for all intents and purposes, an untaxed industry; drug dealing has always been a lucrative, albeit underground, profession; and drug addiction is an equal opportunity and non-discriminatory issue.

Few films and even fewer book adaptations feature twin anti-hero protagonists; this one keeps viewers shifting between Strike/Ronald/Ronnie, a well-read, stressed-out man-child who deals crack cocaine, and Rocco Klein, the middle-aged, burned-out, marginally corrupt cop destined to connect the dots in a rival street entrepreneur’s murder.

Both operate in the murkiest shades of morality, share a warped sense of order and logic, and cynically justify the use of questionable power tactics.

Symbolic of both a wise elder and a trickster, Rocco gossips to connect, bends the truth to uphold justice, and has a talent for placing institutional failures exactly where they don’t belong, on the backs of the urban and working poor.

A toy train fanatic and a sugary drink imbiber, Strike is prodigal because he isn’t the gainfully employed or educated son his mother hoped to raise. Instead, he is a frugal yet ambitious teenager who deals drugs steps from her doorstep to make sure her watchful eye stays on him.

Both Strike and Rocco are character studies of men worn down by urban decay. Despite their bravado of good versus evil, perceptive viewers will notice that ambiguity clouds morality, and each is compelled to accept that being seen as a protector in an urban setting is always influenced by personal experiences.

Aware that they are both products of their environment, neither is immune to using violence as a form of agency. However, both choose to and actively utilize the intelligence needed to maintain their status, which includes bragging to boost street cred, lying to preserve influence, and standing firm in their belief that truth and justice are not mutually exclusive.

With its indeterminate timeframe, viewers are compelled to empathize with the reluctant witness, played by Spike Lee.

Gainfully employed and dressed to reflect that status, he remains knowingly silent, presumably because he openly indulges in the most harmful yet socially accepted vice, alcohol. Seemingly harmless, he is very aware that the environment suggests there are no clear heroes, as urban settings imply that policemen and drug dealers can be seen as benevolent villains.

An allegorical, sensory, and symbolic feast, the unknowns do not distract from the implicit messages or the central themes: family loyalty runs deeper and is more crimson than blood, the sanguine life force that flows; morality is complex because childhood is a convoluted concept; and nobility is as fluid as the deception necessary to bend free will to align with circumstances.

Because social implications are usually viewed as affecting only minorities and the poor, this film intentionally critiques aesthetics related to addiction, race-based policing, and the false belief that drug trafficking only harms the most vulnerable.

Additionally, it shows that narrowly compensated civil service and the marginalization of large parts of society are cyclically destructive, because efforts at redemption are often based on flawed ideas about who has the right to seek and achieve absolution.

Truth is ambiguous and becomes more so as perspective shifts.

Part of this film’s power lies in its ability to subvert betrayal as a survival mechanism and to portray violence as elemental but not necessarily effective. Perhaps this is why the police station, as depicted, appears in greater disrepair than the public housing complex — in short, awareness is crucial because aesthetics can be deceiving.

Beneath the plot, this one is a scathing critique of social decay and the tendency to ignore institutional stagnation, which, if unchecked, leads to the gross exploitation of childhood through theft.

Sharp viewers will notice the reference to bond being equal to ten percent of the demanded bail, and the talented tenth neglecting its duty to the remaining ninety percent. Because environmental factors outweigh spiritual intervention, passive viewers will not miss the metaphorical references to keeping watchful maternal eyes.

Beyond highlighting the difficulties of resisting overt, external evil, this film also directly addresses abuse of authority.

Through the secondary character, Officer Andre, viewers see the inherent commission required of social servants. An anomaly because he gives a damn, he isn’t taken seriously until he descends into reactive reflection of the people he has chosen to protect and serve.

Implicitly, no one realizes true benefit from illicit drug trades, and rap music is the inferred lyrical expression of validly repressed rage. Perhaps this is why the film features two train engines colliding: life is unflinching, and where the tracks do not diverge, destructive impact is the final step.

So why was the book optioned for a film, and what remains significant?

With immediacy, viewers are compelled to recognize the symbolic social neglect depicted in the public housing complex. Cyclical, destructive, and tangential, its inward route seems progressive. Without light, indulgence is muted, and outward routes are diametric, diagonal, and linear.

Similarly, evil is like a hexagon; inherently opposing, it stands completely against nourishment, even though it has the potential to grow unchecked.

This blunt and clear statement about the absence of genuine good and universal evil offers a broad view of illegal drug economies. It realistically illustrates the resilience needed to survive inner-city life.

Upon release, it was praised for its era-specific portrayal of gritty realism and for highlighting the compounded dangers of being a lethal yet illegal heroine. Today, the dirt thrown on single mothers, the working poor, and others living within the margins is judged because their choices are limited by broken systems, which remains evident.

Clockers is worth a re-watch because reframing street culture as culture aligns with the idea of justice being blind, and because the role models include anti-heroes.

For your reading pleasure, here are a few comparable titles:

• Dopefiend, by Donald Goines

• Native Son, by Richard Wright

• American Tabloid, by James Ellroy

• Manchild in the Promised Land, by Claude Brown

• The Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-City Neighborhood, by David Simon & Edward Burns

And, for your viewing pleasure, a few comparable films:

• Sugar Hill, directed by Leon Ischaso

• Boyz n the Hood, directed by John Singleton

• American Gangster, directed by Ridley Scott

• New Jack City, directed by Mario Van Peebles

• Menace II Society, directed by the Hughes Brothers

Tired, average, expected to take up slack… This is the unofficial mantra of almost any woman on the planet, especially those who run the race in worn-out and worthless stilettos. Perhaps this is why change isn’t limited to good; it is a necessity.

Enter Juanita, the protagonist of the similarly titled film. She is fed up because she’s too old for bullshit, too young to retire, and suffering from a common psychological condition called midlife crisis. As a single mother to three adult children who still act like kids, she’s caring but also triggered by long-buried desires from before they were even a consideration.

A film about taking risks when money is tight, friends are few, and sanity is all that remains for one to seek. It stars Alfrie Woodard in a role that could inspire anyone to move beyond melancholy and escape from a never-ending cycle of disappointments and useless pursuits.

Second chances are not reserved for the adventurous because the soul doesn’t seek validation to get what it innately wants. Directed by Clark Johnson and released in 2019, this won’t appeal to entitled brats, grandmothers who willingly accept free babysitter status, or others who claim adulthood but behave as if just breastfed.

“I ain’t got to do shit for y’all, no more,” is a line from this film and the battle cry of every woman with a nest that refuses to empty. Culturally, the unyielding desire to remain tethered is likely epigenetic; all shades of minority children have historically been forcibly removed or separated from their lineage long before land masses were continuous.

Set initially in an urban environment, a more beat-down than fed-up Juanita declares, “I’m a fuckin’ ghetto cliché,” and casts fate to the wind. A quick check-in with her cash-positive best friend peels back any reservations and gives her the push to hop on the next Greyhound bound for wherever and ends up right in the middle of Montana.

With its open landscape and unobstructed views of vast mountain ranges, one would expect Juanita to grow, and she does. Romantic love blooms during her brief 6-to-8-week stay with a fine example of an Indigenous American called Jess. The owner of presumably the only French restaurant in the state, he is a war veteran and binge drinker drawn to her feisty attitude, and significantly more mature, yet younger, than any man she’s ever been with.

Given that the entertainment industry is driven by commerce, however, this film’s lack of box office appeal is actually the key to its brilliance. Adapted from the screenplay by Roderick M. Spencer and based on Sheila Williams’ novel Dancing on the Edge of the Roof, it makes a dynamic backstory unlikely within a 90-minute runtime. More importantly, the focus on underlying structural failures that exacerbate urban blight is documentary, not dramatic, in format.

Escapism isn’t unique to human experience; in fact, all mammals, birds, and reptiles exhibit a state of daydreaming. A psychological need driven by instinct, it allows data gleaned from inner thoughts to shift toward clarity. Portrayed as impulsive, Juanita’s impromptu departure is the shit that single, working-class women, regardless of matriarchal status, long for.

Criticized for its “lack of urgency,” this film explores the process of self-actualization. More than casual viewing is necessary to distinguish leisure from indifference and routine from a nuanced expectation to stay within one’s designated space. As a subtle challenge to cultural norms about reclaiming identity, it symbolically implies that, because aging is slow, self-discovery is also unique and equally time-consuming.

Brimming with colloquial meta-narrative, it’s a form of open diary written as a love note to its target audience—middle-aged minority women. Often overlooked, demonized, and expected to be averse to melancholy because of having borne children, this piece is a middle finger and loudly suggests that life, with its miasmal dirt and decay, and as previously lived, should fuck completely off.

Because personal agency and inner truth work together, any woman who hasn’t let her soul shout, “I ain’t ya mama,” is suffering from strong woman syndrome. A form of segregation, it’s a cruel, neglectful type of insecurity that keeps women from balancing the innocence of childhood with the disappointment of adulthood.

Being middle-aged and female has always suggested that women have passed their prime, not entered it. This film’s joy includes Juanita’s declaration of independence from fantasies that typically depict romance, as well as those that suggest approval is necessary for the heart and mind to grow together.

Maybe it is less emotional and introspective than other box-office hits; however, that does not diminish its cultural importance. With an open ending that directly challenges complete closure, Juanita is a film about triumph, freedom, and the bravery to pursue whatever form of healing the mind seeks.

A contemporary and blatantly honest slice into the interiority of minority mothers, this one omits a vulnerable wallflower. A direct interrogation of why guilt and shame should not be attached to refusal to breastfeed beyond lactation, its significance is its illumination of middle-aged minority women’s right to claim space for actual, not stereotypical, self-love.

For your reading pleasure, here are a few more titles by Sheila Williams, the author whose novel inspired Juanita:

• No Better Time

• The Secret Women

• Things Past Telling

And, additional titles that draw on themes of self-discovery/reinvention, like the film Juanita:

• Maame, by Jessica George

• The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho

• How Not to Drown in a Glass of Water, by Angie Cruz

• The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, by Rachel Joyce

As William Jefferson Clinton was nearing the end of his first presidential term, actress and writer Kasi Lemmons made her directorial debut with Eve’s Bayou, which premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival. Credited as the most successful independent film of 1997, it has since been preserved in the US National Film Registry.

Originally penned as a series of short stories inspired by childhood visits, it opens with a subtle reference to Code Noir/Codier Negro. Louisiana, once owned by France and Spain, permitted specific rights to the enslaved with citizenship, including authorization to purchase freedom, and to own businesses and property (including human chattel).

Set on the Bayou during the 1960s, it depicts a Black aristocracy passed down through education and land ownership. Featuring Eve, the middle child and family memory keeper, it explores how observation can be flawed and memory fallible because intergenerational trauma is a consequence of knowing.

Though considered significant, it isn’t autobiographical; however, its aesthetic still resonates. Notable for its exploration of memory, it challenges the prevailing perspective by intentionally depicting Black cultural legacy and power. Its core story is a retelling of *Oedipus Rex*, the play by Sophocles, and a prophetic tale of a king who, unaware, kills his father and marries his mother.

Introduced by Freud, an Oedipus Complex is a child’s unconscious sexual desire for the opposite sex parent and feelings of rivalry toward the same sex parent. Used to illustrate theory, the Complex has since been seen as a misinterpretation of the play’s theme of fate and the consequences of seeking truth.

Classified as Southern Gothic, with surreal cinematography, its narrative devices include bald cypress trees symbolizing grief and mourning, thunder representing a powerful call, spiders and snakes illustrating the connections between fate, free will, and change, and irises used to contrast messages. Dreams act as prophetic symbols of what is to come.

With the named protagonist representing inception and transition, and a linear timeline, viewers are navigated through the interior lives and dynamics of the Baptiste family. Like most Black families, its general complexity and trauma have immeasurable depth, and the rural, yet prosperous community, is gossipy, politically structured, and populated by a host of natural and supernatural beings with varying, if any, degree of respectability.

Because truth is situational, perceptions are limited to understanding, and memory is an unreliable narrator. Influenced by emotion, much like desire, it is the label most often applied to and interchanged with silence and lies. With its ability to be programmed, memory is the equivalent of dramatic irony—expressed through structure, with varying awareness, and contradictions.

This film’s depth lies in its ability to depict exclusion as middle-child syndrome, puberty as a hormonal yet tragic flaw, and blindness as profound and deliberate disillusionment. It explores the cultural blueprint that shapes the Black parent/child relationship from the perspective of fathers and daughters. Additionally, it aims to explain how the mythology of romance is intertwined with fostered father/daughter identity.

A coming-of-age story with a strong focus on the inner lives of Black girls and women, it explores the complexities of secrecy and the impact of hidden truths. A critique of the social structures that allow for fluid definitions of fidelity, it suggests that there is no divine explanation for its effects because the past isn’t true; rather, it is simply a woven web of perceived recollections.

An elegant and emotionally charged twist on violence as a refined Southern trait, it also implies that because the past is storied, it is deeply haunted by the unreliability of perception rather than by memory or recollections. Praised for boldly and exponentially stepping beyond the stereotypical, this one continues to resonate because family tragedy is usually rooted in betrayal.

Nearly three decades later, its slow pace feels like destiny when influenced by free will. The mystic is as disturbing as its examination of morality, and the complex layers of pretension are as rich and varied as Black culture.

A film about the dynamics of transformation, exclusion, and societal expectations, it was considered groundbreaking because it featured a prominent Black Southern family. Its influence hasn’t faded, nor is it unreliable, and its place in the canon remains significant.

For your reading pleasure and drawing on themes from Eve’s Bayou, here are similar books:

• Set on the Bayou:

  The Boatman’s Daughter, by Andy Davidson

• Exploring dangerous innocence:

  The Little Friend, by Donna Tartt

• Centering on a sibling’s perspective:

  Where the Lines Bleed, by Jesmyn Ward

• Confronting historical violence and trauma:

  When the Reckoning Comes, by LaTanya McQueen

• Exploring dark family secrets with supernatural elements:

  The Storycatcher, by Ann Hite