Get Out

Directed By: Jordan PeeleWritten By: Jordan PeeleStarring: Daniel Kaluuya, Allison Williams, Bradley Whitford, Catherine Keener, Lil Rel Howery

To paraphrase a Stephen King qu

ote often cited by British film critic Mark Kermode, and cited once before on this blog, there are three tiers of terror: on the bottom there is The Gross-out, terror via splatter and gore—a brand of terror made familiar through Hollywood’s plethora of blood-addled teen slashers and slimy B-movies. On the second tier we find Horror—that moment of being startled, a deformed creature leaping out from behind a corner and jacking your heart rate. The apex of terror however is something more intuitive, more intangible. For King, the height of terror is the sense that something isn’t right, that there is something invisible stalking you, that there’s something terrible in pending—it’s that deep-seated feeling of unease, readable only with the gut. It’s within this tier that Jordan Peele’s Get Out finds residence, a film which burrows under the skin to effects as exhilarating as they are evocative.

Ostensibly, everything is fine in the world Peele presents, but our instincts tell us otherwise. We can see that things are a little too mannered and contrived. There’s a sense of the uncanny, one which calls to mind the perturbed tone elicited by David Lynch in works such as Mulholland Drive, Lost Highway and Twin Peaks, terror driven more by atmosphere and the peculiarity of movements than the presence of weapons and monsters.

The key, one of at least, to Get Out’s genius is that it is these exact peculiarities and moments of awkwardness, the moments which drive the film’s unease, that also enable the film’s social satire. The same off-kilter interaction will be disquieting in one light, and a cringe-worthy snapshot of racial ignorance in another; case in point: a wealthy, white gentleman will volunteer his racial liberalism in a way that’s both suspicious and comically try-hard—“hey you know, I know Tiger Woods!” one man says. With acquaintances like that, how could he be racist?

The opening scene of Get Out tells us we are in a horror film, a young black man strolls through an unnervingly perfect neighbourhood at night, lost and unsure of where to go, until a car begins to tail him and our suspicions of the neighbourhood confirmed. But when we first meet Chris (Daniel Kaluuya), an African American, and his girlfriend Rose (Alison Williams),

a white woman, things are shaping up like Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Rose and Chris are taking a road trip to meet Rose’s parents—her father Dean, a neurosurgeon (Bradley Whitford), and her mother Missy, a hypnotherapist (Catherine Keener).

Rose hasn’t even bothered to mention Chris’s colour to her parents—they’re liberals after-all, race to them is a non-factor. Chris knows better though, one’s trepidations regarding race aren’t always apparent to others. Indeed, one’s racial trepidations may not even be apparent to themselves.

When Chris and Rose arrive on Missy and Dean’s doorstep, Chris is swiftly embraced with hugs and excitement and an enthusiasm that borders on hostile in its overtness. Soon after, Dean gives Chris a tour of the estate. Dean tells Chris his Dad knew Jesse Owens, he warns Chris about a “black mould” that needs to be eradicated in the basement, he senses that Chris is conscious of the home’s exclusively black attendants, attendants who appear to have had some quasi-lobotomy as they wear exaggerated smiles and robotically sift through their duties. “I would have voted for Obama a third time if I could” Dean says to put his guest at ease.

Part of why Get Out is so fascinating is the brand of racism it examines. There are no rednecks or neo Nazis to speak of in Peele’s America, no pitch forks or flaming torches or hate fuelled diatribes. The racism in Get Out consists of generalisations made unconsciously by people who are polite and neat and even friendly. It’s the white liberal elite that Peele puts under the microscope, people who consider themselves advocates for equal

ity. People who proactively defend against any lingering racial thoughts they themselves might have, as if to broadcast at all times when a black person is present “I am not a racist”. People who in broadcasting their alleged acceptance of those who are different merely purport the idea that there is a difference, all whilst patting themselves on the back for their lack of violent bigotry and what they falsely perceive to be true empathy for their fellow man. It’s a racism, truth be told, that many of us are likely guilty of to some extent (myself included), and it’s a racism, whilst less extroverted than that of a proud bigot, that’s just as toxic in its being bred from ignorance.

So many high-profile films in the past six months have been devoted to the black experience—Moonlight, A United Kingdom, Fences, Loving, Hidden Figures—the fact that Peele is able to find a fresh but equally worthy line of enquiry into race is in itself a major feat. How stirring and out-right exciting this line of enquiry is in its realisation is another accomplishment altogether.

Ostensibly, things become less ok as the film progresses, with Peele following America’s post-racial racism to an entirely absurd conclusion, albeit a conclusion that all the while illuminates a very real concern. This foray into absurdity may be reckless storytelling for some, but Peele’s comedic undercurrent is sure to qualify said absurdity, just as his slow burning thrills and championing of atmosphere are sure to qualify the film’s one-too-many cheap jump scares, the best of which comes in an early seen along a highway. The jump scares do play their role in establishing the volatility and anything-can-happen pulse of the film, but they remain an inevitably lazy means of coaxing a reaction.

There is another, perhaps less intentional, side-effect to these jump scares however. It’s easy to forget just how fun Get Out is underneath all of its scathing satire and pressing politics; the occasional jolt—something from the middle Horror tier—works wonders in whipping us back to our helpless moviegoer state, to allow us to enjoy the film in a more primal, populist fashion, before Peele challenges the viewer once more by reflecting our most entrenched racial thoughts back at us. It’s this capacity to pivot between mainstream thrills and probing satire that allows Get Out to be that rare film that’s as stirring upstairs as it is in the stomach—cerebral and visceral by equal measure, a malleable thriller that has us hopelessly eating out of its director hand.

Rating:

3.75/4