Long Live the Queen - Black Is King
Beyoncé is a fearsome force. Many argue she is the greatest living live performer. In recent years, her music has shifted from the kind of bubblegum bops and formulaic ballads that often top the charts to more thoughtfully composed and introspective work. She came into her own on the self-title Beyoncé, but it was really with 2016’s Lemonade that she reached new heights. Both were “visual albums,” but with with Lemonade, she found herself in the mode of storyteller—weaving a tale of identity, infidelity and self-healing in the most revealing work of her career. The rapturous reception was warranted.
So with Black Is King, many expected Beyoncé to again reach those artistic heights. She was expected to marry crisp visuals with a pure vision and leave audiences rapt at her artistry. For some, Black Is King might do that, and over time, in may grow in estimation. But for now, it is hard not to be critical of the final product, even if you have to applaud effort. If nothing else, she got everyone talking.
The film is a visual repackaging of the album The Lion King: The Gift. It features a range of musical stylings from everyone from Tierra Whack to Burna Boy, with distinct African voices propelling the rhythmic soundscape. There are several tracks that thump and several others that waft over you. All in all, it feels like a complete production with very few audible low points.
The visuals laid over these tracks are sumptuous offerings of the African diaspora. We see African faces, African-American faces, and any number of sights meant to plant your feet firmly in the continent. Kelly Rowland, Lupita Nyong’o, Naomi Campbell, Blue Ivy, Jay-Z, Tina Knowles, Sir and Rumi Carter—all of these faces are shown in a decidedly regal framing. But taken as a whole, it is hard not to feel like this is simply the Wakandafication of Africa, leveraging African iconography for financial gain. There are times when the lyrics simply don’t aline with the visuals—like Beyoncé taking pride in the “coils” of her natural hair, while wearing a wig. It makes this seem like it’s meant for the glossy pages of Vogue rather than the conscious Black consumer in need of uplift.
As a film, it is dizzying—in a good way. The images rarely linger and the tastes you get make you want more. There are few dull moments and viewers will likely find themselves transfixed. If it were 30% shorter, it would be an ideal entertainment product. As it is, however, you can’t help but feel like it is a touch self indulgent. The connective tissue is readings by Beyoncé, but it never exactly feels like it is the work of James Baldwin. Instead, it comes across as meandering paragraphs that only serve to remind you of its thesis—it is pride for pride’s sake, which, to be fair, might be exactly what we need right now.
I am grateful for the shine Beyoncé has given to incredible artists like Yemi Alade and Shatta Wale. If every uber-successful artist used their platform in service of others in this way, the world would be better off. I just wonder what this would look like if it were more than a celebration—if it were more in-tune with our moment. What would happen if it argued for more than self-respect and acknowledgement of our own greatness? What would happen if it argued for a change in our circumstance. In many ways, it seems packaged for the moment without having properly read the room. You must respect the ambition, but it could have been so much more. With a coherent and targeted message, this could have been a watershed moment. Instead, however great the music, it is likely a boon for Disney’s subscriber base and little else. Time will tell if we view this as the civil rights statement it could have been.
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