Atticus (Jonathan Majors) loves pulp fiction. He loves that “the heroes get to go on adventures on other worlds… defeat the monsters, save the day.” A trimmed Korean war veteran, usually dressed in a t-shirt and slacks, he’s traveling from Florida back home to Chicago. His father Montrose (Michael Kenneth Williams), who he shares a contentious relationship with, sent him a mysterious letter describing a “sacred” (or “secret”) birthright his son must claim. Except, now he’s missing.
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The only answer for his whereabouts might lay in Ardham, or as Atticus calls it, Lovecraft Country: the region within the northeast of America that H.P. Lovecraft set many of his famous horror stories. Like the pulpy novels Atticus devours, Lovecraft didn’t adore Black people. He wrote an infamous poem, “The Creation of N*ggers,” which espouses as much. In many ways, learning to love what doesn’t love you back is the genesis of not only Atticus’ story, but the tale of Black America.
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A Jordan Peele and J.J. Abrams-produced series, Misha Green developed “Lovecraft Country” from Matt Ruff’s novel of the same title into an ambitious examination of urban racial horrors, rural northeastern violence clothed in monsters and prejudice, and the occult. Filled with large set pieces, the ten-episode horror series “Lovecraft Country” is dizzying; poetic; and terrifying.
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In the span of sixty-eight minutes, the premiere entitled “Sundown” bridges the urban Black lifestyle of Chicago during the 1950s with rural northeastern Lovecraftian fright. Upon arriving back in Chicago, Atticus — or as others affectionately call him: “Tic” — visits his Uncle George (Courtney B. Vance, the calm heartbeat of the series). Both George and Tic share a passion for books, especially horror tales like “Dracula.” His family includes his impassioned astronomer wife, Hippolyta (Aunjanue Ellis), and his comic book drawing daughter, Diana (Jada Harris).
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Tic spends much of his time investigating his father’s whereabouts, tracing around Chicago and bumping into his long-lost friend, Leti (Jurnee Smollett). A confident lighting rod of a photographer and woman, Leti recently arrived back in the city, too, in hopes of staying with her blues swooning sister, Ruby (Wunmi Mosaku).
A credit to the glitzy production design, the city’s historic South Side comes alive as a vibrant summer milieu composed of retro Black-owned storefronts and neighborhood activities: kids playing stickball in the streets, children prancing in the cool spray of a fire hydrant’s water. The costumes also enliven the period, an array of chic threads as colorful as the neighborhood. The frames are dynamic, relying on long tracks and immersive crane shots, and a host of extras: The moments when Tic walks through the city’s streets or navigates the late-night neighborhood blues concert headlined by Ruby are portals into the past, and the generous use of extras give the neighborhood a completely lived-in feel.
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To accompany Tic, George, and Leti hitting the road to Ardham in search of Montrose, director Yann Demange, and Green, craft a poetic and stirring spoken word montage by combining images of racial-stereotyped advertisements: billboards of Aunt Jemima and white families in search of the American dream — with the bigoted acts of aggressions many whites launch toward Tic. All the while the words spoken by James Baldwin during his 1965 debate with conservative theorist William F. Buckley play over the events.
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Green and co. utilize these types of stirring sequences in almost every episode, employing audio of Gil Scott-Heron’s spoken-word poem “Whitey’s on the Moon,” Precious Angel Ramirez’s “Be True,” and Ntozake Shange’s “Dark Phrases.” The way Green recontextualizes these poems, far outside of their intended audience, is just as potent as the words themselves. The final ten minutes of “Sundown” frighteningly combine the real horror felt by Black people traveling rural roads during the 1950s — the looming specter of pernicious state troopers patrolling “Sundown” towns where Blacks weren’t allowed to stay past dusk — with man-eating creatures, makes for the scariest final act of 2020.
Episodes two through five vary greatly from the novel. Episode two “Whitey’s on the Moon” takes the series from creature feature to the occult, and opens with a gut-busting needle drop. At Ardham, the trio meets Samuel Braithwhite (Tony Goldwyn): the leader of a cult called “The Sons of Adam.” With the help of his daughter, Christina (Abbey Lee), and her companion, William (Jordan Patrick Smith), he holds a sinister interest in Tic. Majors, an already established talent after “Da 5 Bloods” and “The Last Black Man in San Francisco,” can’t help but make shyness, emotional damage, and rage into short stories unto themselves: emoting depth in even the slightest of bodily movements.
Episode three, “Holy Ghost,” is an intense haunted house story covering issues of redlining, pioneering — when Black people moved into white neighborhoods despite Chicago’s segregative housing system — and Black bodily trauma. Smollett provides unending vitality throughout “Lovecraft Country,” but especially in “Ghost Story,” which is a tour de force of a woman haunted by the outside, inside, and the regret in her heart.
Despite its name, “A History of Violence,” a lighthearted romp of a treasure hunt combining references to “Journey to the Center of the Earth,” Indiana Jones,” “The Mummy,” and “Pirates of the Caribbean” is an accessible popcorn flick. Kenneth Williams as the violently alcoholic Montrose displays a tragic spirit searching for redemption, even if such a quest is hopeless, with unflinching vulnerability. However, a moment involving an intersex character might leave some uneasy with regard to the writing around her.
All of the installments mix relevant era-defining songs with contemporary needle drops, the latter offering inconsistent returns, except in the fifth episode “Strange Case.” In one poignant scene at a ballroom competition, accompanied by the wistful notes of Moses Sumney’s dance song “Lonely World,” Green crafts a poignant expression of self-acceptance, with regards to LGBTQ identity, akin to the invigorating Moby‘s “In This World” club scene in Cory Finly’s “Bad Education.” And Mosaku, who might be the secret weapon of the series, gives performances that beg for a series of her own.
“Lovecraft Country” deals with generational trauma, female independence — the nature of racial, sexual, and gender identity — fate and faith: the occult, and redemption. Past “Sundown,” the series never quite captures the same magic as the first expansive episode. Instead, the pacing of the near-hour long installments feature spasms of crawling. Nevertheless, the flirting beauty of the most powerful scenes, the fleeting profoundness of when poetic prose are strewn across lyrical montages, and the authentic, psychological performances by the cast, make Green’s “Lovecraft Country” a woozy, intoxicating genre odyssey. [B+]
“Lovecraft Country” debuts on HBO on August 16.
