Based on Tarell McCraney’s In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue, Barry Jenkins’ extraordinary second film is as much his as it is that of James Laxton, whose precise cinematography tells a story in and of itself. Moonlight (2016) is the 16-year bildungsroman of Chiron, a queer black boy introduced to us during his silent scramble through the shrubs and back windows of Miami.  Chiron’s journey, split into three parts, is grounded in his evolving sense of self, an identity inextricable from the unresolvable conflict painfully familiar to minorities in America. Instead of adopting the wavering camera shot typical of the Boyhood genre, a sleep steadicam, classical score, and lush coloring reject the cinematic expectations tied to depictions of poverty, queerness, and blackness. Visually and otherwise, Moonlight is a film crafted to subvert expectations, defy categorization, and assert itself as one of the most beautiful works of our time.

Driven heavily by dialogue despite a reticent protagonist, Moonlight zips through years of plot and monumental events, choosing instead to unfold on dinner conversations and jukebox tunes. The wandering plot doesn’t sacrifice fleshed-out characters, though, and the wonderfully-acted Chiron (played at various ages by Alex Hibbert, Ashton Sanders, and Trevante Rhodes) isn’t alone in his multi-dimensional complexity. Neither Chiron’s drug-addicted mother, Paula, nor his father figure, Juan (who is also Paula’s drug dealer), slip into tragic symbols of their respective archetypes; rather, each is a well-defined character whose love for Chiron provokes serious inner conflict. Likewise, Kevin, Chiron’s schoolmate/friend/maybe-something-more, avoids the trap of becoming a lazy caricature used solely to drive plot. Moonlight’s universe of tangible characters packs an unsettling emotional punch in even the most restrained scenes. By focusing on specifics, Jenkins excels in making an intensely personal film that simultaneously projects a ubiquitous reality of American life.

Bathed in crisp reds, warm yellows, and glaring whites, Barry Jenkins’ Moonlight still manages to exude an unwavering blue through gorgeous, deliberate repetition. Blue is a defiant stroke of color throughout the film, appearing in Juan’s car, Chiron’s electric blue backpack, the antiseptic background of his high school, Kevin’s t-shirt, and elsewhere. Its repeated infusion, especially washed over the powerful last shot, references the origin story of McCraney’s play. Moonlight’s varying blueness is a claim of fluid identity, of active and passive self-possession, of nuanced and overwhelming self-expression, and of a constant yet ever-changing sense of self. Despite being a work whose power is in its dialogue, the brilliance of Moonlight isn’t easily described with words: the best articulation of it might be through color.