Kathryn Bigelow’s Detroit is set on July 25-26, 1967, when the Algiers Motel was raided in search of a non-existent sniper. Racist police used the raid as an excuse to torture and murder black people, ultimately killing three men. The incident was merely one aspect of the racially charged 12th Street Riot, in which 32 black people were killed by police men and security guards, and 7,200 people were arrested, most of them black.
Bigelow’s desire to highlight this still-too-relevant tale of police brutality and racism is admirable; however, there’s a difference between commenting on horrific violence and merely shoving it under a spotlight. Bigelow’s film does the latter, becoming a disturbing, relentless representation of violence against black bodies, while saying very little about race, the justice system, police brutality or its victims.
Part of the issue is Mark Boal’s screenplay, which focuses on a few victims, such as Larry (sensitive, expressive Algee Smith), an aspiring Motown star, and meek security guard Melvin (an empathetic John Boyega). Yet these characters remain underdeveloped and one-dimensional, existing only as victims defined by interactions with their oppressors – oppressors who get more screentime.
Will Poulter’s sadistic policeman Krauss and the terrifying physical and psychological violence he inflicts becomes a focal point of Detroit. His cruelty is obvious, but Bigelow never truly examines the system which allows men like him to prosper.
The director’s action feels visceral and immediate, thanks to her use of docu-style handheld camera and archived footage. But as she zooms in on every blow inflicted upon black skin without lending the same attention to context or commentary, Detroit feels like a bleakly exhausting invasion thriller, which ironically normalises the image of violence against black bodies without explicitly indicting it.