DRIVEWAYS, MISS JUNETEENTH and the People We Need

Andrew Ahn’s DRIVEWAYS is built on small moments that contain universes. It starts with a woman named Kathy (Hong Chau) and her young son Cody (Lucas Jaye) contemplating what to do with a cluttered house that previously belonged to Kathy’s late sister. When Cody befriends an elderly next-door neighbor named Del (Brian Dennehy), a moving story of unlikely companionship begins to unfold.

Kathy, Cody, and Del are at three different stages of life. Del, a widower and a veteran, is entering his final act. Cody is basically brand new and curious about everything he encounters. Looking on from the amorphous middle of her life’s narrative, Kathy celebrates Cody’s brilliance by nicknaming him “professor” and consistently fighting for him to feel accepted. In addition to inhabiting three very different phases of existence, each character is enriched by the specific performers cast to play them. Hong Chau is a Vietnamese-American woman who often plays supporting characters. Brian Dennehy, a widely recognized on-screen presence, plays an older veteran riding the waves of grief and loneliness. Lucas Jaye is a child actor given the space to deliver a layered, three-dimensional performance. These actors’ identities are neither performatively emphasized nor muted. They simply imbue the leading trio with something that feels refreshingly unconventional.

Del and Cody’s friendship delivers missing pieces they didn’t realize they needed. Cody longs for a father figure and Del longs for the feeling of longing. As they make sandwiches, read on Del’s porch, and watch television together, they slowly begin to feed each other’s souls. The journey from parallel driveways to porch to living room subtly illustrates the incremental nature of human closeness. Kathy and Cody are initially lonely because the house they’re fixing up is alien and aggressively inhospitable. While they spend time and energy making the physical space more conducive to moving forward, Del’s tenderness and empathy make them feel truly at home.

Kathy’s grief gradually overwhelms her as she realizes she has to shepherd it into some kind of new normal. She eventually adjusts to working remotely and eating pizza on the floor of her dead sister’s house. Little by little, she and Cody clear out a staggering amount of debris that includes dusty furniture and a dead cat. While Kathy steadily makes the only kind of progress that makes sense, the gaping distance she’d carved out while her sister was still alive haunts her in quiet moments. The process of putting the house up for sale exposes her carefully managed vulnerability, a character trait conveyed with tremendous skill by Hong Chau. In a 2020 Vulture profile of Chau, Andrew Ahn is quoted as saying “You get the sense she has a secret from you. That secret feels like the character’s humanity.” 

Andrew Ahn’s gift for depicting the seismic nature of small kindnesses breathes life into scenes that include a charming attempt at a roller rink birthday party, a lively vet center bingo session, and a funny exchange between children about manga. Riveting monologues are delivered while characters are driving through the night and sitting on stairs. Brian Denehy’s real-life passing adds even greater depth to a truly sublime performance as Del. Overall, the film makes a compelling argument for embracing the potential beauty in every waking moment.

Channing Godfrey Peoples’ MISS JUNETEENTH opens with a woman named Turquoise Jones (Nicole Beharie) traveling back in time. In 2004, she won a Miss Juneteenth pageant and a full-ride scholarship that didn’t quite live up to its promise of a substantially better life. As she clutches her dusty crown and yellow pageant dress 15 years later, she fondly flashes back to that glimmering moment when more pathways felt possible. In the present, she works two jobs—at Baker Funeral Home and Wayman’s BBQ & Lounge in Fort Worth, Texas—so she can give her daughter Kai (Alexis Chikaeze) as many options as possible.

Kai’s gaze is trained on forms of liberation Turquoise deems antithetical to Miss Juneteenth as an idea. Mother and daughter repeatedly clash over clothing choices, dating privileges, and Kai’s passion for dance. Turquoise’s attempts to “correct” Kai’s aspirations—and even her grammar—reflect internalized ideas about respectability and the way a young Southern Black woman should present in order to make something of herself. While a Miss Juneteenth pageant coordinator retells the story of Black enslaved people in Galveston, Texas being informed by Union soldiers of their formal emancipation on June 19, 1865, Kai texts on her phone until her hand is lightly slapped away by Turquoise in an attempt to make her daughter pay attention. While the history being revisited is equally relevant to both Kai and Turquoise, only Turquoise feels the need to wear it at all times. A tragic implication of the film is that Kai will likely grow up to feel similar burdens as a default feature of adulthood.

By revisiting her moment of glory in 2004, Turquoise gives herself microscopic windows to inhabit the innocence her daughter unknowingly enjoys. As a single Black mother in a small Texas town, she is consistently reduced to either someone in need of saving or someone whose job it is to save everyone. Several men—including Kai’s father—court her in ways that often compromise the space she has worked extremely hard to carve out for herself. She navigates spaces like Wayman’s BBQ & Lounge on busy evenings as though she’s a beloved matriarch, all the while juggling financial and relationship woes that only make a Miss Juneteenth win for Kai feel more urgent.

Kai sees and understands Turquoise like no-one else can. Alexis Chikaeze and Nicole Beharie bring a lived-in intimacy to their on-screen relationship that makes arguments appropriately tense and expressions of love more potent. 

The idea of chasing what appears to be a facade of victory—even though there would be very real scholarship money attached—doesn’t initially resonate with Kai because she feels like so much possibility exists elsewhere for her and her mother. Turquoise has done such a good job making Kai believe in her own potential that an abruptly prescriptive path feels condescending. Still, Kai appears to understand the practical benefits of securing a financial pathway to college. She wants to be able to help her mother put down some of what she has carried for so long. 

Several cinematic choices throughout the film capitalize on the power of visual storytelling to develop the two main characters. In one instantly iconic shot that functions as a visual thesis statement for the entire film, Turquoise is shown sitting on her porch in a red dress, boots, and her crown. Her pose and facial expression convey contemplation and longing. A faint glimmer in her eyes reveals the vulnerability bubbling beneath her resilient exterior. Another example of compelling visual storytelling that recurs in the film places Kai and Turquoise in chairs next to each other. They are always looking straight ahead but from different perspectives, the gap between them forming a valley. A notable shift in this dynamic defines a climactic moment in the film: Kai finally bridging the gap between mother and daughter by lovingly resting her head on Turquoise’s shoulder. They ultimately learn how to survive while caring for each other in the ways that count.

MISS JUNETEENTH is a gorgeously made portrayal of a particular kind of Black femininity. In an Austin-American Statesman film review by Graham Cumberbatch, Channing Godfrey Peoples is quoted as saying “Being a Black woman in Texas, you walk different, talk different ...There are nuances.” The writer/director’s love for her, cast, crew, and home are evident in every frame.

MISS JUNETEENTH, a 2019 AFS Grant Recipient.