‘Moonlight’ Is a Masterclass in How to Tell a Love Story Without Relying on Dialogue

Moonlight, Barry Jenkins’ Oscar-winning drama, is as much a romance as it is a coming-of-age story. Told in three chapters, it’s the tale of one withdrawn boy with three names—Little, Chiron, and Black—coming to terms with himself at different points in his life. As a child in Miami, Little is abused and neglected by his crack addict mother; as a teenager, Chiron is bullied and beaten at school;  and as an adult man, Black is an ex-convict caught up in the world of drug dealing. But through it all, Chiron is drawn to his friend Kevin.

As teenagers (played by Ashton Sanders and Jharrel Jerome), they share one passionate night on the beach, before Kevin is coerced by the school bully into punching his lover in the face—prompting Chiron to retaliate violently against that bully, which gets him arrested. Over ten years later, Chiron—who now goes by Kevin’s old nickname for him, Black—reconnect at the diner where Kevin works (now played by actors Trevante Rhodes and Andre Holland).

If you’re one of those people who, in the face of Moonlight‘s nine Oscar nominations and rave reviews, declare the film “overrated” and “boring,” I am more than happy to inform you that you were not paying close enough attention. Luckily, you have another chance, now that the film is streaming on Netflix. Moonlight is not the kind of romance where the characters deliver sweeping, flowery speeches about the depths of the pools of each other’s eyes. Black, as he’s been his entire life, is painfully reserved to the point of total silence at times. Though he is not a man of many words, his infatuation with Kevin—and vice versa—reads loud and clear, thanks to entire non-verbal conversations Jenkins and the actors construct via body language.

As teenagers, Chiron and Kevin dance around each other. Chiron is always curled into himself, not daring to believe Kevin feels the way he does. Kevin is warm and affectionate, but masking his attraction with the manly bravado he assumes he’s supposed to feel.

On the beach, in a moment of solitude and vulnerability, Kevin drops that front, touching Chiron’s face in a way that clearly violates the unwritten straight bro code. Even then, Chiron can’t quite believe this isn’t a trap. He’s spent his entire life being beaten and bullied for feeling this way. As he leans in to kiss Kevin, he jerks back for a moment, as if he fears being punched in the face. (Which happens, later.)

That night on the beach changes Chiron. The way he holds himself completely transforms. Suddenly he is more comfortable in his own body, more open, and more relaxed. He is finally himself. We can imagine a future in which that beating at school never happened, and Chiron blossomed into himself at the age one is supposed to, rather than becoming the emotionally stunted man we meet later.

But the incident at school does happen. Chiron is arrested, and grows up to become Black. Black, like Chiron, has retreated into himself. He’s hardened now. He’s learned to protect himself. He holds himself confidently, but like teenage Kevin, it’s a front. Black keeps people afraid of him—as we see in his drug dealing—because that’s the only way he knows how to survive. Yet when Kevin calls him up, his entire demeanor changes in an instant. His hand trembles. His body shifts. Suddenly, he is vulnerable again.

It’s in this place of vulnerability that Black drives from Atlanta to Miami to visit Kevin at the diner where he now works as a cook. The scene that follows is a masterclass of sexual and romantic tension that, again, relies on body language over dialogue. As Kevin cooks Black the meal he promised him, he lovingly fingers the ingredients and ever-so-carefully plates the food. When the two men sit across from each other at the small booth table, they nervously fidget with their plastic cups of wine. They constantly touch their own lips, seemingly unaware that they are doing so.

When Kevin goes to the jukebox to play the song that reminded him of Black—Barbara Lewis’s “Hello Stranger”—he rubs his neck in a manner that is both self-conscious and sensual.

Back at Kevin’s apartment, Black opens up in a way he never has before: He confesses that no one has touched them since that night on the beach. Kevin doesn’t respond—he just smiles. After all that build up, the final shot of the film is Black laying his head on Kevin’s shoulder while Kevin gently strokes his hair. It’s a tender moment, rather than a sexual one, because what Black has been denying himself goes deeper than sex; it’s basic human connection.

Black and Kevin’s words to each other do matter, but it’s possible to watch their scenes on mute and still follow their story. (Though I would heartily dissuade you from doing so, lest you miss out on the beautiful soundtrack from Nicholas Britell.) So if you, like Black, have been depriving yourself of something beautiful, do yourself a favor and queue up Moonlight on Netflix. You won’t regret it.

Where to stream Moonlight