This uncertainty, about what may or may not be, is the movie’s visual and thematic backbone, but it isn’t limited to the way spooky stories might physically manifest. At first, it takes subdued form, like a classroom assignment Liv gives Jasmine, which involves applying a critical racial lens to The Scarlet Letter, a reading Jasmine believes can’t be found in the text. However, their disagreement not only emanates outward in the plot (Jasmine files a dispute, which puts Liv’s tenure in jeopardy), but it unlocks the film’s approach to racial tension. At its core, Master is not only about the resurgence of overt racist horrors swept under the rug, but about trying to discern the meaning behind minor interactions, when they may — or may not — have ulterior motives.
Where a film like
Get Out was dependent on clarity of intent — the perturbed responses of its protagonist Chris (Daniel Kaluuya) drew a straight and knowing line between well-intentioned statements and their underlying meaning — Master instead obfuscates these answers. Statements, accusations, and even compliments are often uncanny, with shots lingering on the speaker, as if the camera were trying to suss out their meaning. These are met with reaction shots from Jasmine, Gail, and Liv that are far less certain. They don’t know, but some part of them always suspects, forcing them into a constant state of guarded-ness. They’re always on edge. To those who might levy accusations (at this film, or at any film, or at people in general) about reading racism into too many scenarios, Master responds in exacting fashion, as if to frame these very readings, even supposedly “unnecessary” ones, as a means to navigate the world — as mechanisms to survive an America where you can never truly be sure.
Many scenes are likely to conjure distinct memories for non-white students who attended mostly white universities; several, of course, apply to Black women in particular, like when Jasmine begins straightening her hair to fit in, or the way even white foreigners seem to find acceptance much more quickly than she does. Diallo crafts not only realistic moments that inject the characters’ outlooks with paranoia — like Jasmine walking into her dorm room to find her roommate Amelia (Talia Ryder) seated with a large group of all-white strangers, most of whom already know each other, and all of whom turn to stare at Jasmine — but she also draws on these images and turns them into heightened visions later on when Jasmine sleepwalks, and she begins hearing whispers in the air.
