She wished to find out about this hazardous business of “passing,” this breaking away from all that was familiar and friendly to take one’s chance in another environment, not entirely strange, perhaps, but certainly not entirely friendly.
― Nella Larsen, Passing
The act of passing involves a person living their life as another race than their born identity. One who passes accepts both the risks and rewards involved. In the 1920s, during a racially fraught social climate, many mixed-race individuals would “pass” as white to bypass social limitations based on race. By passing as a different race, an individual transforms their identity. Passing often forgoes the truth for a sense of belonging. Individuals who practiced the act frequently thought it would help them better define themselves externally. Belonging to a social milieu, the white “standard,” through passing must have felt less daunting than facing a hazardous, racist environment.
Author Nella Larsen stresses how perception and constructed realities influence two Black women in her 1929 novel, Passing. Nearly one hundred years after its publication, Rebecca Hall made her directing debut adapting Larsen’s novel. Hall’s Passing (2021) film stays true to the spirit of the text. As a mixed-race woman herself, Hall imbues her film with personal touches only someone familiar with the subject matter could employ.
What strikes me about Hall’s film is how well the slight changes work in favour of an on screen adaptation. The novel delves deep into the trenches of protagonist Rene’s head. Hall not only evokes the tension from viewing events through Rene’s viewpoint, but also furthers the ambiguity and trickery through alternating camera shots. Any filmmaker is challenged by the medium when adapting a text where the words give insight into the character’s headspace. Whereas Larsen’s novel does have this advantage (especially in regards to the gay subtext, but more on that later), Passing (2021) deftly seizes its chance to portray subtext visually.
Both mediums share a related storyline without much deviance. One summer in the 1920s, Harlem resident Irene Redfield rekindles a relationship with her high school classmate Clare Kendry, who is now passing as white. Clare demonstrates a cavalier attitude toward passing, despite living a life of luxury with her wealthy white husband Jack Bellew who is unaware of Clare’s Black heritage. But when Clare reconnects with her old friend Rene, she wants to explore her old identity as a Black woman whilst maintaining her passing façade. As Clare intrudes further on Irene’s life – her home, her husband, and even her sexuality – the morally strict Irene develops dangerous envy and paranoia toward the woman who relishes danger.
Passing, both the book and the adaptation, examine the psychological impact of race and identity on its two Black women. The film converts the psychological aspects from Irene’s third-person limited point-of-view in the novel through intimate cinematography, shot in black and white with a tightened 4:3 aspect ratio. Passing is a story about perspective. In Larsen’s narrative, the readers only know what Irene presents. We have access to her internal thoughts and judgments, so the novel’s reality remains filtered through Irene’s perceptions.
Hall similarly controls the narrative through framing. Close-ups are used when shot-reverse-shots focus on the expressive emotions lingering both on and under the surface of the women’s interactions. At times, Hall offers just a glimpse at an alternate viewpoint. Audiences watch Irene observing Clare from afar, jealousy grafted onto her face when Clare interacts with Irene’s husband Brian. However, other angles suggest, just for a moment, that Irene may be imagining the close, flirtatious rapport between Clare and Brian. Larsen’s novel details Irene’s distrust toward Clare often. The exemplary acting performances and directing epitomise Irene’s on-page interior monologues.
The film also emphasises psychological tension through character changes. During the scene when Irene enters Clare’s opulent home for the first time in the novel, another mixed-race woman joins the duo. Irene is surprised by the woman’s presence, almost envious that another person is intruding on her time with Clare. These feelings only supplement the myriad textual implications that Irene is passing – passing as a straight woman. Significantly though, this woman is present when Clare’s husband Jack expresses his hatred toward Black people and calls Clare a partial slur as a “nickname.” Following the incident, Irene and the woman discuss their shock toward Jack’s behaviour and Clare’s drive to pass when she is married to a virulent racist. The woman provides an outlet for Irene. They vent their shared, pent-up feelings, knowing their experience was not a singular one.
Alternately, the film reduces this scene from four to three by excluding the other woman completely. Only Clare and Irene share unexpressed reactions through penetrating eye contact. Without an additional person and without Irene having someone else to validate her feelings, the scene hones its focus. Alone, Irene must guard her facial demeanour until she finally steps out of the house. Tension drives upward without a real climax. There is no catharsis for Irene in the film, merely horror.
Another character change – a personality change – between the mediums involves Brian, Irene’s husband. Larsen’s novel paints Brian in a much harsher light. There, he is detached, easily annoyed with Irene. Brain talks about moving to South America and voices continual frustration over his Blackness affecting him finding well-paying work as a doctor. He makes these statements in the film as well, but in the book, his anger comes across in spades. Irene and Brian’s bristling relationship makes her irritated and more prone to further jealousy when she sees Clare as a threat to their marriage. More so, Larsen writes how Brian’s actions toward Irene and their children compel her to think of motherhood as a “curse.” Turmoil seeps off the pages in Larsen’s Passing.
Hall portrays Brian more amicably in the film adaptation. Audiences are invited into their private bedroom scenes where they discuss their marriage, children, and Clare without malice. Brian does evolve – at least from Irene’s perspective – from worn-down to more jovial as Clare makes her presence known in their household. Yet, the jealousy Irene experiences impacts viewers immensely because Brian comes off as so good-natured. The differences in Brian’s character ultimately change how we respond to Irene’s character. Are her feelings more warranted if Brian is a nice guy versus a meaner guy? Do we side with Irene more when Brian displays kinder attributes? Or are we more inclined to understand Irene’s viewpoint when she’s not on the best terms with her husband? Both versions force us to reflect, which means both do their job in provoking reactions. But audiences must also take Irene’s closeted sexuality into account when analysing her resentful attitudes toward Brian.
In terms of adapting the overtly gay subtext from Larsen’s novel, Hall’s Passing approaches the subject matter carefully. Larsen doesn’t shy away from indicating Irene’s attraction toward Clare. In the film, furtive glances occur frequently between the women. Their lips often seem partially open, as if they mean to speak words trapped within their mouths. There’s a delicate balance at stake, and Irene proves she will do anything not to disrupt the order of things. Irene will not pass as white, nor will she ever admit she is passing in terms of her sexuality. Actors Tessa Thompson and Ruth Negga’s sensual performances are sublime. Their high-calibre acting convey the thin boundaries between Irene and Clare expressing these romantic nuances and repressing their attraction. The film’s overtone is clear, even while taking a subtler slant toward channelling this “passing” connotation the book viscerally communicates.
Rebecca Hall’s film closely follows Nella Larsen’s novel while bringing contemporary aspects into the mix. Passing shows how desire, limited perceptions, and personal enlightenment alter how we view others and ourselves. Both mediums tell a resonant tale about race and the pitfalls of rejecting the pieces of our identities that shape us as individuals.
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