Similar layers exist throughout the 10-episode saga. “The Underground Railroad” employs aspects from traditional slave narratives, including sadistic torture and villainy, but it builds off these graphic scenes instead of making them the focus. (The second episode feels like it’s calling out past movies and shows that defined Black characters primarily through pain, as white curators at a museum ostensibly founded to honor African American history emphasize cruelty over curiosity.) Later chapters also prove remarkable in their tenderness, as Jenkins’ trademark patience behind the camera builds romance and passion with powerful precision, establishing unique individual identities while fleshing out each subject, no matter how many scenes they get. Nothing in this world is untouched by slavery, and yet human nature at its purest still shines through, unvarnished, in far more characters and moments than anyone could imagine. On a Georgia plantation prior to the Civil War, a tall, blue-eyed, formerly free man named Caesar (Aaron Pierre) tries to convince Cora to run north. She refuses, at first, too tied to the people she’d have to leave behind and to the life she’d been born into, but eventually she relents. After all, her mother Mabel (Sheila Atim) left years ago, when Cora was little, and now she’s a local legend — admired for her courage and feared for the precarious example she’s set. Cora sees what happens to runaways who are caught, and so does the audience. These early scenes are horrifying enough to make you turn away yet illustrative of that very point: Anyone would want to run, but few could face such consequences.
Soon “The Underground Railroad” moves on from its plantation setting. On the run from an notorious slave catcher named Ridgeway (Joel Edgerton), Cora ventures into South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Indiana, where the distinct lands and citizens are nevertheless united in their inhospitable disposition toward Black people. The small town of Griffin, S.C. seems downright utopian compared to the merciless fields of Georgia, but appearances can be deceiving. (The episode plays out like a better hourlong version of “Them,” or a similar horror show drawing from history’s bleakest corners.) North Carolina wears its hatred on its sleeve: All Black people are outlawed, whether they’re slaves, free men, or anything in between — it’s a crime simply to exist. Tennessee and Indiana take on various identities depending on the episode. One hour sends Cora through hell on Earth, as she traipses over literal scorched Earth in search of hope amid desolation. Another entry discovers a welcoming community of wine-makers, where Cora can see a future beyond her next breath. (It’s a marvel to watch Jenkins’ camera rise and fall to mirror his subjects’ emotional states, soaring to impossible heights in good times and sinking into the dirt during their lowest points, finding tactile beauty in each shot.)
But really, any sort of rapid consumption would prove antithetical to Jenkins’ overall mission. What’s so striking about “The Underground Railroad” is how richly it captures the interiority of its characters, no matter how much time they’re given. Cora steers nearly every episode, which provides the talented newcomer Mbedu ample time to push her freedom-seeking journeywoman through staggering emotional terrain; with little-to-no overt exposition, Cora’s choices always add up, even as her internal progression grows more complex by the day. The sturdy episodic arcs allow Jenkins to dip into other people’s stories, including an astounding, unexpected three-part arc for Ridgeway, of all people. Edgerton deserves as much credit as his crew for avoiding the pitfalls common to villains of the antebellum South; framed as Cora’s unwanted savior as often as her unrelenting hunter, there’s a fiery guilt driving this complicated slave catcher, and Edgerton — along with his amateur partner Homer, played with maturity beyond his years by Chase Dillon — softens and hardens his antagonist with enough regularity to keep audiences from knowing what to expect, yet still knowing Ridgeway on a human level. This brings us back to Grace. Without delving any further into spoiler territory, part of her resolution is carried out as a wordless retort to a line in the previous episode. During some drunken philosophizing, Ridgeway says, “The will of the spirit is nothing compared to the heart that’s overwhelmed with hate.” As ugly as it sounds, there’s truth to his claim, and Jenkins’ story lives in that hate long enough for its power to sink in. But Grace won’t let it consume her. Hate burns like fire through “The Underground Railroad,” and its protagonists feel the heat. Some are even badly burned, but none are ever engulfed. As the end credits roll, they stand in peaceful, loving defiance, one character after the next laughing and smiling together, or simply staring back at you, dear viewer, asking for their resilience, their experience, to be acknowledged. Barry Jenkins & Co. have done just that. Before the final needle drop, it’s impossible not to feel closer to this world and everyone in it. Cora to Caesar, Ridgeway to Grace, their lives burst free from the confined corners of history, recontextualizing the American experience — from the past through the present, and from fiction, finding truth.
Grade: A
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