Blaxploitation has existed for all of my lifetime, essentially without a cure. The best filmmakers have come up with is either ignoring or just not indulging in the genre, which is hardly a response to it. Have we ever actually tried looking at the genre, saying, “ok. I see that. Now let’s go in a different direction?” I’m certain this has been done, but never quite as expertly or uniquely as American Fiction, the revenge of erudition at the expense of cliché in black film.
Thelonious Ellison (aka “Monk,” get it?) is a failed writer. His failure stems neither from an inability to produce, nor even from an inability to produce quality. His failure comes from inability to find an audience. This is failure I know better than most. If you’re reading my words, you are a rare, rare bird. I appreciate you, but it will take thousands upon thousands more of you to make my words come to life. For most writers, this is their truth. Monk (Jeffrey Wright) is tired of the stereotypes. He’s tired of being billed as a “black” writer. He’s tired of the system which requires that he be an emissary for the black experience while getting so little out of it.
Meanwhile, Monk’s family is falling apart. He has extended battles with every person in his life. His sister Lisa, a doctor, just died of a heart attack. His brother Cliff (Sterling K. Brown), a plastic surgeon, came out of the closet and was rewarded with a divorce. His mother has Alzheimer’s. She needs to be put in a home. Nobody can afford that. Personal life is aggravating the failed writer – his university requested he take time off from his teaching before he lashes out in the wrong way. Would he? Yeah, probably. And, on top of that, while his new book goes “pfffft,” he is confronted with an exact example of a successful black author when highly educated rival Sintara Golden (Issa Rae) presents national best seller We’s Lives in the Ghetto, a least-common-denominator novel of inner-city woe that appears itself to be the epitome of Blaxploitation.
It’s not difficult to see how this book gets under Monk’s skin. He spends most of his life indignant at getting the worst of both ends: wanting to be treated exclusively by the content of his character, which fails to get his books sold, and watching the system promote distinctly unimpressive representations of black culture because white elitists can’t imagine anything different from the black experience. Ever been passed over for promotion? Ever seen that promotion go to somebody 
you felt wasn’t as qualified? Now imagine that as your entire life and you get somewhere in the neighborhood of Monk’s experience.
So one evening, an alcohol-inspired Monk gets the nerve to write “My Pafaology,” his own fictional Blaxploitation narrative. His motivation is spite, and nothing more. This is his way of attacking the system that perpetuates racism by promoting uneducated black narratives.
And it sells.
And it sells like no book Monk has ever seen. White publishers and critics fall over themselves trying to ally with the “criminal” who penned such art. Yes, there’s some intense satire here, but is it that far from the truth? This is the entire problem I had with the success Tyler Perry enjoyed for years – his writing and directing is absolute crap; is this the best we can do when it comes to black talent? Perry’s success seemed to come at the expense of dozens of more talented black writers and directors. How is Monk so different? Meanwhile in the story, Monk’s life is now very different – he has the money and success he’s always desired, but only as his criminal alter-ego Stagg R. Leigh … and he’s embarrassed to let anybody in on the joke, because he’s not even a little proud of his most successful creation.
American Fiction is among the sharpest and funniest films of the year. And, yet, it’s also an inconvenient truth. We see that in the words of Monk’s publisher: “White people think they want the truth, but they don’t. They 
just want to be absolved.” You want to know why America sucks right now? It’s contained almost entirely in that thought. This is a wickedly fun watch for, pretty much, any educated audience of any color. American Fiction a strangely deep film, considering. It’s near hilarious how “black” Jeffrey Wright is presented when 1) his character doesn’t want that 2) he shies away from stereotypes and 3) Wright himself seems to be converging with David Cross on the same generic bald/beard look. Ultimately, this film asks the true nature of Blaxploitation. Are the clichés cliché … or is there something deeper in ghetto dialogue and plot that seems so basic? This film claims both and it’s worth listening to the results.
There once was a man called Monk
Who lived his life in a funk
So he wrote some trash
And raked in the cash
Cuz he couldn’t convince it was junk
Rated R, 117 Minutes
Director: Cord Jefferson
Writer: Cord Jefferson, Percival Everett
Genre: Making people think
Type of being most likely to enjoy this film: The cliché weary
Type of being least likely to enjoy this film: Trash peddlers
