As if white people didn’t have enough privileges – for instance, never having to justify that you belong, like getting lost in an upscale neighborhood and not having the cops called on you and never experiencing being profiled by the cops for driving a certain kind of a car they think is out of your price range.
“12 Years a Slave” affected me differently than Quentin Tarantino’s “Django,” which in its caricature style held me spellbound or suspended in a place of imaginative wonder – the Black man was going to win and get the girl too in the end. “Twelve Years” moved slowly and by the time Northup’s ordeal ends we are thankful yet exhausted. I saw the film alone. I think it’s the kind of journey one should invite a companion on.