In The Forty-Year-Old Version, Radha Blank—a New York City playwright—plays a variation of herself: a Black creative type, nearing mid-life in a stalled career, whose self-deprecation veers precariously toward self-loathing, until a few unexpected developments bring about a U-turn toward self-love.
That may sound maudlin and navel-gazing, but it turns out Blank—who also wrote and directed the film—isn’t capable of such qualities. Witheringly funny and willing to explore her own (her character’s?) flaws, Blank brings a vibrant brand of comic honesty to the screen. The Forty-Year-Old Version is peppered with great little jokes, some in the performances (while trying to pander to an insufferable, independent theater producer in his office, she desperately waves the patchouli smoke in the air toward her face) and some in the material (there’s an aside about an “integrated” production of August Wilson’s Fences). But that doesn’t mean the movie is slight. Just as Radha begins exploring a new creative outlet—spitting rhymes about the realities of middle age to the beats of an underground producer named D (newcomer Oswin Benjamin)—she’s also approached by a notable, White Broadway producer (Reed Birney), who is known for pandering “poverty porn,” to stage her play about gentrification. It’s a crossroads for Radha, one that forces her to consider, at the end of the day, why she wants to create.
As Radha wrestled with her own conscience concerning these questions, The Forty-Year-Old Version forced me to wrestle with mine. The film’s depiction of “progressive” theater in particular—where White gatekeepers water down Radha’s material, while eagerly greenlighting a “Harriet Tubman musical”—challenged me to think about what I praise in Black art—and why. Radha herself is accused by D at one point of hanging out with him just so she can take a “trip to the Black terrain.” How can those outside of a community honestly engage with art from that community without doing the same?
Even as it challenged me, The Forty-Year-Old Version also moved me in ways that reach beyond cultural identity. There is a through line in the movie of lost mothers—three characters, including Radha, mention that their moms have recently died. For Radha, in particular, this isn’t something she’s been willing to truly process. (There are a series of ignored voicemail messages from her brother about the need to clean out their mother’s apartment.) In a powerhouse scene late in the film, D improvises a rhyme, “Mamma May I,” in which he speaks words of love and appreciation directly to his own late mother. After a moment, he softly invites Radha to take a turn, which she does, confronting her mother’s death—directly—for the first time. (Their quiet wordplay is captured in black-and-white silhouette, as if the camera wants to keep its distance from this private exchange.)
“Mamma May I” is just one of the original songs written for The Forty-Year-Old Version (Blank and Benjamin are both credited). “This is 40,” “This Some Bullshit,” and “F.Y.O.V.”—all written by Blank and at turns hilarious and biting—are also highlights. Adding to the aesthetic texture of the film are occasional cutaway shots to folks in Radha’s neighborhood who directly address the camera, commenting on her actions and decisions like a comic Greek chorus. It’s just one more lively element in a movie that manages to surprise you at nearly every turn.
