Passing is the story of a woman already unsteady, even before a destabilizing force comes into her life. I had that sense from reading Nella Larsen’s superb 1929 novella, but it really comes to the fore in Rebecca Hall’s adaptation, her first as a director. (She also wrote the screenplay.) From the blurred opening images of feet scurrying down a sidewalk to the tight angles on faces, the movie lets us know that Irene (Tessa Thompson), a light-skinned black woman passing as white while shopping in an upscale district, is unsure of many things, her current ruse included. And then she runs into Clare (Ruth Negga), a childhood friend also presenting as white (including to her oblivious white husband) and enjoying it as a risque game. (Negga widens her eyes with a flirtatious aggression at everyone she meets.) Reinserting herself into Irene’s life, Clare throws Irene’s assumptions—about race, class, sexuality—up in the air, leaving her increasingly discombobulated. The use of black-and-white cinematography is noteworthy (it ironically emphasizes the wide ranges of skin tones on display), but even more crucial is the way Hall’s camera intricately links what Irene sees—a man passed out on the sidewalk in the hot sun; Clare’s legs crossed beneath a tea table—with what she feels. (Thompson is especially arresting in close-up.) Passing is an impressionistic experience, much like the Emahoy Tsegué-Maryam Guèbrou piano piece that composer Devonté Hynes incorporates into the score, a portrait of an identity that refuses to be pinned down, for better and for worse.
