It’s as if everyone enlisted to bring the project to life understood the magnitude of what Black Panther, the first comic-based studio movie with a black hero at the center since 1998’s Blade, would represent: The chance to fill every corner of their fictional Wakanda with the same level of craft and detail usually reserved for British-star-studded period pieces; an opportunity to tell a story about black lives, which matter and are not defined by their pain but, instead, by their glory; an answer to a culture’s question, “When will it be our time in the sun?”
As such, it can be hard to separate what Black Panther means from what it is. What it means is everything, especially to any kid who has never put the words “African” and “king” together in the same sentence. Or to any young woman who was ever discouraged from chasing a life in science and technology. To anyone who was ever told “you fight like a girl.”
As for what it is? Black Panther is like the most delicious cake you’ve ever tasted in your entire life, but which isn’t quite cooked all the way through.
In fact, every character’s wants and needs are clearly defined, with one exception: T’Challa’s. When the film opens, he wants to be king. Ten minutes and one ceremonial duel with rival tribe-leader M’Baku (Winston Duke) later, he’s king. After that, he wants to maintain the status quo: Preserve the Wakandan way of life. But the status quo, by definition, is static, and stasis isn’t drama. His romance with Nakia never exceeds nascence; by the time the film ends, you might’ve forgotten they had ever been “a thing.” For too much of Black Panther, the Black Panther has everything he wants.
On top of this, he is also almost entirely devoid of flaws. He’s a deadly martial artist, a stalwart friend, well-educated, even-tempered, quick to smile, and, despite all that, he’s humble. Flaws are the grooves, the nocks that add depth. Perfection in fiction, unlike in life, can be boring. I mean, even Indiana Jones was afraid of snakes.
The movie leaps to its feet when T’Challa, Nakia, and Okoye find themselves in Busan, South Korea, hot on the heels of the criminal Klaue. For a hot 15 minutes, Black Panther becomes the best Bond movie you’ll ever see, partially because, here, the Panther wants something—to kill or capture Klaue. But this can also be thanked to the bone-crushing, wall-smashing action executed to perfection by director Ryan Coogler, who takes to it like an artist in love with the ways human bodies can cause destruction. Quickly, the sequence morphs into a car chase that feels as inspired by anime as it does by John Frankenheimer’s Ronin.
Then, Black Panther settles back into its groove, in which everything on the periphery is awesome (especially the Dora Milaje…my gods, the Dora Milaje), but the center does not hold. Though Boseman pivots from dignity to delight on a dime, the screenplay (by Coogler and Joe Robert Cole) has trouble finding ways to emotionally engage with the character, all the way through to an action climax whose humanity is outweighed by its CGI.