I dreamt of green pastures flooded with white cotton, a quaint cabin in the woods and an elderly tree overlooking time passing through generations. And then, I dreamt of red embers breathing against darkness, screams echoing from voids, cryptic verses travelling acres and smoke rising from burnt charred woods. I dreamt of life and death coexisting - mocking the fabrics of reality.
A destructive poetry on celluloid, The Underground Railroad is a caludron fuming with seething rage. Barry Jenkins has crafted a ferocious beast and has left no stone unturned in the unflinching homage to his ancestors.
Elliptical, surreal and a sweeping epic of mind numbing proportions, Jenkins' hallucinatory trip down the bleakest corners of American history muses aching beauty with infernal savagery. A modern masterpiece, indeed.