There’s no denying that The Nickel Boys tells a vital and deeply affecting story. An adaptation of Colson Whitehead’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, the film follows Elwood Curtis, a bright African American teenager in 1960s Florida whose life takes a tragic turn after he is unjustly sentenced to the Nickel Academy—a notorious reform school hiding unimaginable abuse behind its respectable facade. There, he befriends Turner, a boy with a more cynical outlook shaped by a vastly different upbringing than Elwood. Together, they navigate the horrors of the institution, slowly learning from each other, absorbing pieces of one another’s perspectives, and evolving in ways that change them both.
It’s an immensely powerful story with a lot to say about systemic racism, moral disillusionment, the impact of trauma, and most of all, the struggle between survival and resistance. The film explores how institutions meant to “rehabilitate” instead perpetuate cycles of abuse, breaking spirits rather than reforming lives. Elwood’s unwavering belief in justice and Turner’s hardened pragmatism create a compelling contrast, raising questions about whether optimism is a strength or a liability in a world that so often rewards cynicism.
It’s frustrating, then, that instead of leaving the movie feeling connected to the characters or reflecting on its themes, many viewers will likely walk away thinking about one of two things: how was this filmed? or the twist that aims to justify the film’s entire approach. Director RaMell Ross makes a bold commitment to telling the story entirely from the characters’ point of view. It’s an audacious choice that undeniably enhances certain moments—especially in the first 20 minutes, where we get a strong grasp of Elwood’s personality and emotions. The goal is clear: to create an immersive experience where we feel the weight of injustice firsthand. Instead of simply watching events unfold, we are invited to live them—whether through the claustrophobic 1.33:1 aspect ratio, the intricate sound design, or the way the camera itself acts as an emotional barometer, looking away in shame or fear when the characters do. But rather than pulling us in, the approach ultimately distances us.
Ross’ technique mirrors the cinematic experimentation of films like The Zone of Interest, which used detachment to highlight the banality of evil. However, The Nickel Boys is a personal, character-driven story, one that thrives on emotional connection. And here’s where the film’s risk doesn’t always pay off. By adhering so strictly to its POV concept, it often denies the audience access to the characters’ expressions and emotional reactions, making key moments feel distant rather than immediate. The passage of time is also obscured, lessening the weight of their suffering. A more balanced approach might have allowed us to feel the impact of Nickel Academy’s horrors even more profoundly.
Instead, the film doubles down on its technique in a way that can feel indulgent. Yes, what these boys endured is horrifying, and it’s a story that deserves to be told, but paralleling their suffering with the moon landing—a moment when the world’s attention was elsewhere—feels misguided. If the intent was to highlight societal indifference, it doesn’t quite land, as so many other atrocities were happening at the same time. The comparison comes off as misplaced rather than profound.
That being said, the film is technically remarkable. Despite the constraints of its first-person perspective, it finds moments of haunting beauty. Reflections in glasses, the way the sky is shot, and a balloon drifting into a fan all stand out as striking images. The film also makes clever use of its POV style, such as when a character recalls a scene from a movie, blending that memory with his present reality, or when Elwood mistakes a cardboard cutout for a person, allowing us to share in his moment of realization.
The sound design is equally impressive, immersing us in Elwood’s sensory experience—every creak of a floorboard, every muffled voice heightening the tension. The score, however, is less effective, sometimes grating in its repetition, particularly in the montage-like sequences of the third act.
Performance-wise, the main actors are unfortunately limited by the film’s restrictive style. They are effective in the moments where we do see their faces, but the film’s approach ultimately prevents us from forming a deeper connection to them. We feel like we’re inside their heads without truly knowing them. The only actor given space to fully craft a character is Aunjanue Ellis as Elwood’s grandmother, who brings warmth and quiet sorrow to the film. However, even her role, while affecting, lacks depth beyond its emotional beats.
Ultimately, The Nickel Boys swings big. It certainly resonated with many, winning numerous critics’ awards (including Toronto’s) and earning a Best Picture nomination at the Oscars. But for all its ambition, it remains a divisive experience. While some will embrace its unconventional storytelling, others may find themselves yearning for a more traditional emotional connection. The film’s message is undeniable, and it deserves credit for its boldness, but its stylistic choices push us away from the characters—and from the themes themselves.