A poetic, slice of life portrait of an African American family in ’70s Watts, Los Angeles. The film goes nowhere in particular, and lacks any semblance of a linear or structured narrative. Instead, we watch a loosely strung series of episodes, depicting the mundane, everyday existence of the family, interspersed with largely random events. A flat tyre. A stolen TV. Children playing war in a wasteland strewn with rubbish. There is a peaceful sort of stoicism, of resignation, to the poverty in front of us: this is, quite simply, the way things are.
Stan, the family’s patriarch, works in a slaughterhouse. His wife waits for him at home, refining her make-up. Does he notice? We don’t know. If he does, he doesn’t say. He suffers from sleep-deprivation, exhaustion, irritability. But he is good, he is honest, and, despite being prone to anger, he loves his children. He presses a warm mug to his face, telling his friend it reminds him of a feeling just after making love. He dances in the dark with his wife to a Dinah Washington song.
Nothing much happens in the life of Stan, yet these moments amount to everything. This is all there is, and for Stan and his family, it must be enough.