By Jason Osiason

RaMell Ross doesn’t ease into narrative filmmaking, he comes in swinging. For a first feature after making documentaries, Nickel Boys is staggering. You can feel that documentarian’s eye in every frame: the way he shoots faces, the way he lets silence say more than dialogue, the way the camera feels like memory itself. It’s not polished or safe, it’s alive. He turns the story of Elwood and Turner into something you don’t just watch, you live inside.

Ethan Herisse as Elwood is heartbreaking, all open-hearted faith in a world that keeps punishing him for it. Brandon Wilson as Turner brings this sharpness and fire, already worn down but fighting anyway, his cynicism a shield he can’t put down. Together they carry the film—two boys whose friendship feels like the only thing holding them together in a place designed to destroy them.

The cinematography feels personal, like the lens is breathing with the characters. Ross uses perspective to pull you so close it’s suffocating. The school feels endless, time stretches, light only leaks through in stolen moments. It’s the kind of shooting that makes you feel every bruise, every flicker of tenderness.

If there’s any drawback, it’s that the same immersive style that makes the film so powerful can also be disorienting, and at times it refuses to slow down. The POV shifts aren’t always smooth, and the pacing in the middle can feel heavy. But those are small cracks in something this bold.

But make no mistake, this is a staggering debut, the kind of film that announces a filmmaker with a vision and the courage to follow it through. The Nickel Boys doesn’t let you off easy—it confronts, it devastates, and it stays with you. [A-]