Barry: A baffling character portrait

As Barack Obama nears the end of his final term as US President, and a toupee-shaped cloud hangs over the future of American politics, his legacy seems uncertain. Obama has been disappointing to those supporters expecting a bit more “audacity of hope.” He has failed to deliver on a number of his promises, including better gun control and closing Guantanamo; his foreign policy, especially in the Middle East, is hardly worth boasting about. Turning away from the world of legislative politics, however, it is tempting to see Obama’s personality as the embodiment of hope. He was the first black president in an often painfully divided nation. He gave great speeches. He sang Al Green.

Enter Barry – Netflix’s new docudrama about Obama’s year studying law at Columbia University in 1981. Directed by Vikram Gandhi, the film seems set on proving that Obama was a “different kind of president,” who deserves a different kind of presidential film. A far cry from Oliver Stone’s grim-faced epics JFK or Nixon, Barry has an intimate feel. Its protagonist (Barack, or Barry as he was known then) is a chain-smoking, flares-wearing, disco-dancing know-it-all. He knocks back rum shots, chats up sorority girls, and gets high with his Pakistani roommate Saleem (Avi Nash).

For all the fun, however, Barry’s experience of Columbia is ultimately unromantic. His biracial background makes him feel alienated from both the pop-collared boys on his law course, and the black students he plays basketball with. Nicknamed “The Invisible Man” because of his loner status (with a nod to Ralph Ellison), at one point he glumly reflects: “Jack Kerouac went here, man. Allen Ginsberg, Paul Robeson... Where’s that scene?” His interlocutor replies: “Dead.” At the centre of the film is Barry’s struggle to find a group, and come terms with his racial identity.

Obama is not only a prominent politician, but the author of two bestselling autobiographies, including Dreams from my Father. As such, the issue of source material hangs heavy in the air, and every piece of corny dialogue, and every far-fetched event, invites a series of questions: is this taken from Obama’s autobiography? If so, which one? If not, is it based on rumour, or has it been completely made up?

While there is a clear cross-over with his 1995 autobiography (extracts from Obama’s father’s letters are read in voice-over, Saleem is based on “Sadik,” girlfriend Charlotte is based on Genevieve Cook among others), so many creative liberties are taken that the line between fact and fiction becomes blurred. As it turns out, no one pulled a gun on Obama as a student, and no one punched him at a party for trying to sleep with his girlfriend. The letter extracts are also meddled with. It’s not enough for the filmmakers to create a biopic about Obama’s student life: they have to add in some sexy Hollywood twists.

Revealingly, Barry is the second film to be released this year which dramatises Obama’s early life. In August, American audiences saw the premiere of Southside with You, a “reimagining” of the first date between Barry and his future wife Michelle. Naff as the premise sounds, Southside with You was a surprise critical hit. The New Yorker swooned that it was “a fully realised, intricately imagined, warmhearted, sharp-witted and perceptive drama.” Yes, all that—but one suspects its success was also due to the fact it took a light approach. Southside with You was a fun, tongue-in-cheek spin on America’s beloved power couple. It didn’t take itself too seriously. It certainly didn’t try to dramatically shape our perception of the US President.

Barry, on the other hand, takes itself too seriously—and this is primarily why the film fails to deliver. It tries too hard to say something profound. The dialogue is filled with heavy-handed soundbites, and supporting characters are split into “black” and “white” caricatures. Without much of a plot, we are left only to consider Barry and his experience. But even this is a baffling character portrait.

On the surface, there seems little to dislike about young Barry. He’s attractive, cool, sensitive, unlecherous (his eyes don’t linger for a second on a half-naked blonde in Saleem’s flat)—as well as effortlessly intelligent. In a seminar, the professor asks: “What was the great symbol of democracy in Greek society?” Barry puts up his hand, and the professor points at him to answer. Rather than give a verbal response, Barry remains tight-lipped, cool as a cucumber, and just nods towards his arm. “Correct,” beams the professor. “The raised hand. One man, one vote.”

But for all his brilliance, Barry is also selfish and rude. When life begins to frustrate him in the second half of the film, his eyes glaze over in conversations; he becomes brittle and abrasive; he stalks out the room mid-sentence. This character flaw is clearly meant to demonstrate an inner struggle with his racial identity: there is a refusal to communicate with any group, because he no longer wants to fit in—there is no shared language. If that’s the case, however, then it is strange that Barry never seems curious about how other people of colour are coping with their racial identities. His roommate Saleem— relentlessly upbeat—is always the one to slyly ask him about racial issues. Barry does not ask the black barmen he bonds with at a crucial moment about their experiences. Instead he storms off to look at the horizon. His self-absorption makes us perplexed and frustrated by his behaviour.

It’s undeniably fun to see Barack Obama's college years played out on the screen. There are some excellent performances, particularly from Avi Nash and Anya Taylor-Joy. (Devon Terrell's Ken-doll Obama is rather less watchable.) Ultimately, though, the film-makers are too reliant on the intrigue of their protagonist. Obama only holds the film until a certain point, and when the interest in him dwindles, the whole thing falls apart. It’s a shame, because there should be room here for both a fun and sensitive look at the introspective, out-going president. What we’re left with instead is a heavy-handed patchwork, which seems unsure of whether it wants to be a hagiography, a criticism, or something else. In this respect it might have been better to wait until Obama’s legacy has been established—or indeed dismantled by the incoming president-elect, whose college years, you suspect, would tell a rather different story.