Exhibiting Forgiveness

When Fathers Fail, Can Forgiveness Heal?

Andre Holland in Exhibiting Forgiveness.

When I saw the trailer for Exhibiting Forgiveness, directed by Titus Kaphar, I was immediately struck by the thematic questions it promised to explore. The relationship between Black fathers and their children is one I’ve seen redefined before my very eyes.

As someone raised by a generation of men where apologies and self-reflections were scarce, it didn’t take long to recognize the emotional journey I would embark on as the film opened.

The film’s opening oscillates between two characters: a homeless man named La'Ron, played by John Earl Jelks, and an affable artist named Terrell. These are the protagonists of our story—there’s no real antagonist here.

Terrell, played with great emotional maturity by Andre Holland, is a Black family man whose art has finally reached the pinnacle of success. Even after receiving a rare glowing review from a harsh critic, the accomplishment doesn’t seem to mean much to him. While this narrative beat may get lost in the larger story, it's an important moment.

Success doesn’t hold much value for Terrell (like many young Black men). It’s not that he’s unappreciative of his achievements or the opportunities that come with them. It’s just that the one person whose validation could mean something—his father—remains an absent figure in his life. This is his internal struggle.

In a broader context, when popular American society (like Fox News) talks about absenteeism, especially in the Black community, it’s often used to explain the behavior of young men who turn to crime. However, many of us had fathers in our homes who were absent in other ways—absent of the softness, safety, and advocacy we needed to develop into men.

This is the type of absence that Exhibiting Forgiveness delves into.

La'Ron’s journey, burdened by drug addiction, is a familiar refrain that I wish more filmmakers would stop leaning on as a rhetorical examination of Black trauma. One doesn’t have to be addicted to crack for a void to exist. Whether based on Kaphar’s personal experience or not, the crack addiction narrative felt like a distraction, a remnant of the white gaze on Black storytelling. Frankly, it wasn’t necessary, as most of La'Ron’s actions stemmed from his struggles with self-pity rather than substance abuse.

Setting that aside, La'Ron, at his ex-wife Joyce’s urging, attempts to reconnect with his son. In their first scene together, the emotional distance between father and son is palpable. This is one of the moments where Andre Holland’s performance truly shines with depth. Black men know that look—the reticence, the exhaustion, the fragile peace that existed before La'Ron’s sudden appearance. Our fathers often disturb that peace.

We’re just trying to move forward.

Joyce, played brilliantly by Aunjanue Ellis (pay this woman her things), is a woman desperately searching for answers she doesn’t have. Terrell’s wife, portrayed lovingly by Andra Day, is also longing for the healing her husband needs to appropriately raise their young son.

Often, women take the lead in healing a family. While these women are the catalysts for such healing, it’s refreshing to see them supporting the narrative as it unfolds patiently. And patience is something you’ll need for this film.

Exhibiting Forgiveness is a slow burn—much slower than necessary—relying heavily on its outstanding score to fill in the emotional gaps that may arise in the viewer’s mind.

As each beautifully shot scene unfolds, I found myself repeatedly asking, “Why so lush?”

I love a visually stunning film, and cinematographer Lachlan Milne captures this one wonderfully. However, the visual beauty doesn’t always serve the narrative. Some of the richest tones are captured during Terrell’s art creation scenes, but they often feel like standalone works of art rather than visual support for the emotional complexity of the story.

Another issue that struck me was the number of unanswered questions. Many of the “whys” are left unexplored, save for two expository scenes that offer necessary context to the screenplay.

I was far more interested in seeing the characters wrestle with the ideas and values of forgiveness.

Forgiveness—a theme especially relevant for a generation of children who can now see and hold their parents accountable in ways we couldn’t before. I often found myself both frustrated and encouraged by Terrell’s struggle to find that small spark of humanity that would allow something as powerful as forgiveness.

It’s something I struggle with myself.

The act of forgiveness should be proceeded by the acknowledgment of a choice—right or wrong, good or bad—but a choice, nonetheless, that brought us to this moment.

Far too often, young Black men are burdened with the expectations of manhood too early. Our masculinity is measured by violence rather than vulnerability. Many of our fathers would never ask for forgiveness but would demand it, struggling internally to admit their flaws, shortcomings, and wrongdoings.

The trauma Terrell experiences is all too familiar, and rewatching it was difficult. However, it provides necessary context for understanding the journey of a generation of men fighting to save their own lives. It’s a path that bonds us in a quiet, knowing brotherhood of pain from which many have yet to graduate.

But perhaps this story is not just about the past trauma of Black fathers—it’s about the future of Black fatherhood, about what we are willing to teach our sons. The emotional distance between La'Ron and Terrell reflects a chasm that runs through generations of Black men, an inherited silence. For many of us, our fathers never learned how to give us the softness we needed, but we are in a unique position now. We are the generation that can break the cycle. We can offer the tenderness we craved to our sons, refusing to let the wounds of our fathers define our fatherhood.

Forgiveness, in this context, is less about absolving our fathers for their absence and more about releasing ourselves from the burden of carrying that absence forward. It’s about acknowledging that while we may never receive the apology we long for, we can choose to create a new narrative with our own children. A narrative where vulnerability, safety, and love replace the stoic expectations of traditional manhood.

This is the philosophical challenge that Exhibiting Forgiveness presents: What does it mean to forgive without the promise of change? And how do modern Black fathers become the change that our fathers could not be for us? The film asks us to reflect deeply on the meaning of legacy—not just what we inherit, but what we leave behind.

The pivotal scene of the film offers a fact-based account of what really happened in this family’s raucous dynamic. Yet, each person’s approach is skewed through their own prism of perspective.

Some saw it one way. Others saw it differently.

And that’s the problem, both in the macro of society and in the micro of our families. We can’t all acknowledge a set of facts to agree on in order to move forward. Terrell is constantly being told, “It wasn’t that deep.”

For me, that sums up the film. We are always called upon to rise above our reality and forgive in the face of mistruths and stoic veneers—Black fathers, in particular.

Young Black men, in particular, stand to take the most away from this story. We’ve lived it—we’re living it.

We deserve the apology that would allow us to truly forgive. Our smiles quietly hide the knowledge that we likely won’t get it.

But Andre Holland’s soul-stirring monologue toward the end of the movie provides a road map to our own healing.

Watch this film—there are important gems to uncover. Exhibiting Forgiveness not only captures the complicated relationship between Black fathers and their sons but offers us a new lens through which we can envision what comes next. A future where we can, perhaps, exhibit forgiveness for our fathers while striving to become the fathers we never had.

The film is currently out in limited release.