How ‘The Underground Railroad’ Reimagines the Trauma of Slavery

Depicting historical acts of Black oppression in movies and television leaves the creators of such works with the arduous task of balancing authenticity and trauma. Some works have done this better than others; the TV show Watchmen and film 12 Years a Slave, for example, depict the brutality Black people have faced with a necessary nuance, while others, like the TV show Them, engage in grotesque cruelty.

Many believe we have a cultural responsibility to truthfully depict painful events in Black history, yet far too often these depictions back themselves into a corner by attempting to show every manner of violence perpetrated against Black people. This often does more to shock and disturb audiences, and traumatize Black audiences, than impart a historical lesson.

This isn’t to say that historical accounts should be censored. Rather, they should be measured if they’re going to be worth an audience’s time, attention, and, especially, their energy. That’s exactly what The Underground Railroad, a new limited series from director Barry Jenkins, does; it meticulously displays one of history’s most shameful and violent eras without lingering in sadism. While the series does have its stomach-churning moments, it depicts its own, tailored version of history, which allows it to play by its own rules.

The Underground Railroad, which is based on Colson Whitehead’s Pulitzer Prize–winning novel of the same name, follows Cora and Ceasar, two enslaved people who follow the intricate amalgam of tunnels resting under slave states to escape to freedom. Yes, this show’s version of the Underground Railroad is a literal railroad — just one element of magical realism that is imbued throughout the show, that serves the purpose of telling the audience that this depiction of American slavery is slightly different than the one we think we know. The foundations of the institution of slavery remain the same in the world of this show, but the series departs from our history just enough to pick and choose its moments of violence.

For a subject as weighty as slavery, the show manages to inject a fair level of jollification into its narratives. At its core, the show is an ahistorical interrogation of American history, so unlike a lot of slavery and oppression media, The Underground Railroad does right by its characters, largely sparing them from the graphic pain witnessed in texts like Antebellum or Them. The show posits the idea that audiences are sufficiently aware of the historical monstrosity that spanned multiple continents for several hundred years. Whereas many oppression texts would devote scenes upon scenes to whips, shackles, and beatings, the show spends more of its time with Cora and Ceaser, developing their potential for hope, freedom, mischief, and a better future, instead of spending time showing oppression in action.

Rather than inundate the audience with depictions of violence alone, the series elects to use dialogue and allusion to communicate oppression. When Cora asks a station agent who built the tunnels, he responds, “Who builds anything in this country?” This simple response articulates the pain, fatigue, oppression, and labor of an entire people without needing to revel in their exhaustion. It’s a microcosm of the balancing act between hardship and subtlety that the show deftly manages to pull off.

A lot of the credit for the show’s watchability goes to the leadership and vision of director Barry Jenkins. This evidently started at the very beginning of his creative process; Jenkins wanted to adapt the book as a television series instead of a movie because “I didn’t want to force the audience into a captive experience, they can pause,” he told Deadline. “I think what’s really beautiful about putting images into the world is that when someone’s ready to find that image, it will be there,” he added.

Jenkins brought this level of thoughtfulness to his set, recognizing that “it’s not worth creating these things if it’s going to destroy us in the process,” as he told Deadline. An on-set therapist was available to cast and crew, according to one of the show's leads, William Harper. “If things got to be too much, we would talk to that person,” Harper said in an interview with The Guardian. “I never did, but Barry definitely did. He did it while taking care of the rest of us.”

An important element of stories about slavery has often been lost — that they can explore so much more than field work and flogging. Violent servitude may be what we think of when we think of Black oppression, especially when it comes to slavery, but while that trauma is very real, it’s not the singular feature of slavery, nor its aftermath. "Before making the show, if you ask[ed] me who I was a descendant of, I would have said I'm the descendant of enslaved Africans,” Jenkins told NPR. "I think now that answer has evolved: I am the descendant of blacksmiths and midwives and herbalists and spiritualists.”

It’s up to shows that take on the responsibility of depicting racist institutions to paint the whole picture instead of focusing solely on cruelty. Anything else is a disservice.

“The thing that really excited me about the story, and took it away from just being ‘trauma,’ is that, at its heart,” Harper told The Guardian, “it’s about changing circumstances, not waiting for something to change, so you get to be your fully realized self.”

It's in this way that The Underground Railroad cements itself as being both authentic and palatable, choosing to spotlight resolve just as much as it highlights endurance. The very fact that Black people are in the position to be making movies and television about our oppression is a testament to our ability to overcome. These stories lose nothing by remembering that fact, and gain distinct watchability in the process.