‘Master’ Puts the Phobia In ‘PWI’

Regina Hall stars in Master.

Through a jarring horror lens, Mariama Diallo’s Master candidly insinuates the notion that Black women are the most educated people and often the most disrespected. This disrespect is either demonstrated in the cruelest, most malicious intentions or through more subdued channels.

At the prestigious academic Ancaster College in a New England setting, whiteness reigns in form of faculty, student body, and framed paintings on the very grounds that Salem witches were burned. Gail Bishop is promoted as the first Black woman master just as freshman Jasmine Moore steps foot on the campus. Of course, master suggests many definitions. The ever present servant bells subtly relay a strong message that certain habits cannot ever change. In fact, the institution marks boxes off the “diverse” campaign checklist, but the servants are still Black people quietly seen in the background as janitors, cooks, and servers. They are the absent ones unlisted in brochures and commercials, paying another bargaining price with their labor. 

Gail and Jasmine are isolated from each other— two Black women forced to adapt, to submerge in the sea of a sinisterly evil whiteness— almost entirely alone without friends or family that mirror themselves. The daily microaggressions are bullets that fly constantly. For example, Gail listens to her boss, Diandra change her speech from “Black woman” to “woman of color.” This adds fuel to the existing fire that being Black and proud harms white people in particular, that there is something so unnaturally wrong about the pride of a race once considered three-fourths human. The phrase “woman of color” places Gail in a false sense of inclusion, hiding her true identity for the sake of white comfort. Diandra also emphasizes, “it was different for me” on referencing her previous position as master. This implies her privilege as a white woman. In society’s history of women, the first accomplishments for women were always the more triumphant white woman. They could move into spaces more safely, pushed purely on through by the heavy handed guidance of white male allegiance. Yet Gail is moving through with Diandra’s aide and it is not always with good solidarity.

Meanwhile, a sweet, Afro haired Jasmine— assigned to the haunted room—is trying to fit into her tokenism role as well. The white girls easily clique together. Jasmine’s far worse roommate makes it abundantly clear that Jasmine is not welcome. The students mock her for her blackness and clamor over Black music, pleasurably salivating at the “n” word through song. Her hostile professor makes Jasmine an enemy much as the Black lunch lady. Hell, even the librarian has it out for Jasmine. As the pranks become meaner (nooses and burning crosses) and the nocturnal ghost visits interrupt her dreams, a quieter, straight-haired Jasmine perseveres. The supernatural dangers that threaten her daily existence align heavily with the present school climate. Both determined to squash away Jasmine’s joy. 

Diallo’s confrontational screenplay definitely puts a daring perspective on the terrifyingly psychological and emotional experiences endured at predominantly white institutions and even predominantly white workplaces. There is a conditioning that happens, quite slowly, to especially Black women— the need to satisfy and appease, losing self in the role of seeking gratification to keep their place, a place constantly threatened and undermined. The real scare, depicted believably well, is the moral dilemma. How much can a Black woman withstand from continuous trauma— a trauma that is ultimately generational? 

“You’re so divorced from reality that you can’t tell Black from white!” Gail screams. 

Master also stabs at the injustices of colorism— another undeniable privilege. In academia, Black women are least likely to have tenure. If a Rachel Dolezal can accomplish what many cannot, it is a glaring problem that sadly continues— a problem framed as “transracial.” In Hollywood and media, the weakest biracial and light skinned actresses acquire parts that brilliantly skilled monoracial Black women are passed over for. The hungry, bloodthirsty greed to steal the bare minimum incentives offered is a source of power and entitlement. 

In addition to the gorgeous moody cinematography that enhances the bold screenplay and the sound department’s ability to heighten the most electrifying moments, the cast performances are outstanding. Regina Hall is a dynamic force as Master Bishop. Hall has always been a brilliant actress— in both comedy and drama. Yet in this horror, she must channel bravery in ways Scary Movie could not begin to penetrate. Jinn’s Zoe Renee is utterly impressive as the intelligent college student searching for answers on the past while the present forces her to be conditioned in the face of calculated tortures and manifested rage. Renee is able to maneuver through such strong, sensitive material. 

Master is a hard, uncomfortable monster to swallow. Disturbing paintings of white men hang in nooks and crannies— white men who were likely foul, callous racists and slave owners or supporters of slave owners. It questions the allegiance of institutional legacies, especially imperative in spaces where Black people are encouraged to roam freely to perform for the lasting impact of desegregation. What value lies in having Black people enter without giving them the full background on these men and their perceptions? Aren’t some of their beliefs still indoctrinated into the very core of the facility, faculty, and students? 

Although Gail and Jasmine attempt normality against the haunting, it never stops coming for them. The internal battle for a “seat at the table” goes hand in hand with the battle against an ugly history that cannot ever be forgotten.