Assata
Genre: Biography/Crime
Director: Ryan Coogler
Writer: Dawson Edwards
Cast: Teyonah Parris, Brian Tyree Henry, Tessa Thompson, Aldis Hodge, Wood Harris, Janelle Monae
Plot: The screen fades from black to a dimly lit highway, the stillness broken by the flashing red and blue lights of a police cruiser. The opening scene is harrowing: a confrontation on the New Jersey Turnpike in 1973. Assata Shakur (Teyonah Parris) is slumped against a car, bleeding profusely. Her comrades, Zayd Malik Shakur (Aldis Hodge) and Sundiata Acoli (Wood Harris), are amidst chaos. Gunfire erupts, and the air fills with shouting officers and the wails of approaching sirens. Zayd lies lifeless on the asphalt. The camera lingers on Assata’s face, her eyes heavy with pain and defiance.
As the sounds fade, we go back to Assata’s childhood in Wilmington, North Carolina. Young JoAnne Deborah Byron—her birth name—is seen playing in her grandparents’ yard. Her grandmother’s stern but loving voice overlays the scene: “You hold your head high, JoAnne. Don’t let anyone walk over you.” The world is bright, filled with warm family gatherings, but the shadow of systemic racism looms.
In another flashback, teenage JoAnne navigates the bustling streets of New York City after moving to live with her mother. Here, she begins to see the stark inequalities of her world. Segregation isn’t confined to the South; it’s alive in the slums of Harlem and the underfunded schools she attends. Her sharp intelligence and questioning nature mark her as different, as someone destined to challenge the status quo.
The film transitions to Assata as a college student at the City College of New York. The scene opens in a packed lecture hall, where her professor, a bespectacled man with a stern demeanor, writes "Civil Rights Act of 1964" on the chalkboard. "This legislation marked a turning point," he says. Assata raises her hand, her expression sharp and unyielding.
"Professor, isn’t it true that economic disparities for Black people have grown worse despite these laws? And what about Black women? Where is their voice in this history?" Her voice is steady but charged, drawing the attention of her peers.
The professor stammers, clearly unprepared for her pointed questions. "Well, Miss Shakur, these are... complex issues."
The room buzzes with whispers as Assata leans back in her seat, her eyes scanning the room. A young man sitting beside her whispers, "Damn, you really shook him up."
Cut to Assata outside the classroom, her fist raised as she marches alongside a group of students in a campus protest. Signs reading "Justice Now" and "Equal Pay for Black Women" bob in the air. The chants echo: "No justice, no peace!"
Later, the camera pans through her small dorm room, a cluttered yet vibrant space. Dog-eared books by Malcolm X, Frantz Fanon, and Angela Davis are stacked precariously on a desk. A bulletin board adorned with protest flyers and newspaper clippings dominates the wall. Assata sits cross-legged on her bed, engrossed in a book, the faint sounds of a distant rally filtering in through the open window. Her resolve is palpable, her transformation taking root.
Her transformation accelerates as she joins the Black Panther Party. The scene opens with Assata entering a bustling Panther headquarters, the air electric with activity. She is introduced to Afeni Shakur (Janelle Monae), a fierce and articulate organizer. Afeni’s piercing eyes meet Assata’s. "Sister, welcome to the fight," Afeni says, clasping her hand firmly. The camera lingers on their handshake, symbolic of the bond they are about to forge.
Moments later, Mutulu Shakur (Brian Tyree Henry) enters, a calm yet commanding presence. He spreads blueprints on a table, outlining a new community health clinic initiative. "We’re not just here to survive," he says. "We’re here to build."
The montage that follows is vibrant and kinetic: children receiving free breakfast, women and men learning to read, medical supplies being delivered under the cover of night. The debates, however, are as fiery as the actions. In a dimly lit meeting room, Assata sits at the center of a group of Panthers, her voice firm and unwavering. “We can’t just react. We need a strategy that’s sustainable,” she declares, pounding her fist on the table for emphasis.
Mutulu Shakur leans forward, his tone measured but resolute. “Sustainable?” he counters. “Sister, we’re fighting a war. When they come for our people, we don’t have time to debate. Action saves lives.”
Assata’s eyes flash. “And then what? We save a life today and lose a hundred tomorrow because we didn’t think it through?” She gestures to a map pinned to the wall, marked with red circles. “Look at their reach. We’re outnumbered, outgunned. If we don’t build a foundation, this house will crumble.”
A murmur ripples through the room. Another Panther interjects, “She’s right, Mutulu. We need both—immediate action and long-term vision.”
Mutulu exhales sharply but nods. “All right. What do you propose?”
Assata steps to the front, her movements deliberate. She outlines a plan to strengthen community networks, ensure safehouses, and create a system of coded communication. The room listens intently, the tension giving way to a shared sense of purpose. The camera lingers on their faces, resolute and united, as the debate concludes with a mix of grudging respect and collective resolve.
The tension rises as the FBI’s COINTELPRO tactics close in. One evening, as Assata leaves the headquarters, the camera cuts to a dark sedan parked across the street. Inside, two agents speak into a wire recorder. "She’s gaining influence. We need to neutralize her," one says, his voice cold and methodical. The next scene shows a midnight raid, chaos erupting as documents are seized and members are arrested. Assata narrowly escapes, the tension in her face underscored by the flickering of red and blue lights reflected in her rearview mirror.
By day, the weight of party conflicts becomes apparent. The strain shows in Assata’s private moments, her hands shaking as she holds a cup of tea. A quiet scene shows her writing in a journal: "If we can’t unite, how can we win?"
Joining the Black Liberation Army (BLA) signals a decisive shift in Assata’s revolutionary path. It is no longer just about organizing or protesting—it is about active resistance, often in secrecy and always with calculated risks. The scene opens with Assata entering a dimly lit basement, the air heavy with tension and purpose. A bare bulb swings slightly, casting flickering shadows over the faces of a small group gathered around a table strewn with maps, radios, and tactical blueprints.
“We’re not just reacting,” says one member, his voice low and gravelly. “We’re building a network, a structure that can strike back and protect our people.”
Assata leans forward, her eyes scanning the plans. The tasks laid out are daring and precise: organizing safehouses, intercepting communications, and securing resources for survival. The stakes are clear, as every step they take places them deeper in the FBI’s crosshairs.
Cut to a montage of BLA activities: Assata, wearing a wig and sunglasses, slips into a crowded subway station, her movements quick and deliberate as she delivers coded messages. Another scene depicts her standing outside a suburban bank, her breath visible in the cold air as she scans the street for signs of trouble. Inside, masked comrades coordinate a bank robbery with precision, their voices sharp but controlled. The camera focuses on Assata’s tense grip on the getaway car’s steering wheel, her eyes darting between the bank entrance and the rearview mirror. Tires screech as they speed away, the wail of police sirens chasing them into the distance.
The tension escalates as the montage shifts to the ensuing manhunt. Federal agents swarm abandoned buildings, their flashlights cutting through darkness as they search for any trace of the BLA. Assata, now moving from safehouse to safehouse, burns documents in a trash can, her face illuminated by the flickering flames. Another scene shows her narrowly escaping a raid, leaping over fences and sprinting through alleyways as floodlights sweep the area. Her breath comes in sharp bursts, the sound underscored by the relentless shouts of pursuing officers.
Late one night, she sits with another member dismantling a radio, her fingers deftly assembling a frequency scanner to intercept police transmissions. The radio crackles to life, and the voice of an officer details their next move. Assata exchanges a grim look with her comrade, the weight of their fight pressing down but failing to extinguish her determination.
The constant threat of danger is palpable. The camera pans to a clandestine meeting in a remote park. Assata and her Brothers discuss plans in hushed tones, their breath visible in the cold air. The sound of rustling leaves snaps everyone to attention. “We need to move,” Assata whispers, her hand instinctively brushing against a concealed weapon.
Her resolve is hardened by the haunting memories of leaders like Fred Hampton, brutally assassinated. In a private moment, she reflects on the growing list of casualties in their fight for liberation. “Every name,” she murmurs, writing in her notebook, “is a promise. We carry them forward.” The camera lingers on her face, a mix of grief and determination as she prepares for the road ahead.
She sits alone in a sparsely furnished room. The distant hum of the city filters in through the cracked window. She holds a worn photograph of her mother and sister, her fingers tracing the edges as tears brim in her eyes. Her voiceover begins, soft yet resolute: “To fight for freedom means giving up pieces of yourself. Every step forward costs something—a friend, a family, a moment of peace. But what choice do we have when the cost of silence is so much greater?” The camera lingers as she places the photo gently back into her pocket, her expression a mix of sorrow and unyielding determination.
The scene flashes back to the New Jersey Turnpike in 1973, with a lone vehicle, a beige Pontiac, traveling down the darkened highway. Inside, Assata Shakur sits in the backseat with Zayd Malik Shakur at her side, while Sundiata Acoli drives with tense precision. A quiet yet charged conversation fills the car, their words betraying a mix of camaraderie and apprehension.
"We’ve been watched for weeks," Zayd says, his voice low. "We need to lay low after this drop."
Assata nods, her gaze steady but distant. "We’ve got no choice but to keep moving," she replies.
Suddenly, the ominous glow of red and blue lights bathes the car’s interior. "Shit," Sundiata mutters, pulling the car to the shoulder. The camera captures their rising tension as a state trooper approaches, flashlight beam slicing through the darkness.
"License and registration," the trooper demands, his tone clipped. Before Sundiata can comply, a second trooper arrives, his hand hovering near his holster.
“Step out of the vehicle,” the second officer orders, his voice tinged with aggression. Zayd’s eyes meet Assata’s in the rearview mirror, an unspoken message passing between them.
The moment fractures as Zayd’s door opens and chaos explodes. A shot rings out—who fired first is unclear. Zayd slumps to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Assata scrambles out of the car, clutching her side as a bullet tears into her arm. Sundiata bolts into the woods, the camera following his frantic movements before cutting back to Assata.
The scene is frenetic, the sound of gunfire mingling with shouts and the wail of sirens approaching in the distance. Assata falls to the asphalt, her breaths shallow, her blood streaking the pavement. The troopers, now shouting incoherently, drag her roughly to the ground. One presses a knee into her back, his gun aimed at her head.
"Which way did he go?" the officer snarls. Assata, her face etched with pain, whispers, “I don’t know.”
“Finish her off,” one trooper mutters, but another waves him off. The camera lingers on Assata’s face, her defiance unbroken despite the agony.
The screen fades to the fluorescent glare of a hospital, where Assata’s body is manhandled as detectives pepper her with questions. The camera captures every indignity: the clumsy removal of her blood-soaked clothes, the sneering interrogations, and the whispered debates over whether she’ll survive the night.
This visceral sequence transitions to her trial, where Assata’s fiery cross-examinations contrast sharply with the cold indifference of the jury. Evelyn Williams (Tessa Thompson), her aunt and attorney, stands as a pillar of strength, countering the prosecution’s narrative with tenacity. The day Assata was arrested on the turnpike, Evelyn quit her job at New York University Law School to become her lawyer. "This is not justice, this is a travesty of malpractice at every conceivable level. This court has tried to convict her twice before. You failed then, and you will fail now. YOU WILL STOP TARGETING ASSATA SHAKUR! " Evelyn declares in a packed courtroom, her voice resonating. The scene concludes with Assata’s piercing gaze locking onto the jury, her resolve undimmed despite the biased system stacked against her. Evidence of racial bias be damned, a jury finally found her guilty.
A harrowing sequence depicts Assata’s time in prison. The audience feels her isolation as she’s subjected to physical abuse and psychological torment. Her bond with other incarcerated women, however, becomes a lifeline. These scenes are tender and raw, showing solidarity and resilience in the face of dehumanization. Assata’s determination to fight—both legally and spiritually—is palpable.
After a guilty verdict, Assata is serving time in New Jersey.Assata Shakur sat on the edge of her cot, her heartbeat steady but strong, her mind sharpened to a singular purpose. Her comrades had assured her the plan was foolproof, but doubt lingered like a shadow in the corners of her cell. She clenched her fists, willing herself to stay focused.
The signal came just after the last rounds of the guards' shift change. A sharp knock on the metal pipes outside—three quick raps, a pause, then two more. Assata rose, slipping into the guard uniform that had been smuggled to her in pieces over the weeks. Every seam, every thread of the disguise felt like a lifeline as she smoothed the fabric and adjusted the cap.
Down the corridor, a commotion broke the silence. A diversion. Two women posing as visitors had drawn the guards’ attention, one producing a concealed weapon and demanding the guards step back. The confrontation escalated as another accomplice brandished a smuggled firearm, the glint of metal sending shockwaves through the room. Shouts erupted, and in the chaos, Assata moved.
Her movements were deliberate, carrying the practiced ease of someone who belonged. She passed one guard—a young man whose trembling hand hovered near his radio—but the urgency of the standoff kept his attention elsewhere. The stairwell loomed ahead, and she moved swiftly, descending into the lower levels where the service exits were located.
In the dim light of the basement, two of her brothers waited, their faces taut with determination. One handed her a set of keys, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is the hard part. Stay low, stay fast."
Assata nodded, the gravity of the moment heavy in her chest. She crouched low as they unlocked the door to a utility corridor, the metal hinges groaning slightly. Beyond it was the final barrier—a steel exit door leading to the outer perimeter. One comrade kept his weapon trained on the entryway, his knuckles white against the grip. "If anyone comes, we handle it," he said, his tone flat.
Her people inside the van exchange anxious glances as they spot her silhouette emerging from the shadows. "You’re late, my Sister. You’re making my plan look bad." Mutulu says with forced humor, his voice betraying his relief. Assata climbs in, and the van speeds off, its tires screeching against the asphalt.
As they navigate through side streets and evade roadblocks, the tension inside the van is palpable. Assata peers out the window, her reflection merging with the blurred lights of the city.
The scene ends as the van disappears into the night, the prison receding into the distance. Assata’s relief is muted, her gaze heavy with the weight of those she left behind. The camera lingers on her face, capturing the mixture of freedom and loss that defines her escape.
It's in Cuba where Assata finds asylum. The vibrant streets of Havana contrast sharply with the gray cells of her past. Assata’s life in exile is bittersweet. The audience sees her teaching local children, writing her autobiography, and reflecting on the movement she left behind. Her monologue to the camera is poignant: “I am free, but my people are not. This is not an end, but a continuation.”
The film closes with a montage of modern-day protests, echoing Assata’s words and legacy. Her final words of her autobiography appear on the screen:
“Everyday out in the street, I remind myself that Black people in Amerika are oppressed. It’s necessary that I do that. People get used to anything. The less you think about your oppression, the more your tolerance for it grows. After a while, people just think oppression is the normal state of things. But to become free, you have to be acutely aware of being a slave.”
The credits roll to a powerful soundtrack blending revolutionary anthems with Afro-Cuban rhythms.
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