In a memorable scene in HBO’s “Lovecraft Country,” a sullen, swollen-eyed Montrose Freeman stands alone in a crowded underground ballroom as his lover, Sammy, in drag, beckons him to the dance ground. Wearing a purple silk shirt, Montrose, performed by Michael Ok. Williams, glistens as his character, a queer Black man, struggles along with his sexuality and his race in 1950s Chicago.
Montrose slowly begins to transfer from one dance companion to one other, at first reluctantly after which with such revelry that he’s quickly drenched in his personal sweat and swept up within the air by a bunch of drag queens. Freed, at the least quickly, from the trauma of his previous and the restrictions of his current, Montrose goes on to hug, maintain and eventually kiss Sammy on the lips for the primary time.
I’ve watched that scene many, many occasions. In an period by which “Pose,” “Legendary” and “RuPaul’s Drag Race” put Black queer ball tradition entrance and middle, Montrose’s story line won’t stick out. But when it first aired final September, after the summer season of Black Lives Matter, Williams’s intimate portrayal of a person each misplaced and forward of his time was so transformative, so transfixing, that I discovered myself clinging desperately to Montrose’s second of exhaling and exaltation. It provided respite to viewers nonetheless reeling from George Floyd’s remaining phrases: “I can’t breathe.”
“That scene wasn’t about him coming out the closet,” Williams mentioned in an interview with TV Guide final September. “It was more about him letting that little boy out that closet and run around the room and just be free.”
And Williams, who was discovered lifeless on Monday in his residence in Brooklyn, knew how to be free onscreen. He selected to breathe life into characters so unconventional, so advanced, and sometimes so contradictory that they couldn’t be boxed into the normal classes of race, sexuality and sophistication into which they had been born.
Williams because the bootlegger Chalky White within the HBO sequence “Boardwalk Empire”; he drew from his father’s life in his portrayal of the character.Credit…Macall B. Polay/HBO
Inspired by his childhood in Vanderveer Estates, an residence advanced now often known as Flatbush Gardens, in Brooklyn, Williams understood the burden of his roles. And whether or not his viewers knew it or not, he made certain that we noticed the on a regular basis working-class Black males with whom he grew up as he noticed them himself: bigger than life.
Such was the case with Chalky White, the Atlantic City bootlegger in HBO’s “Boardwalk Empire,” whom he primarily based on his father, who was raised within the Jim Crow South. To play Ken Jones, a gay-rights activist who struggles with H.I.V., within the ABC docudrama “When We Rise,” he drew upon homosexual nephews who had died. Freddy Knight, a former boxer who runs a drug ring at Rikers Island within the HBO restricted sequence “The Night Of,” was modeled on one other relative who had been incarcerated at Rikers. As Freddy, who takes a naïve prisoner (performed by Riz Ahmed) underneath his wing, Williams may shift from caring protector to merciless crime boss inside a single scene, a selection that not solely stored viewers guessing at Freddy’s actual motives however grew to become the emotional middle of the present.
In “When They See Us,” a Netflix restricted sequence in regards to the Central Park Five, Caleel Harris, left, performs younger Antron McCray and Williams portrays his father, Bobby.Credit…Atsushi Nishijima/Netflix, through Associated Press
As Bobby McCray in Netflix’s “When They See Us,” a mini-series in regards to the Central Park Five, Williams swings on a pendulum of rage, grief and guilt after he has satisfied his teenage son, Antron, to signal a false confession. (Antron was later sentenced to 5 to 10 years for rape and assault, serving six years earlier than his exoneration.) Rather than play Bobby’s sacrifice of his son or his later abandonment of his household as fully chilly and calculated, Williams infused his character with a way of looking and disgrace.
“On paper, Bobby — let’s face it, he made some bad choices,” Williams informed Vanity Fair. “That is what he did. I just chose to find out the reasons why, and that was a painful journey.”
Adding to Williams’s mystique as an actor was the scar that ran down his face, marking the time a person slashed his face exterior a bar in Queens when he was 25. Williams would say that his wound reworked him. “All my life I’m this cream puff, and next thing I know everyone sees me as some kind of gangster,” he informed The New York Times for a 2017 article. “It almost made me laugh.”
I additionally noticed his scar as a metaphor. A bit off-kilter. A everlasting image of his vulnerability. A trauma that rendered him unforgettable, whereas offering him, and us, a street map to the tenderness and torment that he would infuse into all his characters, typically triggering his personal trauma and his lifelong battle with despair and substance abuse.
In “The Wire,” Williams portrayed Omar Little as the last word outlaw. Credit…Paul Schiraldi/HBO
It was a narrative line introduced shut to house by means of Omar Little, the stickup man from HBO’s “The Wire.” Williams’s breathtaking efficiency made him the last word outlaw: a Black, homosexual, shotgun-carrying gangster who operates each above the legislation and past the Baltimore avenue codes. Partly primarily based on the real-life gangster Donnie Andrews, who was lionized as Baltimore’s personal Robin Hood, Omar apotheosized Williams’s profession but in addition plagued Williams within the years after the present ended. When he went again to his previous neighborhood, “they were calling me Omar,” he informed The Times. “That’s when the lines got blurred.”
I went again to “The Wire” right this moment. Not to witness Omar’s anticlimactic demise, however to the fifth episode of its remaining season, when he barely survived. After patiently ready for hours exterior of a rival’s residence, Omar decides to go in weapons blazing, solely to be ambushed and his companion shot lifeless. For maybe some other character on “The Wire,” escape would have been unattainable, however for Omar, defying the chances was a lifestyle. When he jumped out the window — gunshots whizzing by him — he appeared as each man and fable.
Playing such authentic, delicate, susceptible characters not solely expanded our universe of Black masculinity but in addition bled into Williams’s personal life, making it exhausting for him to separate the craft from its creator. He had mentioned that the pressures of enjoying Omar helped convey on an existential disaster, and a relapse. Perhaps his empathy grew to become expressed as habit, his expertise its personal type of torture.
“The characters that mean the most to me are the ones that damn near kill me,” he mentioned in 2017. “It’s a sacrifice I’ve chosen to make.”