I've written about my mixed feelings on The Birth of A Nation before. After the rape allegations of director Nate Parker's past resurfaced in August — along with the news that his accuser had committed suicide in 2012 — the question on everyone's mind, including mine, was: To support The Birth Of A Nation, or to not support The Birth Of A Nation? Back in August, I wrote: "I deeply believe this film is too important to our cultural discourse to boycott because of the irresponsible actions of its creator."After finally seeing a screening of the film, I'm here to report to you: I was wrong. Not about my opinions on Parker or his actions (that part hasn't changed a bit), but about the fact that this film is important for our cultural discourse. It's not. Frankly, it's not a very good film at all. So much so that after seeing the movie, I walked out of the screening-room relieved, a weight lifted off my chest that I no longer had to figure out how as a Black woman (and alumnus of the same college as Parker), I was going to separate this Black artist from this Black art. Because, in my opinion, The Birth Of A Nation was not art.You see, based on the subject matter and post-Sundance hoopla, I assumed the movie was going to be fantastic — poignant and inspiring, at least, if not a masterpiece. And there are indeed some redeeming qualities about this project. The adrenaline-quickening, soul-shredding depictions of the horrors of slavery that are often forgotten and conveniently left out of American history books brought me to tears twice. Parker's performance as Nat Turner was indeed convincing and goose-bumps-raising. And Aja Naomi King phenomenally gifted the movie subtle grace and humanity to make the character of Nat Turner's wife, Cherry, feel real. King's portrayal of a Black female slave who loves, hurts, feels joy — and then is raped, beaten, and demeaned was believable. It made me think hard about how different my life would be, simply if I were born in another time.But as a story and a collective work of art, to put it simply: Parker's piece fails. Miserably. There are two main reasons: The first is the artistic direction. It felt as though Parker was trying too hard to slap together as many creative styles as possible: There are "flashback" scenes of Parker in voodoo paint, intended to represent his ancestors in Africa. When he is whipped or goes through hard times in the movie, he sees a Black angel wearing white, a confusing and blurry figure that literally looks like an actress wearing a white dress. And then there is a painful, hard-to-look-at scene of Black bodies, dead, lynched. Playing in the background? Nina Simone's "Strange Fruit." As deeply personal and emotional as that song is, choosing to play "Strange Fruit" during a lynching scene feels trite — lazy, almost. And the score in general feels too heavy-handed; when Parker wants you to feel joy, it's ridiculously loud and sweeping; when he wants you to feel sorrow, it's predictably low and somber. It was so noticeable, in fact, that both my co-worker and myself commented afterward that the score was actually distracting.