You know how we love to throw around the word “important” when it comes to cinema? Usually, it’s reserved for the same handful of films by the same handful of (often white, male) directors. But here’s the thing—the 21st century has been doing some serious housekeeping. Yes, there are still plenty of gatekeepers clinging to outdated ideas of who gets to matter in film, but there’s also been a groundswell of progress that’s reshaping the narrative in big and meaningful ways.
We’re finally starting to see cracks in the long-standing barriers. Take cinematography, for instance—a department that has historically been dominated by men to the point where the idea of gender parity felt almost laughable just a few years ago. Now? We’re close. Not quite there yet, but the conversation has started to shift. The spotlight is also moving beyond just who is making films now, to include who was making them all along and got ignored.
That’s where Jesse Maple comes in. Never heard of her? You’re not alone. Until her obituary made the rounds in 2023—she passed away at the age of 86—her name had been more or less absent from the mainstream conversation around American film history. Which is wild, because Maple was one of the first Black women to direct a feature-length narrative film in the United States. And we just… forgot? Yikes.
But thankfully, that’s changing. In this new era of cinematic reappraisal and cultural excavation, Maple is finally getting her due. And at the center of this rediscovery is her 1981 debut feature, Will—a small, deeply personal, and at times raw look at Harlem, addiction, and the wreckage left behind when a community’s dreams are crushed under systemic neglect.
The Forgotten Firsts
When we talk about progress in film, it’s easy to focus on the future—on who’s getting opportunities now and how the industry is shifting to be more inclusive. But the truth is, if we don’t look back, we’re missing a huge piece of the puzzle. Plenty of “firsts” already happened. They just weren’t documented, celebrated, or preserved the way they should have been.
Maple’s story is a perfect example of that erasure. She wasn’t just a director. She was a screenwriter, a producer, and an editor. And before she made Will, she had to battle her way into the industry—literally taking legal action to gain admission to the camera union in New York. She was persistent, resourceful, and quietly revolutionary. But despite breaking barriers, she didn’t get the fanfare or the lasting recognition that many of her male counterparts enjoyed.
That’s what makes the restoration and reevaluation of Will so crucial. It’s not just about celebrating a good film. It’s about filling in the blank spots in our cinematic memory, the parts that were left out because they didn’t fit the dominant narrative.
Is Will Part of the L.A. Rebellion? Well… Kinda.
When film critics talk about Black independent cinema from the late ’70s and early ’80s, the L.A. Rebellion often comes up. This was a movement of African and African-American filmmakers—many of them UCLA grads—who were creating politically conscious, formally innovative films that challenged Hollywood conventions. Think Charles Burnett, Haile Gerima, and Julie Dash.
So, naturally, when people (finally) started paying attention to Will, there was a temptation to group Maple’s film with the L.A. Rebellion. The comparison isn’t totally off-base. Like those filmmakers, Maple had a knack for capturing a place with a deep sense of lived-in realism. Harlem, in Will, is more than just a backdrop—it’s practically pulsing with life, texture, and memory.
But here’s the twist: Maple wasn’t part of the L.A. scene. She was doing her own thing in New York, independently financing her work with her husband, LeRoy Patton, who also served as the film’s cinematographer. So while Will might feel spiritually connected to the Rebellion, it stands apart as a New York-born, Harlem-rooted vision. It’s what happens when a filmmaker doesn’t wait for permission and just tells the story that needs to be told.
Harlem Through a Loving Lens
You’ve probably heard someone say, “The city is a character in the film.” It’s a cliché at this point, but in Will, it’s honestly kind of true. Maple’s Harlem isn’t the glossy postcard version, nor is it a sensationalized crime zone like in so many mainstream films. It’s complex, beautiful, wounded, and real. And crucially, it’s shot through the eyes of someone who knows it, who has lived it.
This is a Harlem that exists outside of tourist fantasies or Hollywood stereotypes. It’s the kind of cinematic portrait that makes you realize how few authentic depictions of Black neighborhoods we’ve actually gotten on screen. And Maple manages to do it all on a tiny budget, with a skeleton crew, and without compromising her vision.
The Story of Will: A Fall From Grace
At the heart of Will is, well, Will. He’s a former basketball phenom whose life has been derailed by heroin addiction. Played by the late Obaka Adedunyo, Will is a tragic figure—not because he’s been written that way, but because his pain feels lived-in. We don’t meet him at his peak; we meet him long after the fall, deep in the throes of regret and decay.
Will’s wife, Jean, played by a then-unknown Loretta Devine (yes, that Loretta Devine—this was her film debut), has reached her breaking point. She’s stuck in the emotional wreckage, trying to salvage what little she can while watching the man she once loved dissolve in front of her. The performances are understated but potent. There’s no Oscar-bait melodrama here—just quiet, weary devastation.
The plot is deceptively simple: Will hits rock bottom and seeks redemption, primarily through the church. But Maple refuses to make this a tidy, faith-based recovery narrative. Instead, she uses the church as a site of tension—a place where belief and doubt coexist. Her depiction of spirituality isn’t a sermon; it’s a question. Can faith save a person who’s already halfway gone? And if it can’t, what’s left?
The Church: Comfort or Conundrum?
Religion is tricky territory in Black cinema. It’s deeply ingrained in the culture, but it’s also a source of conflict, especially when it comes to dealing with issues like addiction, poverty, and trauma. Many filmmakers either lean hard into the redemptive power of faith or reject it entirely. Maple does neither.
Instead, she stages the church scenes with a kind of raw ambivalence. They’re powerful and emotional, but also fraught. There’s a sense that something essential is missing—some gap between the sermon and the street. By the end of the film, you’re left wondering whether belief alone can really alter the course of a life so thoroughly ravaged. It’s a haunting question, and Maple doesn’t offer easy answers.
Jump Cuts, Flashbacks, and Fractured Minds
If you’re a fan of stylistic editing, Will has some fascinating tricks up its sleeve. While the film’s production was limited—this is clearly a low-budget indie—Maple uses those constraints to her advantage. The editing, credited to Willette Coleman but likely heavily influenced by Maple herself (she was also a trained editor), leans into disorientation.
Jump cuts slice through scenes like shards of memory. Flashbacks appear suddenly, often without clear setup, mimicking the fragmented mental state of someone spiraling in addiction. At times, we’re not sure if we’re in the present or the past—and that confusion feels intentional. It forces us to feel Will’s turmoil instead of just observing it from a safe distance.
Other scenes go long—uncomfortably long. The camera lingers, almost daring us to look away. These extended takes might have been a budgetary decision, but they also serve to slow down time, letting us sit with the characters in their most vulnerable moments.
Yes, It’s Uneven. And That’s Okay.
Let’s be honest: Will isn’t perfect. Addiction dramas are notoriously tough to pull off, and the third act stumbles a bit into melodrama territory. The ending, in particular, feels like a sledgehammer—an emotional gut punch that maybe tries a little too hard to be bleak and profound.
But that doesn’t take away from what the film achieves. Maple doesn’t just give us a character study; she gives us a time capsule. She shows us what Harlem looked like in the early ’80s, how addiction tore through families, and how even the brightest futures could be dimmed by systemic failure and neglect.
Most importantly, she does it with a quiet, uncompromising voice that was far ahead of its time.
The Legacy We Nearly Missed
In the current wave of rediscovering forgotten filmmakers, Jesse Maple stands tall. Her contributions may have been ignored by the mainstream when they first happened, but that doesn’t make them any less vital. In fact, it makes them more important to spotlight now.
Restoring Will isn’t just about fixing up an old film print. It’s about restoring our collective memory—correcting the record and giving credit where it’s long overdue. Maple was a pioneer, a fighter, and a storyteller who captured a side of American life that Hollywood still struggles to get right.
So next time someone talks about the history of Black cinema, make sure Jesse Maple’s name is in the conversation. Because Will might not be perfect, but it’s powerful. And it’s proof that sometimes the most important films are the ones we almost forgot.
