‘Ricky’: Sheryl Lee Ralph and Stephan James Stun in Sundance Drama

PARK CITY, Utah—Prison is hard but reacclimating to life on the outside isn’t exactly a cakewalk, and Ricky addresses the multiple challenges faced by ex-cons with sensitivity, nuance, and—best of all—a lack of preachy judgement.

Based on his 2023 short of the same name, writer/director Rashad Frett’s feature, which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival, is a captivating character study about a young man trying to carve out a grown-up life despite having spent half of his years on Earth behind bars. What he finds himself facing are dangers of both an external and internal nature, all of them brought to vivid life by star Stephan James.

Ricky introduces us to its protagonist as he stands in the center of a prayer group led by his mother Winsome (Simbi Kali). “Father God, you’ve been mighty good to Ricky” proclaims one of the women surrounding the 30-year-old, but that seems to be disputable, given that he’s only recently rejoined his family in East Hartford, Connecticut, after serving 15 years for armed robbery of a convenience store and attempted murder of the business’ clerk.

A strapping guy whose body is decorated with tattoos and scars, Ricky works at a loading dock for his childhood friend Terrence (Sean Nelson), and he dreams of being a barber. In his rough neighborhood, however, trouble routinely materializes out of nowhere, such as during a casual stroll home, when a crew of drug dealers don’t take kindly to Ricky turning down their sales pitch and chase him through the streets.

Ricky is saved from being robbed (or far worse, considering the guns on display) by Leslie Torino (Titus Welliver), an army vet who squashes things by brandishing his own firearm. Leslie lets Ricky go and, days later, he returns to inquire about the BMW Leslie is looking to sell.

Forced to walk to and from his place of employment, Ricky views this ride—which is the same one his now-deported dad once had—as a means of improving his circumstances, and he thus puts a down-payment on it. No sooner has he done this, alas, then he’s fired from his job due to a background check that turns up his record. Furious not simply at this situation but at Terrence’s inability to fix it (especially in light of their history), Ricky rages—an indication that, no matter his attempts at landing on two feet, he’s still something of a powder keg with a short fuse.

Whether or not they know he has a rap sheet, many in Ricky’s community initially view him with a wary eye. On a sidewalk, he meets single mother Jaz (Imani Lewis), who instinctively doesn’t trust him as a stranger who’s simultaneously too forward and too guarded.

His parole officer Joanne (Sheryl Lee Ralph) is similarly tough on him, largely because he has a habit of missing their weekly check-ins and the group counseling sessions that are mandated by the court. With a severely sour puss and an attitude to match, Joanne is the definition of no-nonsense, and Ralph—habitually decked out in her uniform, complete with tactical vest—embodies her with a harshness that appears to be the byproduct of spending every waking hour trying to save people who can’t be counted on to do the right thing.

Frett’s camera maintains proximity to Ricky as he navigates a world that’s at once familiar and foreign, and for the most part, the director’s compositional sense is keen. Ricky has a hard exterior yet just beneath the surface is a sensitive and scared man desperate to avoid being locked up again, and that aspect of himself ultimately endears him to Jaz, Joanne, and his mother’s friend, who gives him a job bussing tables at her café.

Unfortunately, peril lurks around every corner. Cutting hair leads to unexpected encounters with violent brutes, work puts him into contact with volatile customers, and his younger brother James (Maliq Johnson) proves a thorn in his side, goading him past his breaking point during a game of one-on-one. Even a tryst with Cheryl (Andrene Ward-Hammond), a woman from his group who’s struggling to see her daughter, is at once exciting and terrifying, both because he has no experience with women and because, from their first private moments together, Cheryl flashes a jealous side.

Ricky vacillates on a dime between hopeful and despondent, calm and aggressive, and Ricky lucidly dramatizes the ways in which familial, environmental, and personal factors contribute to his problems. Everywhere he turns, Ricky copes with assumptions that he doesn’t seem fully convinced are incorrect, and his willingness to keep moving forward is tested by a series of incidents that leave him in desperate straits.

Co-written by Lin Que Ayoung, Frett’s script shrewdly avoids pinning the blame for Ricky’s hardships on other individuals or systemic forces out of his control; rather, it comprehends the complicated context of Ricky’s predicament while maintaining focus on his ability to, as his counseling group leader remarks, accept that he can’t change the world but can alter how he interacts with it.

Moreover, Ricky grasps that avoiding hazards isn’t always possible, and is especially difficult for those with no margin for error. As things deteriorate, James’ assured performance blossoms, with the actor expressing the fury and dejection that are fighting for dominance of the character’s soul.

It’s an impressive turn, as is Ralph’s as the tough-loving Joanne, who in a late bedroom chat with Ricky elucidates her familiarity with rejection, destitution, and despair. Frett doesn’t shy away from his material’s melodramatic core, and despite his finale hinging on a bit too much on easy resolutions, it speaks powerfully to the idea that becoming an adult can’t happen without assuming responsibility for yourself and your actions—a process that allows for understanding, acceptance, and healing.

In numerous respects, Ricky is a prototypical slice-of-life Sundance indie, be it its off-the-cuff aesthetics or its overcoming-adversity narrative. To its credit, though, it refuses to indulge in comforting platitudes and clichés, tempering its closing optimism with a hint of uncertainty and trepidation that feels as honest as the rest of its warts-and-all portrait.