Poverty in The Magic Kingdom

‘The Florida Project’ shows life in the shadow of The Happiest Place on Earth

Juxtaposing Walt Disney World and those on its fringes, “The Florida Project” highlights our country’s stark class divide and tells a scrappy fairytale that illuminates the contrast in intimate ways—with joy, honesty, and anguish.

“The Florida Project” is a consistent follow-up for Sean Baker, a burgeoning auteur of micro-budget filmmaking. His previous indie “Tangerine” followed transgender L.A. hookers on a revenge mission against a pimp. Now he jumps coasts to extend humanity to others who mostly receive condescending pity or scorn.

Then and now, Baker explores lives on the societal margins with a vibrant visual flair. “Tangerine” was shot on an iPhone with miraculous results, and now "The Florida Project" pops on 35mm film. Along with color and energy, Baker depicts his subjects with a delight that seems lost on other patronizing filmmakers.

But he doesn’t sanitize or beatify. On the contrary, one of the strengths of “The Florida Project” is its candid study of poor people. Some are genuinely working to improve their lot, but others work to game the system as they also rage against it with victimized entitlement.

Baker’s portrayal here is non-judgmental, but it is frank. In being so, it triggers prejudices—perhaps even latent ones—we may hold against the poor. Baker sees them only with compassion, destructive faults and all.

Set at a budget motel in Orlando over the course of one summer, “The Florida Project” follows the lives of residents who exist on the poverty line. We enter this world through a group of kids, led by a very precocious six-year-old girl named Moonee (newcomer Brooklynn Prince). Mostly unsupervised and playfully foul-mouthed, they’re very resourceful in creating fun and mischief for themselves, occasionally getting into trouble.

Through their antics, we see the surrounding neighborhood of gloriously kitschy architecture, where cheap businesses cater to those who can’t afford the high price of entering Disney World’s Magic Kingdom. The neighborhood is home to the story’s central motel, called The Magic Castle, which typifies the area’s glut of opportunistic cut-rate ripoffs.

It’s run by Bobby Hicks (Willem Dafoe), a rare person whose motives are truly altruistic, despite how often his patience and grace are tested. Dafoe imbues Bobby with a benevolent soul, serving as Baker’s non-preachy exemplar of the better-off engaging with those who aren’t.

Bobby spends part of his time applying a fresh layer of pastel purple paint to The Magic Castle, a project that serves as a perfect metaphor for the film’s first half. Baker paints a colorful kid-filtered coat over the cycle of poverty, but in hour two that paint starts to chip, peel, and fall away.

Baker isn’t presumptuous enough to offer solutions or an indictment. “The Florida Project” exists purely to offer empathy and solidarity, right through to its heartbreaking finish.