There are limits to how many poeticisms a film can reasonably support, and after a fairly entrancing two-thirds, Medicine for Melancholy finally uncovers them. Barry Jenkins’ debut feature has a black-and-white palette and a romantic narrative fixated on skin color, as the day-long escapades of Micah (Wyatt Cenac) and Jo (Tracey Heggins) touch upon, if not overtly address, their status as part of the seven percent of San Francisco’s African-American population. However, before the two can discuss their minority conditions (and differing outlooks on it), they must first meet-cute, which takes place on the hung-over morning after a hookup at an acquaintance’s party. In his opening sequence, Jenkins proves an assured, astute chronicler of believable details and atmosphere – the awkward shared glances between Micah and Jo (when, that is, they manage to look each other in the eyes); their respective brushing of teeth with their fingers; the slow, dazed gathering of clothes and accessories on the way out the door. It’s a mood-setter par excellence, and the film remains perceptively attuned to its characters’ situations once they depart, with Micah vainly attempting to strike up conversation (by trying to learn his aloof one-night-stand’s name) and then – after they abruptly separate – tracking her down to return the wallet she left in their cab.

Reunited, Jo reluctantly agrees to let Micah tag along on an errand that she’s doing on behalf of her boyfriend, who’s away on vacation. And, more importantly to the racially hyper-conscious Micah, white. This scenario offends Micah, who subsequently takes Jo to the Museum of the African Diaspora in an effort to increase her awareness of her heritage, an increasingly contentious topic given that Jo doesn’t feel guilty about her inter-racial relationship nor does she define herself first and foremost as African-American. Jenkins attempts to have this undercurrent – as well as the related issue of housing rights and gentrification, explicitly addressed via an egregiously shoehorned-in scene in which random community activists discuss the looming revocation of city rent control – spring naturally from his characters. Yet his dialogue often lets him down, the couple’s bulletpoint-laden debates seeming first and foremost like self-conscious attempts to infuse the Before Sunrise-style romantic drama with socio-economic heft. Better are those moments when the writer/director simply focuses on his two characters’ gradually developing affection, such as an impromptu guitar performance of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood’s theme song by Micah that exudes a silly, unpretentious spontaneity typical of the film’s finest off-the-cuff incidents.

The same holds true for Jenkins’ direction, which at times boasts an endearing Cassavetes looseness – such as during Micah and Jo’s visit to a rollicking, effusive indie-rock show where, to Micah’s frustration, they’re the only black attendees – but increasingly strains too hard for lyrical expressiveness. It’s a shame that Jenkins can’t leave himself out of Medicine for Melancholy a tad more, as Micah and Jo’s rapport regularly strikes a genuine balance between smitten and prickly, and his story smoothly captures how intense attraction to another can inspire a desire – often rooted in irrational fantasy – to alter oneself in order to facilitate compatibility. The preponderance of earnest indie ballads on the soundtrack, frequently melded to loving panoramas of San Francisco’s diverse (and strangely unpopulated) metropolitan districts spied out of moving car windows, eventually trespass into affectation, causing the proceedings’ winning naturalism to soon dissipate under the weight of excessive embellishments. Concluding on a fittingly less-than-happy note, the promising but uneven film knows what it wants to say, if not, ultimately, exactly how to say it.