In adapting Percival Everett’s 2001 novel “Erasure,” Jefferson assigns himself and his film the double-edged task of both critiquing popular representations of African American life, while simultaneously delivering a vision of it that is elsewhere lacking. It’s a lot to juggle but he pulls it off, thanks to a wildly talented cast and plenty of good humor that still allows for well-placed jabs to the gut of Hollywood and the publishing industry, from tip to tail.

Jeffrey Wright stars as Thelonious “Monk” Ellison, an academic and novelist who has grown weary of campus politics but hasn’t managed to find stardom in publishing. After an incident with a triggered student, he’s asked to take a leave of absence and heads to a book festival in his hometown of Boston, with an extended stay tacked on.

A few things crystallize for Monk in Boston. Firstly, his work is out of step with what the book market craves from Black writers, namely pandering depictions of Black life in extremis, rendered in richly colorful African American vernacular. This is evidenced by the rapturous adoration of “We’s Lives in Da Ghetto,” a novel by superstar Oberlin alum Sintara Golden (Issa Rae), received with knowing nods from middle-aged white women in the audience.

He also realizes that despite his reluctance to connect with his family, they’re hurting on several fronts and his presence is needed, especially as his mother Agnes (Leslie Uggams) is declining from Alzheimer’s. These two realizations collide for Monk into one epiphany, and one night he sits down to write “My Pafology,” a tale of guns and gangs, under the pen name Stagg R. Leigh. It’s a joke, an exorcism of his discontent, but what he doesn’t expect is for everyone to take the joke so seriously.

Jeffrey Wright in the movie “American Fiction.”

(TIFF)

The manuscript sells in a blockbuster bidding war almost immediately, the cloying executives fawning over “Stagg” and his “raw, authentic” voice and fugitive status — a gambit dreamed up by Monk’s agent (John Ortiz) to keep his identity in the dark. Spurred by the need to pay for his mother’s care, Monk allows the ruse to keep tumbling forward: a movie deal, TV appearances, a literary award that he happens to be judging.

Everett’s novel is a meta-narrative and Jefferson nods to that, bringing to life “My Pafology” (later retitled to something that can’t be printed here) on screen with actors who interact with him as he’s writing. The end also toys with reality, the climax rewritten again and again until we wonder what has been real all along.

But the true climax of the film happens earlier, during a confrontation that’s been simmering the entire film: Monk and Sintara, his unlikely nemesis, finally have a moment alone and he probes her about her book, accuses her of writing to the (white) market, and she sets him on his heels for not appreciating what’s in front of him, instead searching for some unattainable “potential.” It’s a momentary splash of cold water and an important call-out of our protagonist — perhaps there is another side to this issue than just his anger at what kinds of narratives are celebrated.

Wright plays Monk as grumpy and grumbling, growling and glowering, but the entire process of his becoming the swaggering Stagg, connecting with his family and finding love with a neighbor, Coraline (Erika Alexander), forces him to open up, even if begrudgingly.

At times, “American Fiction” feels torn between its two goals, one satirical, one emotional. The warmth of the family melodrama that powers the internal core of the narrative and provides the impetus to push Monk forward with the fake book tends to declaw the social commentary. It’s not that Jefferson pulls any punches, but he chooses them carefully and allows our attention to rest in Monk’s personal life.

As a visual storyteller, Jefferson is still finding his feet, though there is wit and archness in certain compositions and editing choices. The strength of this film lies in its script and wonderful cast, from Wright and Uggams, to Alexander and Sterling K. Brown, the last in a chaotic comedic mode that offers some necessary brightness.

“American Fiction” is a lot like Monk’s drink of choice, Chenin blanc: dry, bracing, elegant and a bit unexpected. It’s a thoughtful and complex film that unfolds under repeat viewings and signals the arrival of an exciting new filmmaker. Even writing this review feels like playing into the systems that Jefferson critiques, and therein lies the complexity of tangling with this “American Fiction.”