Wes Miller is a visionary moviemaker whose journey from civil rights lawyer to acclaimed director exemplifies the transformative power of storytelling. Known for crafting narratives that blend drama with high-octane action, He has carved a discreet advocate in contemporary independent cinema. His background in law deeply informs his work, allowing him to explore themes of justice, identity, and societal conflict with simplicity and authenticity.
Miller’s dedication to diversity and representation shines through in his movies, providing a platform for underrepresented voices while delivering gripping, character-driven stories. With projects like Call Her King and A Day to Die, he has consistently demonstrated a talent for balancing intense action sequences with mainstream, yet thought-provoking topics.
We had the pleasure of interviewing him for Urban Magazine to discuss the release of his latest work, Black Heat, starring Jason Mitchell, NLE Choppa, and DreamDoll, a testament to his ability to weave raw, unpolished realism with compelling universal narratives. Set in a single location, the movie delves into themes of family, compromise, choices, and social determinism, showcasing Miller’s knack for creating tension and depth in confined spaces.
Hello, it’s an immense pleasure to have you today! First of all, congratulations on your latest movie! Black Heat explores themes like family dynamics and generational conflict. Why were these themes so important to you?
As a girl-dad, those themes hit close to home for me. I come from a family where love was always present, but so were unspoken wounds and generational silence. I wanted to explore what happens when we stop running from that pain — when we confront it head-on. In Black Heat, the family isn’t just a backdrop — it’s the battlefield and the healing ground. It’s personal, it’s messy, and that’s what made it important for me to tell.
One particular interesting detail : it is set in a single location. What were the creative challenges and advantages of this choice?
The single location forced us to lean all the way into tension and character. There’s nowhere to hide in a space like that — not for the characters, and not for us as filmmakers. The challenge was keeping it visually dynamic and emotionally escalating, but the advantage was intimacy. That closeness becomes almost suffocating, which served the story perfectly.
The movie has been described multiple times by the critics as raw and unpolished. Was this a deliberate stylistic choice?
Absolutely. We didn’t want gloss. We didn’t want clean edges. Life doesn’t come with perfect lighting or smooth transitions. We leaned into that grit because it mirrored the emotional state of the characters. That rawness is the truth of their experience — and sometimes, truth is uncomfortable and jagged.
And how did you work with the cinematographer to create Black Heat’s intense and gritty atmosphere?
Our visual approach was rooted in restraint and intentionality. We used lighting and framing to evoke psychological tension, favoring practical sources and shadow-heavy compositions to reflect the characters’ internal conflicts. The camera operated with a sense of voyeurism — hesitant, almost reluctant — as if it were capturing moments it wasn’t meant to witness. In that way, the atmosphere emerged not from stylization, but from an organic alignment between emotion, space, and perspective.
The idea of voyeurism in your visual language raises an interesting question: the ethical boundaries of storytelling and how it is right to make the audience feel complicit in what they’re witnessing. Let’s talk about you now. Your background as a civil rights lawyer often influences your work. Did that perspective shape Black Heat in any way?
Definitely. That part of my life taught me how deeply systemic trauma can root itself in families, in identities. Black Heat isn’t about courtrooms, but it is about justice — the kind you fight for in your own home, within yourself when the system fails you. It’s about inherited survival tactics, buried truths, and what it takes to break a cycle.
What excites you the most about creating stories that highlight diversity and underrepresented voices?
It’s the ability to shift the lens — to say, “This story matters too.” For too long, the fullness of Black life, joy, pain, complexity — it’s been filtered or erased. I’m excited to tell stories that feel honest, specific, and human. I’m not interested in caricatures. I want to create people you recognize, even if you’ve never seen them on screen before.
Are there any directors or films that have consistently inspired you since you began your career in moviemaking?
Definitely. Spike Lee was foundational — not just for his storytelling, but for how boldly he made space for himself. The emotional grit of John Cassavetes also stuck with me. More recently, Barry Jenkins reminds me of the beauty in stillness. And Antoine Fuqua — he knows how to balance heart and heat, which I really admire.
What a coincidence. I myself grew up in a family where both parents had Spike Lee as their favorite director (one of them having studied film). The only two movie posters that were never taken down from the office wall were from ‘Malcolm X.’ His impact is unparalleled. How has your moviemaking style evolved since your earlier projects like Call Her King or A Day to Die?
Great question. In the early days, I was learning, and I didn’t go to film school, so I didn’t have the space to make movies in a protected space. Because of that, I think I was trying to prove something — to the industry, maybe even to myself. I believe on Call Her King, I started to discover who I was as a filmmaker and find my voice. Learning the cinematic grammar of lenses. Learning how to really work with actors. And I feel my voice and grown more fearless about silence — about letting a moment breathe and trusting that the emotion will carry. Probably most important, I began focusing on my audience…not the industry, and not myself.
Let’s now talk about the cast, who were clearly chosen with intention. Jason Mitchell delivers a powerful performance. What made him the ideal choice for his role?
Jason has this rare ability to carry rage and vulnerability at the same time. That duality was essential for his character. I needed someone who could explode one second and break your heart the next — and Jason delivered that tenfold. He brought depth, pain, and humanity to the role.
DreamDoll and NLE Choppa are the two other key figures in Black Heat. Why did you choose these two, beyond their popularity outside the film industry?
I saw something in both of them — an edge, but also a hunger to be taken seriously. This wasn’t stunt casting. They understood the stakes, and they came ready. They bring their own rhythm and cultural truth to the screen, and I wanted that authenticity. They didn’t just act; they connected. NLE can be one of the greats if he dedicates himself to the craft.
How did the cast contribute to shaping their characters or influencing the story?
I believe, like Judith Weston says, that the actor is the character’s first audience — and the character doesn’t truly exist until the actor brings breath and soul to the role. So from the beginning, I approached the process as a conversation, not a command. I came in with structure and intention, but I left room for discovery. We explored the characters’ inner lives together — their secrets, their rhythms, even their silences. When something didn’t sit right, we talked about it. Sometimes that meant reworking dialogue to sound more honest in their mouths. Other times, it was just about creating space for them to trust their instincts. My job wasn’t to impose — it was to invite. And in that space, the performances deepened. Their choices didn’t just serve the story — they reshaped it.
DreamDoll and NLE Choppa are relatively new to the world of cinema. How did you guide them through this experience?
My approach with them was rooted in trust and presence. Actors need safety — not just physical, but emotional — in order to take risks and bring truth to the frame. With DreamDoll and NLE Choppa, I wasn’t asking for technical perfection. I was asking for honesty. So we didn’t jump into performance right away. We talked. We listened. We built context around the characters, but more importantly, we built a space where they could bring parts of themselves to the role — their past, their rhythm, their vulnerability.
When someone’s new to acting, the instinct is often to “get it right.” I tried to take that pressure off. I let them know there was no right — only what felt true. We worked moment to moment, sometimes throwing the script out and letting them just be. My job was to support that, to protect that, and to remind them: the camera doesn’t need you to perform.
As a director, how do you adapt your approach to working with actors from different backgrounds, like musicians-turned-actors or influencers?
You have to respect their instincts, but also give them tools. A musician might understand rhythm and tone better than anyone, but they need to learn breath control or emotional timing for the camera. I try to build trust first — because once they feel safe, they can surprise even themselves.
The title Black Heat is quite intriguing, by the way. What does it ultimately symbolize in the context of the movie?
It’s the pressure — the internal fire that comes from pain, legacy, and survival. It’s the heat that rises when truth is buried too long. But it’s also strength — Black resilience, Black emotion, Black power. The title is a warning and a promise: something’s about to erupt, and it can’t be ignored.
Demona Lauren
