Tag: Black Actresses

‘Beasts of the Southern Wild’: Gender, Race and a Powerful Female Protagonist in the Most Buzzed About Film

I have a confession to make. I’m a big softie when it comes to movies. I shed tears at the drop of a hat. But I usually don’t cry during a film trailer. But Beasts of the Southern Wild — both the trailer and the film itself — made me weep.

A strange, haunting, breathtaking dystopian fantasy — it contends with polar ice caps melting, prehistoric creatures, lands flooding, and the bonds of family. With its lush scenes, poignant and complex characters, and achingly beautiful music, it stirred emotions and memories long forgotten. It’s a triumph of the human spirit. And the best part? At the bittersweet film’s center is a little girl.

The film’s female protagonist is Hushpuppy, a 6-year-old African American girl who lives with her father on an island called the Bathtub. And she is a breath of fresh air. Played with depth, nuance and sensitivity, newcomer Quvenzhané Wallis — who’s already generating lots of Oscar buzz — dazzles on-screen. Her luminous personality captivating you at every moment. She’s been called “a miniature force of nature.” And I couldn’t think of a more perfect description. It’s hard to believe Wallis was only 5 years old when she filmed the movie.

Hushpuppy is a pint-sized powerhouse. An indomitable survivor. She’s brave, tough and strong-willed. There’s a fierce intensity, and an old wisdom behind her eyes. Honest, vulnerable and sweet – she is the film’s moral compass, its anchor.

Too often with films with daughters, they merely exist so we can see how the parents react to them. But here, we witness the story unfold from Hushpuppy’s perspective. Director and co-screenwriter Benh Zeitlin said he made a conscious decision to only yield information Hushpuppy has access to. We the audience see only what she sees. She narrates the film throughout so we always know her thoughts and feelings. But honestly, even if you erased all the narration, you would still know because of Wallis’ expressive face and body language. Through her narration, we peek a glimpse into her psyche. Hushpuppy utters poetic and sage musings:

“When it all goes quiet behind my eyes, I see everything that made me flying around in invisible pieces… Everybody loses the thing that made them. The brave men stay and watch it happen. They don’t run.” 

“I see that I am a little piece of a big, big universe, and that makes it right.” 

Hushpuppy frequently lets out this little scream that reminds me of a warrior cry akin to Xena. It’s as if she’s declaring, “I’m here world. Deal with it.” She carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. Yet there’s a buoyancy to her spirit. Putting animals up to her ear so she can “listen to their innermost desires,” savoring each bite of food she eats…these bring her joyous rapture. Hushpuppy is the film’s moral compass and anchor. We see the whole world through her eyes.

While at times it looks the same, the world in Beasts of the Southern Wild is not ours. The Bathtub was inspired by the real Louisiana island Isle de Jean Charles, which is frequently flooded and is “cut off from the levee system.” Beneath the surface of this strange fantasy, it feels like an allegory of Hurricane Katrina. Although director and screenwriter Zeitlin insists the film is not about Katrina. An apocalyptic fantasy grounded in realism, Zeitlin discussed the film’s message:

“It’s a folk tale about the emotional experience of what it’s like to have to survive the end of your world, and to lose the things that made you.”

Despite his protestations, the parallels between Beasts of the Southern Wild and Hurricane Katrina are uncanny. The film contends with how to survive losing your home amongst horrific destruction and how we shouldn’t turn our back on people. Again feeling like a parallel to the way the government turned its back on Katrina survivors, particularly the survivors of color. The film also contains a strong message of environmentalism. If we continue down the same path of environmental degradation, we may destroy the planet. The philosophy that we are all connected reverberates throughout the film. Especially when Hushpuppy says:

“The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece…the entire universe will get busted.”

Beasts of the Southern Wild features a disturbing yet loving relationship between Hushpuppy and her ailing father Wink (Dwight Henry), an alcoholic, who vacillates between joyful hope and pained anger. In the beginning, he’s cold and cruel, alcohol warping his lucidity and judgment. He knows he has to take care of her and teach her how to survive in the world. But he seems to resent it as he can barely take care of himself. We eventually see his benevolent streak as he looks for survivors. By the end of the film, I broke down in silent sobs as we witness the strength of their bond.

Too often in film and TV, black fathers are absent, either dead or incarcerated. So it was great that here was a black father. And Henry imbued depth, anger, pain and hope into his character. But why did he have to be so broken? Why can’t we see a positive representation of a black father?

Like many fantasies and fairy tales, we witness an absent mother. But Hushpuppy’s mother’s presence is very much alive. Hushpuppy carries around a sports jersey, a symbol of her mother. She has imaginary conversations with her mother. When she sees a blinking beacon off on the horizon, she believes it’s her mother beckoning her. We also see a maternal figure in Miss Bathsheeba (Gina Montana) who nurtures and cares for all the children of the Bathtub. As her world begins to crumble, Hushpuppy eventually goes in search of her mother. In her journey, Hushpuppy traverses the land with three young girls at her side.

The film boasts strong, resilient, outspoken women and girls. And the stereotypically feminine trait of caretaking is lauded and celebrated. Miss Bathsheeba tells the children that they’ve got to take care for those “littler and sweeter than them…that’s the most important lesson I can teach you.” Wink believes it’s his duty and responsibility to teach his daughter how to survive and take care of herself. Screenwriter Lucy Alibar said he ultimately teaches Hushpuppy:

“How to take care of people. How to take care of someone weaker than you. The strength of kindness. The strength of standing with some place, with your family.”

Sadly, through gendered language, the feminine is often denigrated and demeaned at worst and diminished at best.

Wink often says “man” to Hushpuppy, like “Hey, man.” When they arm wrestle he asks her, “Who’s the man?” To which she proudly replies, “I’m the man.” When Hushpuppy’s house is destroyed – yes, her and her father each have their own house with their own belongings – he draws a line separating Hushpuppy from his sphere, the masculine one. He tells her that no girly toys are allowed on his side, but that he can’t hit her on her own side, something in her favor (Um, what?? Yeah, I’m not cool with violence). Wink often tells Hushpuppy, “No crying,” not allowing her emotions that depict weakness in his eyes. Even when we’re introduced to Miss Bathsheeba (Gina Watson), she’s telling the children not to be “pussies,” something uttered by Hushpuppy herself later in the film.

Food plays an integral role in the film, as sustenance, as a part of culture and as celebration. You see Hushpuppy, her father and their community eating seafood. While it was difficult for me to watch as a vegan, the feminist in me was thrilled that we see a girl eat. In reality, women and girls obviously eat. Due to the media’s policing of female bodies, women and girls have an antagonistic relationship to food. We don’t typically see female characters eating on-screen.

We also see a subtle commentary on gender performance and gender norms. When the residents of the Bathtub are transported to the mainland by the government, Hushpuppy is forced to wear a frilly, girlie-girl dress and tame her wild hair. Stripped of her identity and forced into conformity, she looks miserable. She doesn’t want to be constrained in gender stereotypes. Unconsciously, she wants to perform gender on her terms, not society’s.

I often lament the lack of female-centric films, particularly with women and girls of color. When we do see women, they usually appear as sidekicks or love interests to men. But not here. A black girl is front and center. And even though the film focuses on Hushpuppy’s relationship with her father, her relationship with her mother is equally as important.

We often see boys and men in films that showcase a hero’s journey or transformation. But here – in this film showcasing a triumph of the spirit – we see a journey with a strong-willed, opinionated girl of color. And I couldn’t be more thrilled.

Mystical, ethereal, surreal, touching – Beasts of the Southern Wild is all of these and yet so much more. Even as you watch the film, you might not understand or fully comprehend the meaning of the unusual plot. But let its poetic beauty, emotions and raw honesty wash over you. Let it sink in. For it will be a long time before another film like it – or another female hero as complex as Hushpuppy – comes our way.

LGBTQI Week: "I’m Not Running, I’m Choosing": ‘Pariah’ and Gender Performance

Warning: spoilers ahead!!
“Who do you become if you can’t be yourself?” Pariah, my absolute favorite film of 2011, tackles that question. 
Written and directed by Dee Rees and produced by Nekisa Cooper, the powerful Pariah tells the story of Alike (Adepero Oduye in an astounding performance), a 17-year-old black lesbian in Brooklyn. Studious, artistic and sensitive, Alike is a writer who knows who she is but hides her sexuality from her family. We so rarely see positive portrayals of black women and queer women on-screen. Here, we have the privilege to see both. With subtlety and grace, it’s an exquisite and achingly beautiful female-centric coming-of-age film about a young woman discovering her sexuality and asserting her identity. 
Carrie Nelson already wrote an articulate and intelligent review of the award-winning film. You should seriously go read it! But I want to touch on a few points that particularly struck me while watching, particularly about gender performance and identity. 
Most films don’t address teenage sexuality. Sure they may objectify women or poke fun at raging hormones. But they don’t often explore how teens’ discover their sexuality, especially women’s sexuality, people of color’s sexuality, or queer sexuality.
Throughout the film, we receive visual cues to Alike’s gender performance. When we first see Alike in a club, she’s wearing a loose men’s jersey, baggy jeans and a baseball cap. She’s emulating her butch best friend Laura (Pernell Walker). On the bus home, Alike removes her hat and shirt, revealing a form-fitting top. She puts on earrings. All for her overprotective, lonely and overbearing mother Audrey (Kim Wayans). When she’s around her mom, Alike wears stereotypically feminine clothing. Flouncy skirts, dresses, snug blouses – all clothing that “shows off her figure” like her mother wants. Her mother buys her these clothes, knowing full well that Alike abhors wearing them. Yet refusing to accept her daughter, she tries to orchestrate her daughter’s identity.
Alike’s mother can’t handle the fact that her daughter is a lesbian. Audrey shows a colleague at lunch a fuchsia sweater she bought for Alike. She tells Arthur (Charles Parnell), Alike’s father, that she’s “tired of this tomboy thing she’s doing.” Yet Alike tries to express herself, telling her parents that the sweater “isn’t me.” Alike’s identity contradicts her vision of her daughter that she imposed on Alike. Alike’s father is more protective of her as she’s a “daddy’s girl.” Yet he refuses to admit or see the signs that Alike might be a lesbian. Between the two is Alike’s sister Sharonda (Sahra Mellesse) who knows about her sexuality and loves her regardless. 
Whenever Alike leaves home, she transforms herself into the identity she chooses. At school, we see her rush to the girls’ bathroom to change. She adopts a more masculine appearance to coincide with her gender non-conformity. Laura buys Alike a strap-on to have sex with a woman. But Alike’s uncomfortable wearing it (it’s white, it pinches her) and ends up throwing it away. 
For Alike, both sets of clothing – the hyper-masculine and hyper-feminine – are a costume. She rebels from the princess wardrobe her mother wants for her by going to the other extreme, exploring if it’s who she is. But neither appearance encapsulates Alike. Both the butch and the femme identities are disconnected from her personality. 
“Alike’s a woman who knows she loves women, and is sure in that, but her struggle is how to be. Her struggle is a more nuanced struggle of gender identity within the queer community. She’s not the same person that (her friend) Laura is, neither is she this pink princess that her mother wants her to be. She falls somewhere in between. Finding the courage to carve out that space is her journey.” 
Audrey suspects her daughter is a lesbian or at the very least is attracted to women. But she tries to derail Alike’s sexuality. Audrey forces Alike and the charismatic Bina (Aasha Davis), the daughter of a work colleague and one of Alike’s classmates, to spend time together in a vain attempt to separate Alike from hanging out with Laura, who’s own mother has disowned her for being a lesbian. Alike tells her mother that nothing is going to change, Audrey replies, “God doesn’t make mistakes,” as if homosexuality is a mistake. But Audrey’s plan backfires as Alike and Bina bond over music and share a growing attraction to one another. 
Drawn to one another, Alike and Bina have sex. Despite their shared intimacy, Bina rejects Alike. Breaking Alike’s heart and devastating her, Bina tells her she’s not “gay-gay” and asks her to keep their encounter secret. We see that Bina possesses sexual fluidity yet is afraid to commit to a woman, perhaps due to society’s heteronormative standards. Or maybe she doesn’t want to commit to anyone, male or female. Or maybe she’s an insensitive asshole. 
Whatever Bina’s motivations, Alike’s heartbreak ushers in her refusal to bury her identity any longer. Amidst a huge fight between her parents, Audrey angrily tells Arthur, “Your daughter is turning into a damn man right before your eyes.” Alike tells her parents she’s a lesbian, which enrages her mother. Audrey hits her repeatedly, her father trying to restrain her, after Alike finally confirms what her mother already knew. 
Alike turns to Laura (who tries again to reach out to her mother after she earns her GED) for solace and support. Both women are able to commiserate as friends and as lesbians rejected by their mothers’ gendered expectations. 
By the end of the film, we see Alike’s clothing change again. Adopting some of Bina’s style fused with her own – perhaps to convey that she’s learned from her heartache or it may be her acknowledgement of her sexual transformation – she wears scarves and earrings with jeans. No longer shadowing Laura and no longer conforming to her mother’s gendered expectations, Alike rejects the gender binary of butch and femme, a symbolic balance of her identity, a unison of femininity and masculinity. 
Alike divulges her feelings through spoken word. Her poem at the end of Pariah is hauntingly stunning (making me weep uncontrollably), echoing her painful yet ultimately freeing journey towards self-acceptance: 
“Heartbreak opens onto the sunrise for even breaking is opening and I am broken, I am open. Broken into the new life without pushing in, open to the possibilities within, pushing out. See the love shine in through my cracks? See the light shine out through me? I am broken, I am open, I am broken open. See the love light shining through me, shining through my cracks, through the gaps. My spirit takes journey, my spirit takes flight, could not have risen otherwise and I am not running, I am choosing. Running is not a choice from the breaking. Breaking is freeing, broken is freedom. I am not broken, I am free.” 
Pariah shattered my heart with its aching beauty, uplifting my soul. We are allowed a window to witness her journey and self-discovery. Through her wardrobe and poetry, Alike eventually expresses herself as a lesbian in the way that she wishes. Alike insists she’s not running, she’s choosing. While she means this literally, there’s  meaning beneath the surface. No longer running from who she is, Alike chooses to embrace her identity. Watching Alike discover and assert herself is beauty, poetry in motion.

LGBTQI Week: “All the Pieces Matter:” Queer Characters of Color on ‘The Wire’

(L-R): Detective Kima Greggs (Sonja Sohn) and Omar Little (Michael K. Williams) on The Wire
The Wire is the greatest TV series of all time. Period.
Now, I know I’m not really making some bold claim as many, many, many, manycriticshave professed their unabashed love for the crime drama. No other show has painstakingly depicted the complexities of racism, the inner city and the lives of the underclass. It’s a grandiose statement “about the American city, and about how we live together” and how institutional inequities fail social justice.
When people talk about The Wire, usually with awe and reverie, they discuss the sharp dialogue or the nuanced characters or the statement on race and the criminal justice system. And all of that is amazing. But I think what gets lost is that people forget The Wire’s depiction of queer characters and ultimately its statement on LGBTQ rights.  
The Wire portrayed complex, fully developed queer characters, something you don’t typically see in pop culture. With my absolute two favorite characters, Detective Kima Greggs and Omar Little – a black lesbian woman and a black gay man – The Wire confronted assumptions and stereotypes of heteronormativity.
Played by Sonja Sohn, an African-American and Asian-American black woman, kick-ass Detective Kima Greggs was a hard-working, smart, compassionate and loyal. Possessing integrity and earning the respect of her colleagues, she’s a fiercely shrewd and efficient police detective working in narcotics and later homicide. And she’s openly lesbian. From her very first scenes, we witness Kima better at her job than many of the men around her. She’s an indispensable member of the Major Crimes Unit. Outside of work, we see Kima with her partner Cheryl, a journalist. Later in the series, we see how work stress (especially after Kima is shot), conflicting goals, infidelity, parenthood and alcohol strain their relationship. After they break up, we see Kima and Cheryl come together to raise their son, as well as Kima’s fantastic “hustler” version of Goodnight, Moon.

The Wire‘s Detective Kima Greggs (Sonja Sohn)
With his signature trench coat, shotgun and trademark whistle, Omar (portrayed by the effortlessly charismatic Michael K. Williams) was a badass stick-up man who everyone in the hood respected, even those who wanted him dead. And he was a proud gay black man. Intelligent, brave, sensitive and funny, he abided by a strict moral code. He loved Honey Nut Cheerios and Greek mythology, loathed profanity and dropped nuggets of wisdom on the similarities between lawyers and thieves and says things like, “Ares, same dude different name” and “You come at the king, you best not miss.” The media is littered with tropes about gay men. Yet here was Omar – a tough, fearless, modern-day Robin Hood robbing drug dealers – who just happened to be gay and broke every stereotype. 
The Wire showed both Kima and Omar’s romantic relationships. We witness them laugh, kiss, have sex, and fight. In short, complete relationships. It was great to see to see a gay and a lesbian relationship amidst all the heterosexual relationships. When queer relationships are depicted on TV, they’re often sanitized and peppered with chaste kisses, when the straight relationships are not. Queer characters may be clothed or the relationships are put on the back burner, not in integral part of the characters’ lives. With The Wire, we see queer characters having sex. We see Omar naked. Passion, raw sexuality, and tenderness abound in the queer relationships. We shouldn’t be plagued by heteronormativity and just see straight relationships as the default and queer relationships as peripheral. Queer relationships were entrenched in the series.
It’s also interesting to see how other Wire characters treat homosexuality. When asked by Carver, “If you don’t mind can I ask you when was it that you first figured you liked women better than men?” To which she replies, “I mind.” Detective McNulty praises Kima, telling her the only other competent female detective he ever worked with was a lesbian (ahhh a back-handed, sexist compliment…thanks, Jimmy!) Omar is often referred to with gay slurs like the F-word and C-sucker. When drug kingpin Avon Barksdale finds out from his crew that Omar is gay, he quadruples the bounty on him.Many of the characters seem to view lesbians as masculine, the desired gender, and gay men as effeminate, denigrating the feminine. The portrayal of Kima and Omar question, challenge and subvert these stereotypes.

The Wire‘s Omar Little (Michael K. Williams)

Now, it’s great we’re starting to see more and more queer characters on-screen (Modern Family, True Blood, Grey’s Anatomy, Will & Grace, Glee, The L Word, Queer as Folk, Buffy, Roseanne). Although I desperately wish we were seeing more bisexual (although thank you for Callie Torres, Grey’s Anatomy!) and transgender characters. But usually when we see queer characters, we see white, upper class/upper middle class characters. As if no queer people of color or queer people who are impoverished or even working class exist.

Class and race are so often erased in our media (one of the many reasons Roseanne was so groundbreaking and amazing). Not every queer person lives in Park Slope or West Hollywood attending art gallery openings and having nannies. The Wire depicts financially struggling and impoverished queer women and men of color.
Stereotypes plague queer characters on sitcoms. And yes, sitcoms differ from dramas. Kima and Omar (while Omar does seem too badass to be an actual person) both seem very real. They exhibited foibles and weaknesses along with their strengths. But their relationships didn’t define them. Rather, they were an integral component of their lives. Kima and Omar weren’t beholden to these stereotypes that alert us to “Oh, this is a gay character!” Fully developed and fleshed out, they didn’t fall prey to common tropes.
But Kima and Omar weren’t the only queer characters. Major Rawls, a gay-slur-spewing jerk, is a closeted gay man as we see him briefly at a gay bar. Snoop (Felicia Pearson), the frighteningly ruthless, gender non-conforming soldier in Marlo’s crew (sidebar, my fave scene with her is when she goes to Home Depot), is a lesbian as we learn after Detective Bunk tells her he’s thinking about some pussy and she replies, “Me too.” Both Rawls and Snoop, along with Greggs and Omar, challenge gender and heteronormative assumptions.

The Wire‘s Snoop (Felicia “Snoop” Pearson)
Despite my adulation, The Wire is far from perfect. (Say what??) The Wire boasts strong, complex female characters (Kima Greggs, Ronnie, Beadie, Brianna Barksdale, Snoop) Yet it sadly suffers from a woman problem. As progressive as it is, sexism taints it. Just because a film or TV series contains a “portfolio of ‘strong women’” doesn’t automatically deem it feminist.The Wire often focus on the male characters. While we see myriad perspectives from the male characters, the women aren’t typically offered the same screen-time or scope, often existing peripherally. David Simon himself admitted that his female characters could be called “men with tits.” Ugh. While based on a couple lesbian officers he knew, Simon wrote Kima Greggs “like a man.” We often witness how institutional racism and classism oppress the male characters and how gendered notions of masculinity harm men. Yet we rarely see how sexism impacts the women from their perspective. But the flaws in its depiction of women doesn’t unravel the tremendous good The Wire has done.

“The characters on The Wiredemonstrate a departure from heteronormative assumptions in television complicated by race. The prospect of seeing homosexual minority couples has remained largely untouched by major media outlets and it is therefore worth applauding. While the series may lack a strong female presence to challenge traditional heterosexual gender roles, the work that it has done involving homosexual partnerships serves as one of the sole examples of normalized homosexuality.”
When asked why he created an out lesbian and a gay stick-up man, creator David Simon responded, “Because gay people exist.” Is there any more perfect reason than that? He went on to say that he knew lesbian detectives and openly gay stick-up men in Baltimore. Whatever failings Simon suffered from not knowing how to write about women, he knew to include gay characters. It shouldn’t be so surprising or groundbreaking. And yet it is for the media too often erases queer (and queer people of color’s) perspectives. And that’s just one of the many reasons why The Wire should be celebrated.The Wire‘s routine depiction of gay and lesbian characters conveyed queer individuals and queer relationships as normal, loving and valid. The Wire refused to make heterosexuality the default sexual orientation.

Weaving diverse voices and social justice issues together in a compelling, thought-provoking, passionate way — that’s what The Wire did best. Too often the media silences and erases queer people of color. The Wire brought those perspectives to the forefront. Quoting Detective Lester Freamon, evolving into the show’s unofficial mantra, “And all the pieces matter.” And so do all the various genders, sexualities, races and identities of the characters involved. Just like real life…or at least how real life should be.
P.S. Michael K. Williams (Omar), who’s incredibly gracious and charming – yes, I’m going to brag for a moment…I was lucky enough to meet him (!!!), as well as Andre Royo (Bubs) and Jamie Hector (Marlo) who were also super nice – filmed a PSA for marriage equality in Maryland. If you’re an Omar fan, you should totes watch it. Oh, indeed.

 

Quote of the Day: Viola Davis on Women of Color, Dreams & Her Life’s Mission

Viola Davis at the 81st Academy Awards
Viola Davis at the 81st Academy Awards (Photo credit: Wikipedia; Image by: Chrisa Hickey )

The internet has been abuzz over Meryl Streep’s badass statement at Women in Film (WIF)’s Crystal + Lucy Awards condemning the “underrepresentation of women” in film and Hollywood’s preoccupation with “big tent-pole failures.” She went on to question, “Don’t they want the money?” since women’s films like The Devil Wears Prada and Mamma Mia have been box-office blockbusters. And the divine Streep couldn’t be more right. We desperately need more women on-screen (and behind the camera), especially considering women comprise only 33% of speaking roles in film.

Streep presented Viola Davis with the 2012 Crystal Award for Excellence in Film. Journalists and bloggers have also been busy reporting on the sisterly camaraderie and “love fest” between the two friends at the awards ceremony.
But what the media seems to have overlooked is the ever poised and articulate Viola Davis’ moving acceptance speech. Davis spoke about her mom, acting as a vehicle for expressing the pain and joy in her life, women of color’s dreams, and the legacy she hopes to leave:
“I realized I spent my entire life trying to be better than my mom. That I am the daughter and the granddaughter and the great-granddaughter and the great-great-great-granddaughter of so many women whose dreams are in the graveyard. They’re women of color who worked in the tobacco fields and the cotton fields and had children by the time they were 15, left school in the 8th grade and a dream was just ambiguous to them. 
“And I realized that I wanted to have a dream. And I think that I chose acting because all my life has been filled with stories of people of color that have been filled with so much complexity and duality. And so much of my life has been filled with so much pain and humor and joyous moments that I felt the need to express that. And I couldn’t do it in a 9 to 5 [job]. 
“I believe unlike my mom and my grandmother and my great-grandmother that the privilege of a lifetime is being who you are, truly being who you are. 
“And I’ve spent far too long apologizing for that — my age, my color, my lack of classical beauty — that now at the age of…well at the age of 46 I’m very proud to be Viola Davis, for whatever it’s worth. 
“And I never want to look in the face of a young actress of color and think to myself, “What’s out there for her?” The only thing worse than a graveyard, artistic graveyard, filled with women…[Davis undoubtedly said something awesome here but the video cut out]
“The higher purpose of my life is not the song and dance or the acclaim, but to rise up, to pull up others and leave the world and industry a better place.” 
Words cannot capture just how much I adore this woman. She is truly a role model and inspiration to us all.
 

Reproduction & Abortion Week: Mother and Child

Kerry Washington and David Ramsay in Mother and Child
This is a guest post by Candice Frederick. 
While many continue to castigate the HBO series, Girls, for its lack of female diversity (with good reason), I’d like to look back at a 2009 film which gave voices to an assortment of female characters, a gem that eloquently showed both the beauty and plight of motherhood in extraordinary fashion.
Shareeka Epps as Ray in Mother and Child, along with Washington
In writer/director Rodrigo García’s Mother and Child, something as complex and precious as motherhood is broken up into a kaleidoscope of elegant vignettes capturing the lives of several mothers—hopeful, expecting and recovering mothers.

Annette Bening stars as Karen, a woman who remains deeply affected by the baby she gave up for adoption as a pregnant teen. At 50 years old, childless, and significant other-less, Karen begins to feel the emptiness of the child she once carried. As she continues to take care of her dying mother, Nora (Eileen Ryan), who encouraged her decision to give her child to another, she feels her first pangs of regret exacerbated by years of resentment.

Annette Bening as Karen in Mother and Child
Bening bestows the ornery characteristics we’ve all come to know and love from past performances in her vast oeuvre. But this particular role stands out in the natural way she sheds Karen’s bitter exterior, and finds the strength to move past the loss that’s been eating away at her. Her impressively nuanced portrayal by the end of the film brings the audiences to their knees even after pushing them away for the better course of the movie.

Part of that recovery to self is attributed to Jimmy Smits’ character Paco, Karen’s reluctant love interest, who sees more in Bening than she sees in herself. While Smits is very subtle in this role, the gentleness he brings to Paco is one that few critics remarked on but was pivotal to the emotional compass of Karen’s character (but does not define it).

Bening with Jimmy Smits as Paco in Mother and Child
Kerry Washington plays Lucy, a married woman who’s unable to conceive a child of her own with her husband Joseph (David Ramsay). Desperate for motherhood, she dreams of being able to rock her very own baby to sleep at night. She thinks she’s finally found the child she’s always wanted from a young mother who’s putting her child up for adoption but, in a drastic change of events, her dream is snatched away from her. And it’s the single most devastating moment in the film, marked by a performance by Washington that’s so raw and heart wrenching that it would move even the most jaded viewer.

To me, this is Washington’s best performance to date, and it—as well as this film—goes entirely unnoticed, which is a crying shame. Her portrayal is crushing, real, and simply mesmerizing to watch unfold. The only comparable performance I can think of is that of Jennifer Garner in Juno, another performance that fell right through the critical cracks.

Samuel L. Jackson and Naomi Watts in Mother and Child
The talent Washington brings to this role isn’t the only thing that’s wonderful about it. It’s the fact that her character is so relatable to watch. I’m not sure if García intentionally sought an African-American woman for this role, but Lucy’s story—like all the characters—is drawn in a way that every woman could appreciate. Also, García doesn’t shy away from highlighting black love onscreen. While mainstream Hollywood nowadays often ignores black love in films by neglecting it altogether by creating somewhat asexual black characters or only showing an interracial romantic angle (i.e. Will Smith and Eva Mendes in Hitch, or Zoe Saldana and Michael Vartan in Colombiana), Mother and Child refuses to hide behind the Tinseltown taboo with Lucy’s character.

As a matter of fact, Lucy and Joseph are really the only married couple in the movie who are shown having sex. Though Lucy and Joseph don’t exactly have a happy fairy tale ending, at least we get to see a black couple getting busy. So yes, Hollywood, two black people do have sex. Passionate, unapologetic sex in a committed relationship, and it’s about time we see that again.

Naomi Watts as Elizabeth
But let’s get back to some of the other characters. The eternally underrated Shareeka Epps (Half Nelson) plays Ray, a pregnant teen who decides, mostly with her mother’s influence, to give her child up for adoption. While she awaits the birth of her baby, she mulls over the decisions she’s made and will make, decisions that will have a major impact on her life. She genuinely seems to be a good kid, but, like Karen, she seems to be conceding to the outcome of her actions, without really thinking about them. It’s a very subtle performance by a young talent who’s known for playing young women struggling with their own sense of identity, which works well for this role. In her performance here, you see the charm of her youth and the complexity of her womanhood.

This brings us to Naomi Watts’ Elizabeth, whose role we don’t fully learn until nearly the end of the movie. She touchingly steers the film full circle. But Elizabeth is a woman who’s suffering from bouts of desolation as an emotionless attorney at a law firm. She gets involved with Samuel L. Jackson’s character, Paul, a fellow attorney, and what happens next can only be described as a full realization of her own character, which leads her to make a decision that will not only change her life, but also Paul’s. This is the perfect role for Watts, whose quiet ferocity works well here simply because she tries to remain in such tight control of her life that when it begins to blossom, we finally get to see her heart.

Smits and Bening
I’d be remised if I didn’t mention the ever talented Jackson. Yes, the guy who has been in a plethora of movies—both great and terrible—can file this particular performance under great. The sensitivity and compassion he brings to Paul perfectly complements Elizabeth’s emotional impotence. Jackson aptly tucks away his signature swagger and wild fury found in many of his roles to reveal a softer side for Paul. He reminds is of why we fell in love with his talent in the first place. You can see the love in his eyes each time Elizabeth enters the scene, and it’s enough to crush your soul.

Alluring, delicate and simply exquisite to watch, Mother and Child tackles the inspiring and sometimes heartbreaking aspects of motherhood with a range of characters in which every woman, whether or not she’s a parent, can see themselves. Perfectly intertwined stories yield a gorgeous singular concept of love and maternal grace that steals your heart.

———-

Candice Frederick is an NABJ award-winning journalist, film critic, and blogger for Reel Talk. Follow her on twitter. 

With a Complex Black Female Protagonist Created by a Black Female Showrunner, I’m Rooting for ‘Scandal’

Kerry Washington as Olivia Pope in Scandal

I love Grey’s Anatomy. Is it melodramatic? Absolutely. But its dramatic storylines, sharp dialogue and diverse cast have hooked me from the very first episode. So when I discovered writer, producer, showrunner Shonda Rhimes created Scandal, a political thriller TV series revolving around a woman of color, I knew I had to watch.

Kerry Washington (a feminist in real life…huzzah!) plays Olivia Pope, an assertive attorney who’s a “crisis management expert,” inspired by former George H.W. Bush administration press aide Judy Smith (who also happens to be a producer of the show). Olivia runs a small organization of lawyers who fix scandals and clean up messes like murder charges and infidelity. With a subtle and nuanced performance, Washington is definitely the best part of the series.
What’s so interesting (and fucking sad) is that Scandal is the only prime-time TV show on right now centering around an African American woman. And it’s the first network show with a black female lead in 30 years (that is horrifying). I’ve often heard Washington is a fantastic actor and she was great in the heartbreaking For Colored Girls. Here she commands the screen with confidence and poise. Olivia is an intelligent, successful and empowered woman. Others look up to her, revere her and even fear her shrewd insights and relentlessness to finish a job. She’s demanding, requiring her staff to pull all-nighters and enforcing rules like no crying in the office and not answering “I don’t know” to a question she asks. Powerful politicians turn to her for advice. She negotiates deals on her terms. While new employee Quinn (Katie Lowes) idolizes her, Olivia is far from a paragon of perfection. She’s vulnerable with a messy and complicated love life. She’s flawed, not always likeable (although I personally love her!) and uses Machiavellian tactics to complete a job. But this mélange makes her all the more interesting.
Washington was recently on The Melissa Harris-Perry Show (one of my absolute favorite feminist icons EVER!!!). She talked about inclusivity and how she and Harris-Perry, as two women of color on TV, are “expanding the idea of who ‘We the People’ is.” She also discussed playing a complex female character on-screen:
“…When I read this script, I was so blown away by this woman who in one area of her life, in her professional life, she’s brilliant and sophisticated and in power. And then in her personal life she’s vulnerable and torn and confused. And I thought this is an incredible challenge for any actor. But we also don’t get to do that often — as women in this business, as people of color in this business — to have all of that complexity to explore.”
And she’s right. We too often don’t see complex women, especially women of color, on-screen.
I loved the political intrigue and the focus on a single, accomplished, career-driven woman. And of course how could I not be delighted that Henry Ian Cusick (aka dreamy Desmond from LOST) has found a new series. I was thrilled that the show opens from Quinn’s perspective, taking a job with Olivia because of her reverence for her stellar reputation. I also loved that within the first 7 minutes, a character derided a potential client because he was an anti-choice, anti-gay Republican. While many people assume the media suffers from a liberal bias, too few shows actually discuss abortion or LGBTQ issues. 
While most of it is good, some of the dialogue felt a bit staged or forced. I cringed when Olivia body polices and chastises new employee Quinn for displaying too much cleavage and when Abby (Darby Stanchfield), one of Olivia’s employees, gleefully calls a female murder victim a whore…and drops the whore word a few more times in the next episode too. While there are several female characters (none of whom are really fleshed out yet beyond Olivia), most of the time they’re interacting with men. Although Olivia does have conversations with a young woman who claims is having an affair with the president (Olivia’s former boss) and with the wife of a Supreme Court nominee. No strong female friendships emerge yet. But we’re only 2 episodes into the series. Female friendships comprise the cores of Rhimes’ other shows, Grey’s Anatomy and Private Practice. So I’m hopeful that we’ll see more female interaction as the series progresses.
Much like its complicated protagonist, the series isn’t perfect yet. But it’s got potential. I’m rooting for it because we can never have too many sharp political dramas. And we can never have too many female leads, especially with women of color. 
Scandal is a big deal. Not only do we have a woman of color protagonist, we have a series written and created by a woman of color. With Grey’s Anatomy, Private Practice and Scandal, Rhimes belongs “in an elite group of TV show runners who have multiple series on the air at the same time.” In each of Rhimes’ television shows, she puts women at the forefront. While she has held open casting calls for all ethnicities and has African American, Latina, Asian American and white women in her shows, she’s never had a series revolve around a woman of color. Until now.
In an Essence interview, Kerry Washington said she felt “lucky” to be a woman of color in Hollywood right now:
“I think it’s a really special time to be a woman of color in this business. The landscape of who has the power is changing. We are in more influential positions and are able to have a say in the stories that are told. I feel very lucky to be in the business now…”
But The Grio’s Veronica Miller asserts that it’s hard to have faith in “Hollywood’s relationship with black actresses:”
“It will be easier when black actresses become more visible in roles across the spectrum, (think fantasy hits like Harry Potter, or romantic dramas like The Notebook) and not just ones that call for an African-American female.”
Racialicious’ Kendra James points out the pressure TV shows like Scandalwith black leads face:
“It’s risky for a network that depends on millions of viewers for advertising revenue to cast a lead that the majority of viewers (read: white people) may not relate to. While a show like Pan Am (fondly known as Carefree White Girls Explore the Third World) can fail to take off without consequence, it feels, at times, as if the fate of every black actor and actress on television rides on the success or failure of one show each season.”
Here at Bitch Flicks, we talk a lot about the need for more women in film and TV, in front of and behind the camera. Women comprise only 15% of TV writers and 41%-43% of TV roles are female. But we also desperately need more women of color. 
In a time when Trayvon Martin was shot for being a young black man wearing a hoodie…when racist Hunger Games fans can’t empathize with a black character in the film adaptation…when accomplished and ridiculously talented black female actors like Viola Davis have a hard time finding roles…when black female actors must play either maids or drug addicts or sassy best friends…when female actors of color get sidelined from the cover of Vanity Fair — our society tells people of color over and over and over again implicitly and explicitly that their bodies and their lives don’t matter.
It’s time to change that. It’s time for our media to stop revolving around white men’s stories and reflect the diversity of our world.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Stephanie’s Picks:

Celebration at Sundance from Wellywood Woman

New feature: Challenging rape myths in the mainstream from The F-Word

Amber‘s Picks:

French women directors: the great news & the not-so-great from Wellywood Woman

Why I’m (Probably) Not Watching ‘The Game’ from The Crunk Feminist Collective

International contest of short films against homophobia from The F-Word

LEGO & Gender Part 1: Lego Friends from Feminist Frequency



Megan‘s Picks:

Red Tails and Tuskegee: The Women Left Out of the Picture from The Root

The Athena Film Festival: 10 Movies That Can Change the World from Huffington Post 

Vanity Fair‘s Hollywood Issue Pushes Actresses of Color Aside (Again!) from Jezebel

Why Is Hollywood So Afraid of Black Women? from ColorLines

Sexism Watch: Film Trailers from Women and Hollywood

Can Lena Dunham’s Girls Be a Game Changer? from Women and Hollywood 

What have you been reading–or writing–this week? Leave your links in the comments!

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Stephanie’s Picks:

Sundance, Women In Film Promote Female Filmmakers from Boston.com

Naomi Watts, Judi Dench–The Women of J. Edgar from ClickTheCity.com

The Rise of the Female-Led Action Film from The Atlantic

The Bigger Picture: What Happens When We Find “The Line” as Viewers? from HitFix.com [Trigger Warning for discussion of rape]

Top Ten Kickass Movie Women from Time

Amber’s Picks:

Five Female-Directed Films that Deserved Oscar Nominations from Canonball

Bridesmaids‘ Melissa McCarthy: Hilarious Performance, Not Oscar Worthy from Time

It’s a Good Time to Be a Black Woman, Except on TV from Jezebel

I Write Letters: Dear Parks and Recreation from Shakesville

Three Women Red Tails Left Out from The Root

Megan‘s Picks:

The Oscar Noms: It Sucks To Be a Female Filmmaker Part 2 from Women and Hollywood

What Bigelow Effect? The Number of Women Directors in Hollywood Falls to 5 Percent from Women and Hollywood

5 Black Actresses Who Deserve an Oscar from Clutch Magazine 

What Charlize Theron Doesn’t Get About Black Hollywood from The Daily Beast

What have you been reading–or writing–this week? Leave your links in the comments!

Guest Writer Wednesday: ‘The Help’: Same Script, Different Cast

 
This guest post by elle previously appeared at Shakesville.

A caveat: I have not seen The Help. I do not plan to see The Help, yet I feel pretty confident that I have The Help all figured out. If you don’t know about this film, please see this post. I’m going to ground my thoughts about The Help in two other documents I will link: Valerie Boyd’s review entitled, “‘The Help,’ a feel-good movie for white people” and “An Open Statement to the Fans of ‘The Help’” from the Association of Black Women Historians (ABWH). A brief description from Boyd:
“The Help”—the film adaptation of the best-selling novel by Atlanta author Kathryn Stockett—is a feel-good movie for a cowardly [wrt to the ways we deal (or don’t deal) with issues of race] nation.

Despite its title, the film is not so much about the help—the black maids who kept many white Southern homes running before the civil rights movement gave them broader opportunities—as it is about the white women who employed and sometimes terrorized them. 

And there you have it, the problem at the heart of works like The Help that blossoms into myriad other problems—the centering of white women in a story that is supposed to be about women of color, the positioning of white women as saviors who give WoC voice. As my colleagues in the ABWH note:
Despite efforts to market the book and the film as a progressive story of triumph over racial injustice, The Help distorts, ignores, and trivializes the experiences of black domestic workers.

I want to meld these critiques of The Help with my own critique of phenomena that make movies like this possible. My critique is rooted in who I am: My name is elle, and I am a granddaughter of The Help. And while I can never begin (and would never want) to imagine myself as the voice of black domestic workers, I can at least share some of their own words with you and tell you some places you can find more of their words and thoughts.

I. The Help’s representation of [black domestic workers] is a disappointing resurrection of Mammy… [p]ortrayed as asexual, loyal, and contented caretakers of whites… —ABWH
Early on in “The Help,” we hear the maids complain that they’ve spent decades raising little white girls who grow up to become racists, just like their mothers. But this doesn’t stop Aibileen from unambiguously loving the little white girl she’s paid to care for. —Boyd

When you put white women at the center of a story allegedly about black women, then the relationships between those two groups of women is filtered through the lens and desires of white women, many of whom want to believe themselves “good” to black people. That goodness will result in the unconditional love, trust and loyalty of the black people closest to them. They can remember the relationships fondly and get teary-eyed when they think of “the black woman who raised me and taught me everything.” They fancy themselves as their black nanny’s “other children” and privilege makes them demand the attention and affection such children would be showed.
I hated, hated, hated that my grandmother and her sister were domestics.

Not because I was ashamed, but because of the way white people treated them and us.

Like… coming to their funerals and sitting on the front row with the immediate family because they had notions of their own importance. “Nanny raised us!” one of my aunt’s “white children” exclaimed, then stood there regally as the family cooed and comforted her. 

But, as the granddaughter of the help, I learned that the woman my grandmother’s employers and their children saw was not my “real” grandmother. Forced to follow the rules of racial etiquette, to grin and bear it, she had a whole other persona around white people. It could be dangerous, after all, to be one’s real self, so black women learned “what to say, how to say it, and sometimes, not to say anything, don’t show any emotion at all, because even just your expression could cause you a lot of trouble.”** They wore the mask that Paul Laurence Dunbar and so many other black authors have written about. It is at once protective and pleasant, reflective of the fact that black women knew “their white people” in ways white people could never be bothered to know them. These were not equal relationships in which love and respect were allowed to flourish.

Indeed, with regard to the white children for whom they cared, black women often felt levels of “ambiguity and complexity” with which our “cowardly nation” is uncomfortable. Yes, my grandmother had a type of love for the children for whom she cared, but I knew it was not the same love she had for us. I think August Boatwright in the film adaptation of The Secret Life of Bees (another film about relationships between black and white women during the Civil Rights Era that centers a white girl) voiced this ambiguity and complexity much better. When her newest white charge, Lily, asks August if she loved Lily’s mother, for whom August had also cared, August is unable to give an immediate, glowing response. Instead, she explains how the situation was complicated and the fragility of a love that grows in such problematic circumstances.
Bernestine Singley, whose mother worked for a white family, was a bit more blunt when the daughter of that family claimed that Singley’s mother loved her:
I’m thinking the maid might’ve been several steps removed from thoughts of love so busy was she slinging suds, pushing a mop, vacuuming the drapes, ironing and starching load after load of laundry. Plus, I know what Mama told us when she, my sister, and I reported on our day over dinner each night and not once did Mama’s love for the [white child for whom she cared] find its way into that conversation: She cleaned up behind, but she did not love those white children.

II. The caricature of Mammy allowed mainstream America to ignore the systemic racism that bound black women to back-breaking, low paying jobs where employers routinely exploited them. Furthermore, African American domestic workers often suffered sexual harassment as well as physical and verbal abuse in the homes of white employers. —ABWH
From films like The Help, we can’t know what life for black domestic workers is/was really like because, despite claims to the contrary, it’s not black domestic workers talking! The ABWH letter gives some good sources at the end, and I routinely assign readings about situations like the “Bronx Slave Market” in which black women had to sell their labor for pennies during the Depression. The nature of domestic labor is grueling, yet somehow that is always danced over in films like this.

As is the reality of dealing with poorly-paid work. In her autobiographical account, “I Am a Domestic,” Naomi Ward describes white employers’ efforts to pay the least money and extract the most work as “a matter of inconsiderateness, downright selfishness.” “We usually work twelve to fourteen hours a day, seven days a week,” she continues, “Our wages are pitifully small.” Sometimes, there were no wages, as another former domestic worker explains: “I cleaned house and cooked. That’s all I ever did around white folks, clean house and cook. They didn’t pay any money. No money, period. No money, period.”**
Additionally, the job came with few to no recognizable benefits. The federal government purposely left work like domestic labor out of the (pathetic) safety net of social security, a gift to southerners who wanted to keep domestic and agricultural workers under their thumbs. After a lifetime of share-cropping and nanny-ing, my grandmother, upon becoming unable to work, found that she was not eligible for any work-based benefit/pension program. Instead, she received benefits from the “old age” “welfare” program, disappearing her work and feeding the stereotype of black women as non-working and in search of a handout. (I want to make clear that I am a supporter of social services programs, believe women do valuable work that is un- or poorly-remunerated and ignored/devalued. So, my issue is not that she benefited from a “welfare” program but how participation in such programs has been used as a weapon against black women in a country that tends to value, above all else, men’s paid work.)
The control of black people’s income also paid a psychological wage to white southerners:
[Their white employers gave] my grandmother and aunt money, long after they’d retired, not because they didn’t pay taxes for domestic help or because they objected to the fact that our government excluded domestic work from social insurance or because they appreciated the sacrifices my grandmother and her sister made. No, that money was proof that, just as their slaveholding ancestors argued, they took care of their negroes even after retirement!

The various forms of verbal and emotional abuse suffered are also glossed over to emphasize how black and white women formed unshakeable bonds. By contrast, Naomi Ward described the conflicted nature of her relationships with white women and being treated as if she were “completely lacking in human dignity and respect.” In Coming of Age in Mississippi, Anne Moody says of her contentious relationship with her employer, Mrs. Burke, “Mrs. Burke had made me feel like rotten garbage. Many times she had tried to instill fear within me and subdue me…” Here, I wrote a bit about the participation, by white women, in the subjugation of women of color domestic workers.
And what of abuse by white men? “‘The Help’s’ focus on women leaves white men blameless for any of Mississippi’s ills,” writes Boyd:
White male bigots have been terrorizing black people in the South for generations. But the movie relegates Jackson’s white men to the background, never linking any of its affable husbands to such menacing and well-documented behavior. We never see a white male character donning a Klansman’s robe, for example, or making unwanted sexual advances (or worse) toward a black maid.

This is a serious exclusion according to the ABWH, “Portraying the most dangerous racists in 1960s Mississippi as a group of attractive, well dressed, society women, while ignoring the reign of terror perpetuated by the Ku Klux Klan and the White Citizens Council, limits racial injustice to individual acts of meanness.”

Why the silence? Well, aside from the fact that this is supposed to be a “feel good movie,” when you idolize black women as asexual mammies in a culture where rape and sexual harassment are often portrayed as compliments/acknowledgements of physical beauty (who would want to rape a fat, brown-skinned woman?!), then the constant threat of sexual abuse under which many of them labored and still labor vanishes. But black women themselves have long written about and protested this form of abuse. My own grandmother told me to be careful of white boys who would try to make me “sneak around” with them and an older southern man who was a fellow grad student told me that he and other southern men believed it was “good luck” to sleep with a black woman. Here, in the words of black women, are acknowledgements of how pervasive the problem was (is):
“I remember very well the first and last work place from which I was dismissed. I lost my place because I refused to let the madam’s husband kiss me… I believe nearly all white men take, and expect to take, undue liberties with their colored female servants.”*
“The color of her face alone is sufficient invitation to the southern white man… [f]ew colored girls reach the age of sixteen without receiving advances from them.”*
“I learned very early about abuse from white men. It was terrible at one time and there wasn’t anybody to tell.”**
These stories abound in works like Stephanie Shaw’s What a Woman Ought to Be and Do, Paula Giddings’s When and Where I Enter, Deborah Gray-White’s Too Heavy a Load, and other books where black women are truly at the center of the story. Black women’s concern over sexual abuse is serious and readily evident, but The Help, according to the ABWH, “makes light of black women’s fears and vulnerabilities turning them into moments of comic relief.”
III. The popularity of this most recent iteration [of the mammy] is troubling because it reveals a contemporary nostalgia for the days when a black woman could only hope to clean the White House rather than reside in it. —ABWH
This mention of the White House is not casual (Boyd opens her review with an Obama-era reference, as well). I’m currently working on a manuscript that examines portrayals of black women and issues of our “desirability,” success, and femininity in media. To sum it up, we, apparently, are not desirable or feminine and our success is a threat to the world at large. Many black women are trying to figure out why so much is vested in this re-birthed image of us (because it’s not new). One conclusion is that it is a counter to the image of Michelle Obama. By all appearances successful, self-confident, happily married and a devoted mother, she’s too much for our mammy/sapphire/jezebel-loving society to take. And so, the nostalgia the ABWH mentions comes into play. It’s a way to keep us “in our place.”

It happens every day on a smaller scale to black women. I remember someone congratulating me in high school on achieving a 4.0 and saying that maybe my parents would take it easy on me for one-six weeks chore-wise. The white girl standing with us, who always had a snide comment on my academic success, quickly turned the conversation into one about how she hated her chores and how she so hoped the black lady who worked for them, whom she absolutely adored, would clean her room.
Even now, one of my black female colleagues and I talk about how some of our students “miss mammy” and it shows in how they approach us, both plus-sized, brown-skinned black women with faces described as “kind.” I do not need to know about the black woman who was just like your grandmother, nor will I over-sympathize with this way-too-detailed life story you feel compelled to come to my office and (over)share.

IV. [T]he film is woefully silent on the rich and vibrant history of black Civil Rights activists in Mississippi. Granted, the assassination of Medgar Evers, the first Mississippi based field secretary of the NAACP, gets some attention. However, Evers’ assassination sends Jackson’s black community frantically scurrying into the streets in utter chaos and disorganized confusion—a far cry from the courage demonstrated by the black men and women who continued his fight. —ABWH
Embedded in this is perhaps the clearest evidence of the cowardliness of our nation. First, we cannot dwell too long on racism, in this case as exemplified in the Jim Crow Era and by its very clear effects. “Scenes like that would have been too heavy for the film’s persistently sunny message,” suggests Boyd. I’d go further to suggest that scenes like that are too heavy for our country’s persistently sunny message of equal opportunity and dreams undeferred.

Second, when we do have discussions on the Jim Crow Era, we have to centralize white people who want to be on what most now see as the “right” side of history. They weren’t just allies, they did stuff and saved us! And so, you get stories like The Help premised on the notion that “the black maids would trust Skeeter with their stories, and that she would have the ability, despite her privileged upbringing, to give them voice.” Or like The Long Walk Home, (another film about relationships between black and white women during the Civil Rights Era that centers… well, you get it) in which you walk away with the feeling that, yeah black people took risks during the Montgomery Bus Boycott, but the person who had the most to lose, who was bravest, was the white woman employer who initially intervened only because she wanted to keep her “help.”

These stories perpetuate racism because they imply that it is right and rightful that white people take the lead and speak for us. (On another note, how old is this storyline? Skeeter’s appropriation of black women’s stories and voices, coupled with the fact that “Skeeter, who is simply taking dictation, gets the credit, the byline and the paycheck” reminded me so much of Imitation of Life, when Bea helps herself to Delilah’s pancake recipe, makes millions from it, keeps most for herself and Delilah is… grateful?!) The moral of these stories is, where would we have been without the guidance and fearlessness of white people?
I know this moral. That’s why I have no plans to see The Help.
_______________________
*From Gerda Lerner, Black Women in White America.
**From Anne Valk and Leslie Brown, Living with Jim Crow.



elle is an assistant professor who does a little of this an a little of that—primarily social history courses, some Women’s Studies and African American Studies classes, and seminars on the historical construction of race, gender, and class with a focus on how those constructions influence and are reinforced by popular media. She writes about the South and about black women’s paid and unpaid labor. She’s also a single mama to a teenaged boy that would test the patience of Mother Teresa, has an unhealthy love for TV shows with “forensic” and/or “crime” in the title, and is an amateur caterer.