Tag: Race in America

Blindness, Race, and Love in ‘A Patch of Blue’

Fifty years later, portraying disability on screen with empathy and respect is still rare. Showing an interracial couple is also extremely rare (Green says that some people sent terrible letters to him about the kissing scene; in fact, it’s reported that in some areas in the south the scene was edited out for theaters).

‘A Patch of Blue’ manages to weave together themes of disability, race, socioeconomic issues and family dynamics with beauty and grace.

A Patch of Blue movie poster.


This repost by Leigh Kolb appears as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships. 

Director Guy Green said of the premise of A Patch of Blue: “basically it’s a very corny story, a blind girl falling in love with a Black man.” He credits the writing of the novel it was based upon (Be Ready With Bells and Drums, by Elizabeth Kata) for ensuring that the story, and resulting film, were not corny at all.
The 1965 film centers around a young blind woman, Selina (Elizabeth Hartman), who has been abused and sheltered, and neglected any formal education, by her family–her mother, Rose-Ann (Shelley Winters) and her grandfather, Ole Pa (Wallace Ford). She’s befriended by a Black man, Gordon (Sidney Poitier), and they form a deep relationship, which centers on Gordon’s desire to help Selina lift herself up.
It would be easy to read that synopsis–blind girl falls in love with a Black man–and come to any number of conclusions about the film, especially since it was released at the height of the civil rights movement, but the film manages to capture something much deeper than being a superficial morality play on racism, and it treats Selina’s blindness with care and dignity.
When Selina was five, her father came home unexpectedly while Rose-Ann was sleeping with another man (it’s insinuated that she worked as a prostitute, and still does). Her father killed the man, and when Rose-Ann threw a bottle–a chemical-laden cosmetic–from her dresser at him, it hit Selina in the face, scarring her eyes and leaving her blind.
Elizabeth Hartman wore opaque contacts to simulate Selina’s damaged eyes. Rose-Ann is the only one who berates her “ugliness”; even her grandfather explains that it’s just that people are nosy, not that she is ugly.
Selina’s life circumstances are desperate and miserable, but she is not. The opening shot of the film focuses on Selina’s hands, stringing together beaded necklaces–that’s what she does during the day to help her family (Mr. Faber, her boss, is presented as an important support person in her life). She yearns to spend more time in the park, and Mr. Faber takes her when he can.
It’s in the park that she meets Gordon (a caterpillar dropped down the back of her shirt and she needed help–a problem not reserved for a person who can’t see–and he helps her retrieve it). He’s friendly and gentle without being condescending, and his generosity helps strike up a quick friendship. He buys her sunglasses because she’s self-conscious about her scarred eyes and tells her she looks perfect with them on (this is presented as a generous act for her confidence, not because he actually feels she needs them).
He’s shocked that she’s never heard of braille and was never formally educated: “You haven’t heard of all blind people can do?” he asks, and she is self-deprecating yet unashamed of her lot in life.
Gordon and Selina eat lunch.
While Selina is uneducated (Gordon corrects her grammar when they first meet) and cannot live outside of her home independently, the audience never feels pity for her because she is blind and helpless. Instead, the focus of our pity is on her lack of support–she has an abusive home life and has been neglected. Her blindness isn’t pitiful; her family is.
When Selina is shown doing tasks that she’s been entrusted with–changing linens, washing dishes, cooking, cleaning–she does so perfectly. This is a reminder that her blindness hasn’t been a hindrance to her life and that she is capable of doing what she’s allowed to do.
Hartman, in studying for the part, spent time at a school for the blind to be able to accurately get into character. She wore opaque contacts (Green said they helped because they naturally obstructed her vision), and her family says she wore them constantly and never left character while she was filming.
This careful and empathetic approach to “acting” blind paid off. Hartman’s performance was incredibly convincing and she was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actress (A Patch of Blue was Hartman’s first film).
Gordon helps Selina find directions by the sun’s location.
In the film, Gordon attempts to feel as Selina must feel shortly after meeting her. He’s shown at his job–working as a night-shift reporter–getting up from his desk, walking across the room, and attempting to return to his desk with closed eyes (he is unsuccessful, and runs into his coworker’s desk). This short scene is poignant in that it further reminds Gordon–and the audience–what it must feel like to be Selina, if only for a few moments.
Gordon never tries to do things for Selina. From the beginning, he teaches her and empowers her to be able to completely take care of herself. Since it’s clear her limitations are environmental, not innate, she is capable. Her disability–caused and amplified by her family–is not what’s in her way. Her poverty and lack of support system are detrimental to her growth and development.
Gordon could have easily met Selina, befriended her, seen that she could clean and cook, and want to marry her, keeping her dependent and living simply for him. And while his romantic feelings for her are conflicted, he wants her to be independent and educated more than he wants her for himself.
Gordon gives Selina very practical advice (counting steps, listening for traffic) so she can navigate streets by herself–which she finally does, after realizing she doesn’t have to take her home life anymore.
Gordon never belittles or gets frustrates with Selina.
Gordon and Selina’s kiss–one of the first on-screen interracial kisses–was at the same time innocent and deeply passionate. When Selina references the fact that she’d been raped, and wishes she hadn’t so she could be with Gordon, he convinces her that she is not “bad” or “dirty,” like she worries she is. (Someone in 1965 understood how to not blame the victim.)
Their kiss was one of the first on-screen interracial kisses.
The filmography often focuses on Selina’s point of view, and is effective in portraying the sensory details she enjoys (the canned peaches or the music box), and the terrors she lives through–her time alone for the first time on the street, or the memory of being raped (we “see” the man from her perspective–what she could have seen, but only felt).
The racial components of the film are also nuanced and effective. When Gordon tells Selina that “tolerance” is one of his favorite words (and explains that it’s not just putting up with something, but that you don’t “knock your neighbor just because he thinks or looks different than you”), she tells him that he must be full of tolerance. He quietly shakes his head and says that he’s not. He looks deeply affected when white people stare and glare at him and Selina walking together, and clearly has deep inner conflict being a Black man in America in 1965 (of course, these aspects of the film don’t seem nearly as dated as they should be). His brother, a doctor, criticizes Gordon’s desire to help and educate Selina because she is white, and comments on the fact that she comes from a “trash heap” (to which Gordon responds, “She may, but she’s not trash”). Underneath the surface of the film is the fact that socioeconomic factors and family support systems are what determine a person’s opportunities.
Rose-Ann is, unsurprisingly, violently racist. We know that she forbade Selina from spending time with the only friend she ever made because the little girl was Black, so we also know that when Rose-Ann sees Selina and Gordon together, she will erupt–which she does.
The characters to be despised are racist, abusive and neglectful. But Selina and Gordon aren’t perfect–they are complex, sympathetic characters who struggle with their own shortcomings and emotions. Selina is only 18, so her naivety and her quickness to fall deeply in love are believable. Gordon loves Selina as a friend, but is unsure of anything beyond that. He says he’s snapped back into reality after getting lost in their embrace. He deals with anger and frustration, too–not only because of his experiences at the hands of racism, but also because of the injustice of Selina’s mistreatment.
By the end of the film, even the crowd of white people (who before had glared), realize that Gordon is no threat to Selina; Rose-Ann is.
The ending is hopeful, but not saccharine-sweet. The realness of the characters, their struggles and their emotions are highlighted by sparse, black-and-white film and a beautiful soundtrack.
Gordon has called a school for the blind and set up a space for Selina. Before the bus comes to pick her up, she is nervous, and wishes they could just get married. Gordon promises that in a year, they could see if their love has anything to do with marriage. He sits her down to tell her that he’s black, but she already knows.
She says, “I know everything I need to know about you.” As she feels his face she continues: “I know you’re good, and kind, and that you’re colored; and I think you’re beautiful.”
He’s shocked that she knows, and responds “Beautiful? Most people would say the opposite.”
“That’s because they don’t know you,” she answers.
A Patch of Blue portrays disability as a part of a woman’s life that only defines her because she’s grown up with an abusive and neglectful family. As soon as she gets access to a world (literally and figuratively) outside of their little apartment, she thrives, and we know she’s just going to continue to grow. She’s beginning her life–a life that won’t be defined by her blindness.
Her relationship with Gordon allows him to also redefine his own life and helps him see himself for who he is–a beautiful, kind and generous man, who knows how to share life with someone who’s never experienced it.
Fifty years later, portraying disability on screen with empathy and respect is still rare. Showing an interracial couple is also extremely rare (Green says that some people sent terrible letters to him about the kissing scene; in fact, it’s reported that in some areas in the south the scene was edited out for theaters).
A Patch of Blue manages to weave together themes of disability, race, socioeconomic issues and family dynamics with beauty and grace. It was nominated for multiple Golden Globes and Academy Awards; Shelley Winters won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar, and notably, Sidney Poitier was nominated for the Golden Globe, but not an Academy Award.
A Patch of Blue is one of those films that manages to stay with you for years after you see it; and then, when you see it again, it’s just as beautiful as you remembered.
Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri.

Zombies and Revolution: An Interview with Esther Cassidy, Producer of ‘Birth of the Living Dead’

Zombie fans among our readers will have read my conversation with Amanda last week about Birth of the Living Dead, the new documentary about game-changing horror classic Night of the Living Dead. On Halloween, I got a chance to sit down with producer Esther Cassidy and learn more about the film, the gender politics of George Romero’s work, and the broader symbolism of zombies.

Zombie fans among our readers will have read my conversation with Amanda last week about Birth of the Living Dead, the new documentary about game-changing horror classic Night of the Living Dead. On Halloween, I got a chance to sit down with producer Esther Cassidy and learn more about the film, the gender politics of George Romero’s work, and the broader symbolism of zombies.

Producer Esther Cassidy
Producer Esther Cassidy

Birth of the Living Dead, a passion project for zombie-loving director Rob Kuhns and his (life and work) partner Cassidy, was initially intended to be a “making of” documentary featuring interviews with the cast and crew of Night, but 2008’s One for the Fire stole that thunder. So Cassidy and Kuhns changed tack. They already had experience with socially conscious journalism from their 2001 PBS documentary Enemies of War, about the El Salvadoran civil war, and Kuhns’ work for Bill Moyers got him access to archival footage from Moyers’ tenure as Lyndon B. Johnson’s Press Secretary, from 1965-67 – a.k.a. the years immediately preceding the release of Night of the Living Dead. The upshot is a documentary that superbly locates Night in the context of the US in the late sixties and skilfully analyzes the relationship between horror and sociopolitical climate, both then and now.

“A lot of people don’t realize that horror can make a political statement,” Cassidy observed. She’s a horror fan, powerfully affected by a viewing of Night in college, but, unlike Kuhns, she says she didn’t realize how much she appreciated the film until she came to make this documentary about it. This is a transferable result: Birth is likely to give viewers a renewed appreciation for Night and a deepened understanding of the social forces that influenced the making of modern zombies.

The two major cultural events to which Birth returns again and again are the Vietnam War and the race riots. In a late-sixties milieu, their specific impact lay in their relation to two major factors: the failure of sixties counterculture and the rise of mass media. Cassidy was quick to name the latter as an important component of today’s zombie obsession. Citing the devastation wrought on New York by Hurricane Sandy last year, she proposed that the renewed cultural interest in zombies this century can be linked to an awareness of both how connected we are and how fragile those connections are. “Everyone born since 1945 wakes up every day surprised we haven’t blown ourselves up yet,” she said of our generations’ apocalyptic mentality. Zombie films are a space where we can ask what resources we can muster to survive in a world where everything can change in a heartbeat, where the only certainty is death, and now even this is undone.

Gary Pullin's gorgeous graphics.
Gary Pullin’s gorgeous graphics.

The failure of institutions is a major theme of Night, and no commentator fails to note the “suspicion of authority and unmitigated bleakness” (to quote the narration of Birth). There’s a revolutionary impulse here, a desire to overthrow the forces of war and racism and capitalism and consumerism through a dramatic world-altering event, but there’s also a hopelessness, a fear that perhaps we can never really change anything. The two warring impulses are surely familiar to everyone who has ever felt dissatisfaction with the status quo. I see the current popularity of zombies as reflecting a powerful sense of collective guilt and frustration. Zombies are the systemic forces to which we are subject and which we cannot control, but these same systemic forces are us – they are the result of human actions and human institutions.

Without the rule of law, mass media, and other social and cultural institutions to perpetuate them, racism and other systemic oppressions need no longer be cynically viewed as inevitable aspects of human existence. (The fact that they are still uncritically included in most of the popular zombie stories today bespeaks both a cynicism so deep it borders on nihilism and a profound artistic laziness.) What’s so brilliant about Night is that the conflicts within the farmhouse are to do with survival, not tribalism, and that the racially-coded violence is perpetrated by the forces of social institutions. Neither war nor racism is over, despite decades of activism and protest, so it’s no wonder Night‘s dark ending still speaks so powerfully to audiences. The fact that mainstream zombie fare today does not engage with critical social theory the way Night does instantiates this collective disillusionment on a metatextual level too. What comfort is there? Romero offers, “There’s always the refreshment stand.”

POPCORRRRRN
POPCORRRRRN

Night of the Living Dead is far from an actively misogynistic movie, but it does fail to address the vector of gender oppression, which makes its social engagement, otherwise so sophisticated, seem thoroughly incomplete. Cassidy can provide a feminist counterreading for most of the female characters in the movie, from the teenage girl whose desire to help her boyfriend leads to the downfall of the escape plan, to the strong mother whose love for her daughter is her weakness, but she’s under no illusion that Night is an explicitly feminist text. As she points out, you have to look to Romero’s series of sequels – Dawn, Day, Land, Diary, and Survival of the Dead – for some genuinely well-rounded and interesting female characters. The man has learned, and his work has developed accordingly.

Perhaps, then, there is ultimately a message of hope for redemption, for a new radically reconstructed world, but it requires a lot of work and self-critique and undeniable pain and horror and times of bleakness and despair. And that seems to be missing from a lot of present zombie stuff, wherever engagement with social issues is missing. Without that engagement, zombie stories are cynical voids of human feeling, all style and no substance, pure money-grabbing consumerist culture. They are zombies, in the most Baudrillardian way, and our only comfort is the refreshment stand.

Hope rests in the people who don’t succumb to nihilism. One of the most interesting strands in Birth is the portrayal of an after-school program to promote literacy through film, where Night is a teaching tool for Brooklyn kids – mostly kids of color whose families aren’t exactly high on the socioeconomic ladder – and it’s fascinating to see how much the film engages them. Cassidy herself works with Downtown Community Television Center to “provide outstanding media arts education to underserved populations.” There are ways in which people are attempting to engage horror with a social conscience. And hopefully Esther Cassidy and Rob Kuhns are going to do more of it with their proposed forthcoming work, on the influence of the Holocaust and the atom bomb on horror, SF, and monster movies from 1945 to the present. I eagerly await it.

Birth of the Living Dead opens at New York’s IFC Center on Wednesday.

Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax. He thinks way too much about zombies.

Women in Sports Week: ‘Edge of America’: Indigenous Communitism on the Hardwood

Movie poster for Edge of America

This is a guest post by Amanda Morris.

The opening images of Showtime’s movie, Edge of America, directed by Chris Ayre (Cheyenne/Arapaho), and inspired by a true story, are of a journey. A car drives through a peopleless desert landscape on an open and carless road. The driver, Kenny Williams (James McDaniel), is the new English teacher for the Three Nations Reservation in New Mexico. Our first view of the reservation is through his eyes as he stops at the edge of a pond and consults his map as he tries to find his way. But the first spoken words we hear are the Navajo language as two tribal women dicker over a price at a roadside stand. This outsider/insider construct continues throughout the movie as Kenny navigates and learns reservation life and culture through his female colleagues and students and especially his players once he agrees to coach the girls’ basketball team.

Movie still of the Lady Warriors on the basketball court
Based on the opening scenes, the viewer might assume that this story is about Kenny, but it is not. This movie ultimately focuses on community, defining one’s own identity, and the grounding strength of women. Cherokee scholar Jace Weaver created the term “communitism” by combining “community” and “activism” in his book, That the People May Live: Native American Literatures and Native American Community. The concept works well to describe what happens in this movie. Weaver writes, “Native peoples find their individual identities in the collectivity of community” (160). Edge of America is also a good example of representational sovereignty, in which “the Native is self-defining” instead of being colonialist minstrels for the dominant culture (163). The girls that Kenny recruits to play as Lady Warriors certainly face identity challenges in academic terms: None of them performs well academically and so were not allowed to join the basketball team, despite being the best players. As a result, the team is filled with lesser-skilled girls who flounder and have an impressive losing streak. School radio DJ Dwayne (Cody Lightning, Plains Cree), frequently reminds his listeners that the Lady Warriors are “all losers, all the time.”

James McDaniel, Delanna Studi, and Irene Bedard in Edge of America
Being defined as losers is something that the girls struggle to reverse as the movie progresses. Kenny guides them through physically hard practices and mentally hard readjustments of their personal expectations, and the Lady Warriors begin to coalesce into a self-defined community of proud women basketball players, but the road toward this goal is not straight.

This film privileges the indigenous perspective from the start and specifically shows strong women guiding the action either explicitly or implicitly. From Mother Tsosie (Geraldine Keams, Navajo) telling Kenny, “Drive” when he gives her a ride to the res in the movie’s second scene, to Annie Shorty (Irene Bedard, Inupiat/French Canadian/Cree) saving Kenny by giving him a ride to school the first day when his car breaks down, to Carla McKinney (Delanna Studi, Cherokee) teaching Kenny a lesson about humor and stories in his classroom. Each woman that Kenny encounters has something to teach. Annie challenges Kenny’s coaching strategy when he runs the girls hard during basketball practice and again near the end of the film. After the Lady Warriors have made it to the state finals, Annie and Kenny face off in a hotel room over his anger and his inability to accept imperfection in his players. Annie tells him that the girls have done everything he’s asked, from practicing hard and getting good grades, to winning. Kenny asks, “Then you tell me why I’m pissed off.” Annie retorts gently, “Because you’re a black man in America.” Kenny snidely agrees and Annie yells, “Well then get over it. You’re talkin’ to Indian people here. Get over it, get on with it, or get the hell out!”

The Lady Warriors look on as their coach sings the National Anthem
Many scenes involve such confrontations of assumptions, whether subtle or overt. In one softer scene, “Baby” Tsosie (Trini King, Navajo) experiences a traditional healing ceremony by her mother before a practice after she loses her ability to sink a basket, which Kenny disrupts and dismisses, saying, “Look, anybody who’s been witched, stand over there; the rest of us have basketball practice.” The community of women in whose presence this ceremony takes place is broken, and when Mother Tsosie calls African American Kenny a “white man” in Navajo and leaves, Annie asks Kenny, “Are you out of your mind? Insulting an elder like that?”

Kenny may be the English teacher and girls’ basketball coach, but he has a lot to learn about tradition, community, ceremony, and the ideas that are important to Three Nations peoples. In this respect, Kenny is the viewer’s guide, helping us to understand, even superficially, that indigenous peoples still exist and have ideas and practices that may sound and feel unfamiliar–but that resonate with truth. Eventually, a fellow teacher, Cuch (Wes Studi, Cherokee), takes him out into the desert for a talk.

Cuch offers Kenny a new perspective

Judgments and assumptions frequently threaten to subvert or ruin relationships and weaken the strength of community as each scene builds to the final game, but strong women are often the reason those relationships and community sense don’t fall apart in this film. Kenny learns to adapt his colonial assumptions and expectations to the needs of his Lady Warriors and discovers his own identity in the process.

The cast of Edge of America
In the skillful hands of director Chris Ayre, Edge of America presents the idea of indigenous peoples as communities with dignity, humor, intelligence, and skill, which is in direct opposition to the typical Hollywood “Indian.” Truly, this film is a refreshing change from that norm and a more realistic presentation of the realities, challenges, and joys of modern reservation life. Viewers likewise learn to think in new ways about American Indians today, thanks to the vivid storytelling and representations of one corner of indigenous experience in Edge of America.

Watch the trailer here. 

Amanda Morris, Ph.D. is an assistant professor of multiethnic rhetorics at Kutztown University in Pennsylvania, and when she’s not writing or wrangling students, she loves shark fishing, gardening, and cooking with her man.

Disabilities Week: Blindness, Race and Love in ‘A Patch of Blue’

A Patch of Blue movie poster.


Written by Leigh Kolb

Director Guy Green said of the premise of A Patch of Blue: “basically it’s a very corny story, a blind girl falling in love with a black man.” He credits the writing of the novel it was based upon (Be Ready With Bells and Drums, by Elizabeth Kata) for ensuring that the story, and resulting film, were not corny in the least.


The 1965 film centers around a young blind woman, Selina (Elizabeth Hartman), who has been abused and sheltered, and neglected any formal education, by her family–her mother, Rose-Ann (Shelley Winters) and her grandfather, Ole Pa (Wallace Ford). 


She’s befriended by a black man, Gordon (Sidney Poitier), and they form a deep relationship, which centers on Gordon’s desire to help Selina lift herself up.

It would be easy to read that synopsis–blind girl falls in love with a black man–and come to any number of conclusions about the film, especially since it was released at the height of the civil rights movement, but the film manages to capture something much deeper than being a superficial morality play on racism, and it treats Selina’s blindness with care and dignity.
When Selina was five, her father came home unexpectedly while Rose-Ann was sleeping with another man (it’s insinuated that she worked as a prostitute, and still does). Her father killed the man, and when Rose-Ann threw a bottle–a chemical-laden cosmetic–from her dresser at him, it hit Selina in the face, scarring her eyes and leaving her blind.
Elizabeth Hartman wore opaque contacts to simulate Selina’s damaged eyes. Rose-Ann is the only one who berates her “ugliness”; even her grandfather explains that it’s just that people are nosy, not that she is ugly.
Selina’s life circumstances are desperate and miserable, but she is not. The opening shot of the film focuses on Selina’s hands, stringing together beaded necklaces–that’s what she does during the day to help her family (Mr. Faber, her boss, is presented as an important support person in her life). She yearns to spend more time in the park, and Mr. Faber takes her when he can.
It’s in the park that she meets Gordon (a caterpillar dropped down the back of her shirt and she needed help–a problem not reserved for a person who can’t see–and he helps her retrieve it). He’s friendly and gentle without being condescending, and his generosity helps strike up a quick friendship. He buys her sunglasses because she’s self-conscious about her scarred eyes and tells her she looks perfect with them on (this is presented as a generous act for her confidence, not because he actually feels she needs them).
He’s shocked that she’s never heard of braille and was never formally educated: “You haven’t heard of all blind people can do?” he asks, and she is self-deprecating yet unashamed of her lot in life. 
Gordon and Selina eat lunch.
While Selina is uneducated (Gordon corrects her grammar when they first meet) and cannot live outside of her home independently, the audience never feels pity for her because she is blind and helpless. Instead, the focus of our pity is on her lack of support–she has an abusive home life and has been neglected. Her blindness isn’t pitiful; her family is. 
When Selina is shown doing tasks that she’s been entrusted with–changing linens, washing dishes, cooking, cleaning–she does so perfectly. This is a reminder that her blindness hasn’t been a hindrance to her life and that she is capable of doing what she’s allowed to do.
Hartman, in studying for the part, spent time at a school for the blind to be able to accurately get into character. She wore opaque contacts (Green said they helped because they naturally obstructed her vision), and her family says she wore them constantly and never left character while she was filming.
This careful and empathetic approach to “acting” blind paid off. Hartman’s performance was incredibly convincing and she was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actress (A Patch of Blue was Hartman’s first film). 
Gordon helps Selina find directions by the sun’s location.
In the film, Gordon attempts to feel as Selina must feel shortly after meeting her. He’s shown at his job–working as a night-shift reporter–getting up from his desk, walking across the room, and attempting to return to his desk with closed eyes (he is unsuccessful, and runs into his coworker’s desk). This short scene is poignant in that it further reminds Gordon–and the audience–what it must feel like to be Selina, if only for a few moments. 
Gordon never tries to do things for Selina. From the beginning, he teaches her and empowers her to be able to completely take care of herself. Since it’s clear her limitations are environmental, not innate, she is capable. Her disability–caused and amplified by her family–is not what’s in her way. Her poverty and lack of support system are detrimental to her growth and development.
Gordon could have easily met Selina, befriended her, seen that she could clean and cook, and want to marry her, keeping her dependent and living simply for him. And while his romantic feelings for her are conflicted, he wants her to be independent and educated more than he wants her for himself. 
Gordon gives Selina very practical advice (counting steps, listening for traffic) so she can navigate streets by herself–which she finally does, after realizing she doesn’t have to take her home life anymore.
Gordon never belittles or gets frustrates with Selina.
Gordon and Selina’s kiss–one of the first on-screen interracial kisses–was at the same time innocent and deeply passionate. When Selina references the fact that she’d been raped, and wishes she hadn’t so she could be with Gordon, he convinces her that she is not “bad” or “dirty,” like she worries she is. (Someone in 1965 understood how to not blame the victim.) 
Their kiss was one of the first on-screen interracial kisses.
The filmography often focuses on Selina’s point of view, and is effective in portraying the sensory details she enjoys (the canned peaches or the music box), and the terrors she lives through–her time alone for the first time on the street, or the memory of being raped (we “see” the man from her perspective–what she could have seen, but only felt).
The racial components of the film are also nuanced and effective. When Gordon tells Selina that “tolerance” is one of his favorite words (and explains that it’s not just putting up with something, but that you don’t “knock your neighbor just because he thinks or looks different than you”), she tells him that he must be full of tolerance. He quietly shakes his head and says that he’s not. He looks deeply affected when white people stare and glare at him and Selina walking together, and clearly has deep inner conflict being a black man in America in 1965 (of course, these aspects of the film don’t seem nearly as dated as they should be). His brother, a doctor, criticizes Gordon’s desire to help and educate Selina because she is white, and comments on the fact that she comes from a “trash heap” (to which Gordon responds, “She may, but she’s not trash”). Underneath the surface of the film is the fact that socioeconomic factors and family support systems are what determine a person’s opportunities.  
Rose-Ann is, unsurprisingly, violently racist. We know that she forbade Selina from spending time with the only friend she ever made because the little girl was black, so we also know that when Rose-Ann sees Selina and Gordon together, she will erupt–which she does. 
The characters to be despised are racist, abusive and neglectful. But Selina and Gordon aren’t perfect–they are complex, sympathetic characters who struggle with their own shortcomings and emotions. Selina is only 18, so her naivety and her quickness to fall deeply in love are believable. Gordon loves Selina as a friend, but is unsure of anything beyond that. He says he’s snapped back into reality after getting lost in their embrace. He deals with anger and frustration, too–not only because of his experiences at the hands of racism, but also because of the injustice of Selina’s mistreatment. 
By the end of the film, even the crowd of white people (who before had glared), realize that Gordon is no threat to Selina; Rose-Ann is.
The ending is hopeful, but not saccharine-sweet. The realness of the characters, their struggles and their emotions are highlighted by sparse, black-and-white film and a beautiful soundtrack.
Gordon has called a school for the blind and set up a space for Selina. Before the bus comes to pick her up, she is nervous, and wishes they could just get married. Gordon promises that in a year, they could see if their love has anything to do with marriage. He sits her down to tell her that he’s black, but she already knows.
She says, “I know everything I need to know about you.” As she feels his face she continues: “I know you’re good, and kind, and that you’re colored; and I think you’re beautiful.”
He’s shocked that she knows, and responds “Beautiful? Most people would say the opposite.”
“That’s because they don’t know you,” she answers.
A Patch of Blue portrays disability as a part of a woman’s life that only defines her because she’s grown up with an abusive and neglectful family. As soon as she gets access to a world (literally and figuratively) outside of their little apartment, she thrives, and we know she’s just going to continue to grow. She’s beginning her life–a life that won’t be defined by her blindness. 
Her relationship with Gordon allows him to also redefine his own life and helps him see himself for who he is–a beautiful, kind and generous man, who knows how to share life with someone who’s never experienced it.
Fifty years later, portraying disability on screen with empathy and respect is still rare. Showing an interracial couple is also extremely rare (Green says that some people sent terrible letters to him about the kissing scene; in fact, it’s reported that in some areas in the south the scene was edited out for theaters). 
A Patch of Blue manages to weave together themes of disability, race, socioeconomic issues and family dynamics with beauty and grace. It was nominated for multiple Golden Globes and Academy Awards; Shelley Winters won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar, and notably, Sidney Poitier was nominated for the Golden Globe, but not an Academy Award. 
A Patch of Blue is one of those films that manages to stay with you for years after you see it; and then, when you see it again, it’s just as beautiful as you remembered.

Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri.

Women of Color in Film and TV: Deeper Than Race: A Movie Review of ‘Crash’

Crash (2004)
Guest post written by Erin Parks. 
We are not alone. Our lives are filled with people, places, and things that come together in unexpected ways. Sometimes we are violently brought to understanding – a gun fired, a tumble down the stairs, or a car crash, for example. Writer and director Paul Haggis orchestrates the lives of eleven characters in modern day Los Angeles, California, whose daily lives are altered by various altercations, highlighted with racial tension. 
The story lines are all carefully introduced, and, throughout the film, display a range of emotions and attitudes about how we deal with race in America. The movie opens with the title remark from Detective Graham Waters (Don Cheadle) about how we “crash” into one another sometime because we miss human connection. 
His Latina girlfriend simply shakes her head then gets out of the confront the Asian woman who ran into her. As the police attempts to mediate the argument, which quickly turns down “Stereotypes Street” – Asians can’t drive, all Latino people are Mexican, etc.- the tone is set. Crash is a dark exploration into what we think when we are angry and afraid, but would not dare utter out loud. After Det. Graham sees something familiar on a nearby crime scene, the film flashes back to yesterday. 
We are then introduced to a Persian store owner buying a gun for protection of his shop. He is mistaken for Arab when his daughter translates the gun seller’s questions about bullets. Director Haggis continues to turn up the flame – the White District Attorney (Brendan Fraser) and his wife (Sandra Bullock) are car jacked by two Black men and Det. Waters arrives on a police scene where a Black off-duty cop has been shot by a White officer. 
Throughout the film the characters throw out what they believe to be facts when it comes to the races, at times the most outrageous statements are said very cooly. For example, Det. Waters also calls his girlfriend Mexican, who briefly explains that she is of Puerto Rican and El Salvadorian parentage. 
Shortly after, the DA’s wife explodes about having her locks changed by a man she has assumed to be a “gang banger.” We are introduced to a successful Black couple on Ventura Blvd. who get pulled over, and the woman is sexually assaulted by one of the known  racist officers of the LAPD (played by Matt Dillon). His young partner is a fearful witness. Later when he asks to be reassigned, Lt. Dixon admits that he cannot remove the offensive officer because the LAPD is a racist system and refuses to loosen his position, basically as the H.N.I.C. He offers an embarrassing, albeit reasonable option for reassignment: uncontrollable flatulence. 
The movie circles around the intertwined lives like a delicate dance. Most interestingly, none of them know how they will “crash” into each other until it violently happens. All along the scenarios gently beg the question, “What would you do?” Even though the viewer is the spectator, most of the dialogue is reactionary. We see the characters change and attitudes shift as they are brought together again, but as needed allies. 
This shift in the film that occurs shows that we are all just skin, blood, and bones, that we may all be able to “just get along.” It is hope. We see the racist officer save the Black woman (Thandie Newton) he previously assaulted from an overturned vehicle about to explode and the shop owner who shoots a young girl but does not harm her because the gun is full of blanks. Even after we discover that what Det. Waters saw at the beginning of the crime scene was his brother fatally shot (Larenz Tate), that is not where the film ends. A group of Thai captives are released, and there is another car crash. 
Crash does not tell you how to think or feel. It presents characters who are blunt, who turn the other cheek, are both ignorant and educated, and all of the complicated things people are. Plainly we can see that much of the anger is triggered by fear. Specifically, in the storyline of the shop owner who has everything on the line -his family and his business. Even at his best, it his daughter who protects him from himself. We see that racism is never as simple as racial slurs, and it is so deep that it ultimately affects the person and prevents them from living happy, healthy lives. 
Director Paul Haggis does a great job with the film in letting the audience think for themselves, and potentially see themselves in one of the story lines. Most interesting to me is the car jacker Anthony (Chris “Ludacris” Bridges), who is the ultimate contradiction. He leads a life of crime, but is offended by White people who stereotype people of color as violent criminals. He claims that he only robs from White people, painting himself as a vigilante, and calls Hip-hop the music of the oppressor. His actions, however, leave us to wonder – is this self-fulfilling prophecy? Does he commit crime because that is all anyone will believe he does, or because of some real issue within himself? His flashes of intelligence would lead us to believe the latter. 
In contrast, the other half of the car-jacking duo, Peter Waters, has no ill-will towards anyone. He seemingly feels that we do what’s necessary to survive, and yet he is fatally shot by the young officer off duty (Ryan Phillippe), because he recognized him as a car jacker and thought he had a gun. The young officer then sees that he was trying to show him the idol he carried, same as on Officer Hansen’s dash. The twist of fate for both the car jackers illustrates how second chances are given to some, but not all, and is not necessarily based on race. In fact, making race even more complicated in the real world are politics and money. 
No matter how hard we try or how easy it may seem, how people get along based on race does not fit into a neat box. Further, even when race is one day no longer an issue, something else may be. If nothing else, Crash screams to us that we are human – humans make mistakes, humans compete, and humans react violently when afraid. What destroys us can also be what binds. Meditating on all the contradictions may drive you mad, but it is a what makes our connections strong, what makes us want to “crash” into someone else.
———-

Erin Parks is a writer and digital media professional originally from Athens, Georgia. She has worked on film and television promo projects for HBO, TVLand, and NBC Sports. Parks loves to stay abreast of current events and tech news. You may find more of her work on herdiamondback.com, a site with a mission to redefine feminism. Connect with Erin Parks on Twitter @eparksm.

Women of Color in Film and TV: Deeper Than Race: A Movie Review of “Crash”

Crash (2004)
Guest post written by Erin Parks. 
We are not alone. Our lives are filled with people, places, and things that come together in unexpected ways. Sometimes we are violently brought to understanding – a gun fired, a tumble down the stairs, or a car crash, for example. Writer and director Paul Haggis orchestrates the lives of eleven characters in modern day Los Angeles, California, whose daily lives are altered by various altercations, highlighted with racial tension. 
The story lines are all carefully introduced, and, throughout the film, display a range of emotions and attitudes about how we deal with race in America. The movie opens with the title remark from Detective Graham Waters (Don Cheadle) about how we “crash” into one another sometime because we miss human connection. 
His Latina girlfriend simply shakes her head then gets out of the confront the Asian woman who ran into her. As the police attempts to mediate the argument, which quickly turns down “Stereotypes Street” – Asians can’t drive, all Latino people are Mexican, etc.- the tone is set. Crash is a dark exploration into what we think when we are angry and afraid, but would not dare utter out loud. After Det. Graham sees something familiar on a nearby crime scene, the film flashes back to yesterday. 
We are then introduced to a Persian store owner buying a gun for protection of his shop. He is mistaken for Arab when his daughter translates the gun seller’s questions about bullets. Director Haggis continues to turn up the flame – the White District Attorney (Brendan Fraser) and his wife (Sandra Bullock) are car jacked by two Black men and Det. Waters arrives on a police scene where a Black off-duty cop has been shot by a White officer. 
Throughout the film the characters throw out what they believe to be facts when it comes to the races, at times the most outrageous statements are said very cooly. For example, Det. Waters also calls his girlfriend Mexican, who briefly explains that she is of Puerto Rican and El Salvadorian parentage. 
Shortly after, the DA’s wife explodes about having her locks changed by a man she has assumed to be a “gang banger.” We are introduced to a successful Black couple on Ventura Blvd. who get pulled over, and the woman is sexually assaulted by one of the known  racist officers of the LAPD (played by Matt Dillon). His young partner is a fearful witness. Later when he asks to be reassigned, Lt. Dixon admits that he cannot remove the offensive officer because the LAPD is a racist system and refuses to loosen his position, basically as the H.N.I.C. He offers an embarrassing, albeit reasonable option for reassignment: uncontrollable flatulence. 
The movie circles around the intertwined lives like a delicate dance. Most interestingly, none of them know how they will “crash” into each other until it violently happens. All along the scenarios gently beg the question, “What would you do?” Even though the viewer is the spectator, most of the dialogue is reactionary. We see the characters change and attitudes shift as they are brought together again, but as needed allies. 
This shift in the film that occurs shows that we are all just skin, blood, and bones, that we may all be able to “just get along.” It is hope. We see the racist officer save the Black woman (Thandie Newton) he previously assaulted from an overturned vehicle about to explode and the shop owner who shoots a young girl but does not harm her because the gun is full of blanks. Even after we discover that what Det. Waters saw at the beginning of the crime scene was his brother fatally shot (Larenz Tate), that is not where the film ends. A group of Thai captives are released, and there is another car crash. 
Crash does not tell you how to think or feel. It presents characters who are blunt, who turn the other cheek, are both ignorant and educated, and all of the complicated things people are. Plainly we can see that much of the anger is triggered by fear. Specifically, in the storyline of the shop owner who has everything on the line -his family and his business. Even at his best, it his daughter who protects him from himself. We see that racism is never as simple as racial slurs, and it is so deep that it ultimately affects the person and prevents them from living happy, healthy lives. 
Director Paul Haggis does a great job with the film in letting the audience think for themselves, and potentially see themselves in one of the story lines. Most interesting to me is the car jacker Anthony (Chris “Ludacris” Bridges), who is the ultimate contradiction. He leads a life of crime, but is offended by White people who stereotype people of color as violent criminals. He claims that he only robs from White people, painting himself as a vigilante, and calls Hip-hop the music of the oppressor. His actions, however, leave us to wonder – is this self-fulfilling prophecy? Does he commit crime because that is all anyone will believe he does, or because of some real issue within himself? His flashes of intelligence would lead us to believe the latter. 
In contrast, the other half of the car-jacking duo, Peter Waters, has no ill-will towards anyone. He seemingly feels that we do what’s necessary to survive, and yet he is fatally shot by the young officer off duty (Ryan Phillippe), because he recognized him as a car jacker and thought he had a gun. The young officer then sees that he was trying to show him the idol he carried, same as on Officer Hansen’s dash. The twist of fate for both the car jackers illustrates how second chances are given to some, but not all, and is not necessarily based on race. In fact, making race even more complicated in the real world are politics and money. 
No matter how hard we try or how easy it may seem, how people get along based on race does not fit into a neat box. Further, even when race is one day no longer an issue, something else may be. If nothing else, Crash screams to us that we are human – humans make mistakes, humans compete, and humans react violently when afraid. What destroys us can also be what binds. Meditating on all the contradictions may drive you mad, but it is a what makes our connections strong, what makes us want to “crash” into someone else.
———-

Erin Parks is a writer and digital media professional originally from Athens, Georgia. She has worked on film and television promo projects for HBO, TVLand, and NBC Sports. Parks loves to stay abreast of current events and tech news. You may find more of her work on herdiamondback.com, a site with a mission to redefine feminism. Connect with Erin Parks on Twitter @eparksm.

The Power of Narrative in ‘Django Unchained’

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” – William Faulkner

Written by Leigh Kolb

Spoilers ahead
In 2011, two presidential hopefuls signed a pledge that, in its original form, insinuated that African-American children had families that were more cohesive and better off during slavery.
Texas and Tennessee both in the last two years have seen school boards and political activist groups push K-12 curriculum that “softens” slavery references, explores the “positive aspects of American slavery” and downplays minority struggles throughout American history.
A southern governor issued a proclamation for Confederate History Month with no references to slavery in 2010.
Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained, an anti-slavery revenge fantasy (based more in fact than fiction) was released just a few days before the 150th anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation, which was passed on Jan. 1, 1863 (however, it would be almost three more years until slavery was outlawed in the United States with the Thirteenth Amendment). 
If you find the above information upsetting–that many are trying to whitewash a history so fresh and raw (after all, 150 years is not that long ago)–then Django Unchained is for you. If you don’t find the above information jarring, then perhaps the film is especially for you.
Tarantino has been candid in many interviews about his desire to showcase this time in American history (the film is set in 1858, two years before the start of the Civil War). His 2009 film Inglourious Basterds was a Holocaust revenge fantasy–not historically accurate, but emotionally fulfilling. Django Unchained‘s fiction isn’t as factually inaccurate, but the cathartic nature of looking at a historical horror through the lens of revenge is still there. 
Tarantino recently explained this catharsis on NPR:

“… to actually take an action story and put it in that kind of backdrop where slavery or the pain of World War II is the backdrop of an exciting adventure story — that can be something else. And then in my adventure story, I can have the people who are historically portrayed as the victims be the victors and the avengers.”

He goes on:

“You know, there’s not this big demand for, you know, movies that deal with the darkest part of America’s history, and the part that we’re still paying for to this day. They’re scared of how white audiences are going to feel about it; they’re scared about how black audiences are going to feel about it.”

This fear is certainly understandable, since America’s history of slavery, racism and subjugation is still, in many ways, a taboo topic (or a topic rife with revisionism). Django Unchained, however, does everything right.

The opening scene of the film is a line of raw, whipped black backs. This image is not foreign to audiences–people are generally well-versed in that aspect of violence against slaves. The image is awful and uncomfortable, but eases the audience in to this time period with something familiar. As the film progresses, layers of violence and misery are peeled back until audiences are squirming and uncomfortable. As they should be.
For the first part of the film, Dr. King Schultz (Christoph Waltz) and Django (Jamie Foxx) are portrayed as partners. Both have stories, and basically split the role of protagonist. Schultz frees Django to aid in his bounty hunting. In their time together, Schultz teaches Django to read, shoot and “act” however he needed to in order to accomplish his goals.

Schultz teaches Django how to shoot and read, granting him access to the free world.

The poignant scenes where Schultz and Django are eating together in their camp highlight the importance of authentic voices. They ask one other questions and learn one another’s stories. Schultz acts shocked when he learns that Django’s wife, Broomhilda (Kerry Washington), speaks German. He was intrigued by their story, and asked Django about her and their life together. 
The importance of the authentic voice and hearing people tell their own stories is essential. How, then, can Tarantino, a white man in 2012, effectively bring the injustice of slavery to mass audiences?
The answer can really be found in the film itself.
Schultz tells Django the legend of Brünnhilda (which mirrors Django’s own journey for his wife). Django asks Schultz why he is helping him, and why he cares whether he finds his wife, and Schultz answers, “I’ve never given anybody their freedom before. I feel responsible for you.”
This responsibility to give Django access to the free world is similar to Tarantino’s responsibility to bring this black empowerment film to mass audiences. It’s about access, not help or hand outs. Access is what white Americans (especially white American males) still have at this point, and they should be responsible for sharing that access with others and telling important stories. Tarantino’s popularity and neutrality (as a white man with no other “agenda”) gave access to this story.
Could a black man have made a film with a celebrated hero who  says, “Kill white people and get paid for it? What’s not to like?” I can’t imagine that would have had the same mass appeal. While I’m not suggesting that this is a fair or good scenario, that’s where we are in our history. And if we’re going to continue to have people downplaying our nation’s history of oppression and “softening” slavery, we need these stories more than ever.
As this access is granted to Django, the story becomes more and more his own. He changes after the first bounty kill. Two men are getting ready to whip an enslaved woman; Django shoots the one who is quoting Bible passages and holding the Bible (he shoots him through a Bible page that is stapled to his shirt) and whips the other. He has claimed his place, and his journey begins to be more wholly his own. (The shot to the Bible page is also important considering pro-slavery factions would use the Bible as a defense for owning slaves.)

Django turns the whip on the oppressor.

By the time the two reach Candyland, Django has truly come into his own. As they travel across the horizon, rapper Rick Ross’s “100 Black Coffins” plays as Django struts on his horse (Foxx was instrumental in helping choose this music). The rap works, and indicates a shift in whose story we’re really starting to see. When Schultz warns Django to stop “antagonizing” plantation owner Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio), Django asserts that he’s just “getting dirty,” and acting like he knows he needs to. This dialogue upends the “know your place” rhetoric that even well-meaning, slavery-hating Schultz falls into.
The use of mandingo fighting as a plot point (both to get Schultz and Django to Candyland, and also to horrify the audience) is important. While forcing slaves to fight or entertain for sport and profit was not uncommon, this kind of fighting until death didn’t appear to happen. And before you take a big sigh of relief (it wasn’t that bad, then), the main reason this kind of fighting would not have happened is because it was economically unwise to kill someone who would be a strong worker. It’s all business.
Candie’s continued references to phrenology remind us that in addition to the perceived Biblical support of slavery, pseudoscience of the time also supported racist (and sexist) ideas about people’s capabilities. 
When he breaks apart old Ben’s skull at the dining room table, one can’t help but think about poor Yorick in Hamlet. As Hamlet cradles the skull of his father’s jester who he knew well as a child (much like Ben’s role as Candie’s father’s slave), he considers life and death and reflects upon how we all end up the same. Ben’s skull, however, launches Candie into a tirade about phrenology, as he breaks a piece off to show the indentions that prove black people are biologically subservient.

House slave Stephen, left, Broomhilda and Candie.

Behind Candie always in these dining room scenes is a marble statue of two Roman gladiators fighting (his hobby is nothing new), and is Stephen (Samuel L. Jackson), his house slave. Stephen embodies the Stockholm Syndrome kind of subservience that Candie sees as inherent. He plays the ultimate “Uncle Tom” character to foil Django’s free and increasingly independent and violent nature. Of course, in keeping with the Ben/Yorick parallel, Stephen also is much more clever than Candie is, and has wisdom and knowledge (Shakespeare often gave the jesters/fools much more wisdom than their masters).
Stephen.

The way Candie and Stephen treat Broomhilda is abhorrent, and Django predicted correctly that she was used as a “comfort girl” (sex slave). While her part is the damsel in distress, she’s clearly as fierce and independent as she can be (when they arrive at Candyland, she’s being brutally punished for trying to escape). 
As business is being settled toward the end, Schultz cannot stop the images of a dog killing a runaway slave they’d encountered earlier. He’s not angered by losing a much larger amount of money than he’d anticipated, or being “caught” in a scheme. He’s haunted by the brutality he’s seen at Candyland. He starts discussing The Three Musketeers with Candie, and tells him that Alexandre Dumas was black (again reinforcing the idea that it is important to have the whole story to avoid reducing people to stereotypes). A demand for a handshake becomes too much for Schultz, and he shoots Candie, setting off a bloodbath. He knows he’s sacrificing himself with that gesture, but it’s worth it to him.
Few remain alive after the resulting gunfight, but Django and Broomhilda are both caught and punished. Django, in the throes of torture and seconds away from castration, is visited by Stephen, who  rattles off all the ways they could have punished him, but Candie’s sister ordered that he be shipped to a quarry, where he’d be enslaved again.
“This will be the story of you, Django,” says Stephen.
While Django’s story began by being freed by Schultz and partnering with him, thus receiving access to the free world, he long ago became the author of his own story. And Stephen’s wrong–Django wins. Django frees himself this time.
As Django kills Stephen, Stephen screams, “You can’t destroy Candyland–there’ll always be a Candyland!” 
And while Django does effectively end Candyland, Stephen isn’t incorrect. Candylands will exist for years after Django leaves, and we are still feeling what Candyland was in America today.
In an interview with VIBE, DiCaprio, Washington and Foxx discussed their reactions to the screenplay. DiCaprio said,

“For me, the initial thing obviously was playing someone so disreputable and horrible whose ideas I obviously couldn’t connect with on any level. I remember our first read through, and some of my questions were about the amount of violence, the amount of racism, the explicit use of certain language. It was hard for me to wrap my head around it. My initial response was, ‘Do we need to go this far?'”

Foxx and Washington said,

Foxx: “When President Obama became president in 2008, a blemish on my hometown was the fact that it wasn’t on the front page of the newspaper. When they went down to talk to them, they went [country accent] ‘Hey listen, we run a newspaper, not a scrap book.’ I’m paraphrasing. So I had both of my daughters come down to the plantation, and I walked them through and I said, ‘This is where your people come from. This is your background.’ And I said, ‘this is more than just a movie for your father.’ My little daughter, I took her into the shack, and I said, ‘these are where the slaves stayed.’ Every two, three years there is a movie about the holocaust because they want you to remember and they want you to be reminded of what it was. When was the last time you seen a movie about slavery?”
Washington: “When is the last time you saw a movie about slavery where a black man frees himself?”
Foxx: “We read back in the day about Nat Turner and other guys who were not taking it. That’s why, when I read the script and we went back to the plantation, there were certain things inside me bubbling up.”

These responses are indicative of the conversations about our own history. White people frequently echo variations on a theme of “I didn’t have anything to do with that.” It’s easy to denigrate and forget a past that we keep ourselves disconnected from. For black Americans, however, there is a sense of connectivity, of history, to that time and place. As there should be–for everyone, no matter how painful it is.

Django leaves a pile of bodies in his trail to freedom.
Django Unchained is an excellent film. The writing, direction, acting and soundtrack are powerful. And while it’s poised to be at the receiving end of many accolades this awards season, the best, most lasting impression it can leave is to change conversations and common narratives (even fictional ones) so that whitewashing our history becomes impossible. 
—

Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri. 

Biopic and Documentary Week: American Violet

This piece on American Violet, by Amber Leab, originally appeared at Bitch Flicks on April 5, 2010.

American Violet (2008)

American Violet tells the true story of an African-American mother of four girls arrested and falsely accused of selling crack cocaine. Set in a fictional Texas town with the 2000 presidential election as a fitting backdrop of confusion and corruption, we see Dee Roberts fight–with the help of ACLU lawyers–to clear her name and the names of other innocent people arrested in a broad sweep that day.
Newcomer Nicole Beharie gives a powerful performance as Dee, and the supporting cast, including Alfre Woodard as Dee’s mother, and Tim Blake Nelson and Malcolm Barrett as lawyers for the ACLU, do an equally good job. 

It’s impossible to not love Dee–a beautiful woman, a kind and patient mother, a hard worker, and a caring friend. Her temper gets the best of her once in the film, but she’s protecting her children from their alcoholic father and his accused child molester girlfriend, and can hardly be faulted for it. I’m inclined to think the movie tries too hard to make her character likable. In contrast, Dee’s friend and neighbor Gladys–who is not a conventionally attractive woman, and does not have four adorable children trailing her–is a compelling and empathetic character, but the film completely drops the ball, even failing to credit the actor who plays her. Gladys is Dee’s inspiration for continuing to fight the DA even after her charges are dropped (because Gladys took a plea deal, while Dee would not), but we don’t get to explore Gladys or her situation. I’m curious as to why she’s part of the story, but not really allowed to be a character in the film. While the movie is about Dee, I would’ve liked to get to know Gladys a bit.

Oscar Best Picture Nominee: ‘The Help’: Same Script, Different Cast

The Help is nominated for four Oscars (Best Picture, Best Actress (Viola Davis), and Best Supporting Actress (Jessica Chastain & Octavia Spencer), and has garnered numerous other nominations and awards.
This piece, by guest writer elle, first appeared at Bitch Flicks on October 5, 2011. 

The Help (2011)
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.

George Lucas Couldn’t Make a Movie with an All-Black Cast

A week ago today, George Lucas appeared on The Daily Show to discuss Red Tails, which opens in theatres this coming weekend. Since Lucas is promoting the film, one might mistakenly call it “his film,” and he certainly seems to claim ownership of it (at least in the interview below). However, Lucas is one of four producers; Anthony Hemingway directs, and John Ridley & Aaron McGruder share writing credits.
Red Tails tells the story (at least a portion of it–Lucas alludes to a prequel and sequel) of the Tuskegee Airmen–a group of heroic Black pilots in World War II–who aren’t really as well known here in the U.S. as they should be. 
An action movie centering on a group of men, and targeted at teenage boys, isn’t typical terrain for Bitch Flicks. However, it’s shocking and remarkable that Lucas claims he couldn’t get this project of the ground because it stars an all-black cast and studios didn’t see a foreign market for the film.
Watch the Daily Show clip:


The Daily Show With Jon Stewart Mon – Thurs 11p / 10c
George Lucas
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog The Daily Show on Facebook

Many people in the United States like to imagine that we’re a post-racial society, and are quick to point out our current Black president and a handful of Black celebrities as evidence. But when one of the biggest and most powerful names in Hollywood can’t get a studio interested in a movie about a group of heroic Black military men, we should all be reminded that racism is alive and well, and that it remains institutionally embedded in our culture.
Going to see a movie in the theatre is, in some way, a political act. Where you choose to spend your movie dollars influences the kinds of movies that are greenlighted in the future. And, in our age of hyper-capitalism, the opening weekend means everything. 
Here’s the official movie trailer:

Red Tails opens this Friday, January 20th. Will you go see it?

Quote of the Day: Molly Haskell on "The Woman’s Film"

This past weekend, The Help (in its second week in wide release) moved to the top of the U.S. box office. While much of the discussion about the film has focused on its race problems, I’ve been bothered by it’s characterization in many reviews as a “woman’s film.” (Note: I haven’t seen The Help.) Because its main characters are women, and it seems to be about empowering women (though I suspect it’s more about empowering white women than black women), it must be a film about and, thus, for women.
Isn’t that the problem? I don’t want to get too far into using The Help as an example (I repeat, I haven’t seen it), but branding a film about women and civil rights in the South (however problematic its depiction) as a “woman’s film” just seems absurd. Have we gone at all beyond Molly Haskell’s 1974 discussion of “The Woman’s Film?”
What more damning comment on the relations between men and women in America than the very notion of something called the ‘woman’s film’? And what more telling sign of critical and sexual priorities than the low caste it has among the highbrows. Held at arm’s length, it is, indeed, the untouchable of film genres […]

Among the Anglo-American critical brotherhood (and a few of their sisters as well), the term ‘woman’s film’ is used disparagingly to conjure up the image of the pinched-virgin or little-old-lady writer, spilling out her secret longings in wish fulfillment or glorious martyrdom, and transmitting these fantasies to the frustrated housewife. The final image is one of wet, wasted afternoons. And if strong men have also cried their share of tears over the weepies, that is all the more reason (goes the argument) we should be suspicious, be on our guard against the flood of ‘unearned’ feelings released by these assaults, unerringly accurate, on our emotional soft spots.

As a term of critical opprobrium, ‘woman’s film’ carries the implication that women, and therefore women’s emotional problems, are of minor significance. A film that focuses on male relationships is not pejoratively dubbed a ‘man’s film’ (indeed, this term, when it is used, confers–like ‘a man’s man’–an image of brute strength), but a ‘psychological drama.’ 

Here’s a thought experiment. If The Help were about a plucky young white man who wanted to interview black male workers, how would we be talking about the film?