“Of…of course I
do” I stuttered as I pointed weakly to the pictures of Ella Fitzgerald (she was
not a movie star, but oh that voice!) and Sidney Poitier (a post to follow
about that perfection that is Poitier). But my pointing out the only two black
faces in that sea of white was tantamount to that all too common (and utterly absurd)
response to accusations of racism, “I can’t be racist—I have a black friend.”
Except that I really did like black people! Of course I did—I was black (not
that those two necessarily go hand-in-hand). I was stunned, confused, and hurt
by my mother’s question. Suddenly, what had been an innocent obsession was infused
with an immense sense of guilt and shame. Why was I not more bothered by the
offensive portrayals of blacks in my favorite classic movies? Why was I holding
these white screen icons up as my models of beauty, accomplishment, and decency?
Why were my walls not covered with images of black icons, not just from the
cinema, but from politics, history, and world affairs? I started brooding over
these questions that day and have not stopped since. Now, I’m sure that some
people reading this post will challenge the importance of these questions. They
may wonder why my blackness matters in relation to my love of classic films. For
these people, I will try to hammer out a coherent justification for my inner
turmoil.
 |
| Fighting to have one's humanity recognized |
America’s
history of brutal and unimaginable racial oppression and terror should be a
secret to no one. But what may be a secret to those who have not been subjected
to such cruelty is the indelible damage that such treatment does to the minds
of the oppressed. Living in a society whose very institutions systematically
and consistently deny you your humanity and aim to strip you of your worth
undoubtedly does a number on the human psyche—how could it not? Being banished
to the backs of buses and the most unsuitable neighborhoods to raise your
children; watching your fellow black Americans attacked by police dogs and
doused by fire hoses as they fight for the most basic and fundamental of human
rights; seeing your heroes cut down one after the other by assassins’ bullets,
not only silencing their voices of change but dimming your own hope for the
future. And all of this witnessed and ignored, if not encouraged, by the very
government and law enforcement structures that are supposed to offer you
protection and security. How could one not
be traumatized by such horrors? It should be no surprise, then, that many black
Americans began subconsciously accepting and believing these omnipresent and
socially entrenched declarations of their inferiority.
Powerful
and perhaps most insidious among these socially sanctioned forms of racism was
the cinema and its use of the very images I described earlier. The most
flippant of my readers may cry foul at this point. “But they’re just movies!”
they’ll say. “Movies are meant for escapism and recreation, not for inclusion
in social and political discourse.” To these criticisms, I would say that the
power of film should never never be underestimated. Film is one of the few mediums that is
simultaneously a product of the context in which it is made and an architect of
the very institutions that influenced its creation. Movies are an important and, I would argue,
potent force in building the world in which we live. What shapes our
conceptions of good and evil? Our conceptions of beauty? Humor? Happiness?
Sure, these are shaped in part by our histories, families, experiences, etc.
But you would be hard-pressed to find a person whose view of the world and the
people in it has not been in some way molded by what he saw in a darkened movie
theatre at some time in some place. So when black Americans saw these clichéd
images of themselves on those massive screens, it stung -- partly because they
knew that many non-blacks would accept these as truthful depictions of black
America; mostly because they knew that some blacks would subconsciously embrace
these as valid depictions of themselves. My passionate and absolute embrace of
classic films posed a serious quandary for me, not just because of the
disgusting pictures these films painted of my people, but because of the vicious
cycle of self-hatred they perpetuated and represented.
 |
| The power of cinema |
As much as it
upset me at the time, I have come to understand my mother’s question regarding
my love of Old Hollywood and the concern behind it. Why, in a day and age with
positive, successful, and beautiful black people to idolize, were my bedroom
walls covered with these white faces? And if I insisted upon worshipping movie
stars, why not black ones? If I
wanted to spend my every waking hour watching films, why not watch ones that contributed
positive portrayals of my race to America’s cinematic portfolio? And, finally,
what did this obsession mean for me as a 14 year old black girl growing up in
Topeka, Kansas and already isolated from the black community by my Catholic
school/middle class bubble?
I have agonized
over these questions for the past 10 years; I have searched the abyss of my
mind and reached into the depths of my soul to find their answers (I’m only slightly
exaggerating here). And finally, in my 24th year, I think that I
have found the appropriate response: I
have absolutely no idea. It’s very possible that I never will. What I do
know is that classic films struck a chord in me that nothing else ever has and
this had nothing to do with my race or the race of the people in these films.
Don’t misunderstand—I’m not saying that I was or am colorblind; I don’t believe
that anyone who was raised in America is. But I am saying that my initial
attraction and enduring love affair with classic cinema was born out of a pure
enjoyment of these films and factors that have nothing to do with the skin
color of its players. More important to me is the emphasis on storytelling and expressive
dialogue that pervades old movies and of which I see a lack in current films. In
the past three decades, have we seen anything that even approaches the
intricately woven opera that is The
Godfather? The unadulterated bliss created by Singin’ in the Rain? The explosive heat emanating from A Streetcar Named Desire? Do we see any
of this even in the best of today’s films? It is my strong opinion that we do
not.
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| "Hey Stellllllaaaaaaa!" (Be still my beating heart!) |
So
there we are—I’m a 24 year old, black female who loves spending her free time absorbed
in films made decades before she even thought
of existing, lusting after the hunks of yesteryear, and mourning the decline of
female fashion trends such as white cotton gloves. Do I cringe when I see Mammy
in Gone with the Wind? Definitely.
Does my heart bleed when I think of my black brothers and sisters who sat in
movie theatres and watched themselves being mocked and demeaned for a little
less than $1 per ticket? Without a doubt…and it always will. But I’m a firm
believer in not throwing the baby out with the bathwater—and in this case, the figurative
baby is some of the best movies that have ever (and most likely will ever) come
out of the American filmmaking industry. So goodbye guilt and shame; I’m black
and I’m a classic film fanatic…and I’m finally ok with that.
Epilogue
I
have no doubt that some readers are wondering what I define as an “old movie.”
My definition breaks from that of seasoned cinema connoisseurs who define
classic films as films made during the reign of the restrictive and
all-powerful Hollywood studio system, which controlled the industry from the
1920s to the 1960s. I tend to broaden
this definition to include films made during the 1970s. I don’t really have an
articulate justification for this—it is simply the way I have always defined
old movies. You will also notice that I use the terms “old movie” and “classic
movie” interchangeably. Certainly not all
of the movies made between 1920 and 1979 were classic films in the traditional
sense (“serving as a standard of excellence”).[1]
But I use the term “classic” more loosely, employing it to label films made
during what I believe to be the highest point we have witnessed in the
evolution of filmmaking thus far. I want to stress that not all classic films
(as I define them) were of exceptional quality; but I believe that, on the
whole, movies made during this “Golden Age” of cinema were of a higher caliber
both in terms of entertainment value and artistry than movies made prior to and
following this period.
Additionally, I
would be remiss in my exploration of race and classic cinema if I did not address
the asterisks that litter this exploration. Primary among these are the
exceptions to the rule of one-dimensional, stereotypical black characters on
the silver screen. Sure, not every
black character that appeared in classic films was a mammy or a butler (and during
the 70s, a hooker or a pimp). Of course there were the Beneatha Youngers (educated,
opinionated, and proud of her blackness) and the Dr. John Prentices (educated, successful,
and painfully charming). But my point is that characters such as these were few
and far between, representing only a brushstroke in the broader cinematic portrait
painted of black America during this period. Additionally, it’s interesting to
note that these more positive portrayals of blacks existed only in films with
all black/primarily black casts (A Raisin
in the Sun) or films in which the character’s race played a pivotal role in
the plot (Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?).
It’s almost as if filmmakers felt that these portrayals of blacks were only
plausible if it was emphasized that such black
people were exceptional and unlike the rest.
Another point to
be addressed is my synonymous use of the terms “Old Hollywood” and “white
Hollywood.” What about Hattie McDaniel, Dorothy Dandridge, Sidney Poitier,
Harry Belafonte, and the other black actors and actresses who breathed life
into these black characters of classic cinema. Were they not a part of
Hollywood and didn’t their presence in the film industry indicate a “black
Hollywood?” My answers would be a regretful “Not really.” To begin, they were far
too few black actors and actresses of superstar status and who wielded enough
power to constitute a “black Hollywood” or any other type of black power
structure in this era’s movie industry. These performers worked just as
expertly and as tirelessly as their white counterparts, but were seldom recognized
for their talent or efforts. On the rare occasion in which they were
recognized, not even the bright lights and glamour of Hollywood could camouflage
the harsh reality of being black in America (Hattie McDaniel and her date were
segregated from the other Oscar attendees on the very night that she became the
first black woman to win the coveted award). The vast majority of black thespians
in classic cinema were hired and used by Hollywood, but not accepted by it. And when
Hollywood did embrace black talent, it was clearly labeled as black talent. This remained the case
throughout the 70s with the advent of the aforementioned “blacksploitation”
films and the success of Motown-produced films such as Lady Sings the Blues and Mahogany.
While the number of blacks on screen and behind the camera increased during
this period, their depictions and places within the Hollywood hierarchy fundamentally
did not.
Why then, you may ask, did I only have two
examples of “black talent” on my wall when more existed? Let me begin my explanation
by stating that I, as 14 year olds tend to, gravitated towards the leading ladies
and leading men of my beloved classic films. This adolescent compulsion substantially
cut down an already limited pool of black actors and actresses to be featured
on my personal “Wall of Fame.” Aside from Poitier, I did not see the films of
these other black superstars until my walls were covered! While this was simply
a matter of bad timing, I think it does speak to the recognition that continues
to elude these black trailblazers of cinema, as few of their names and films
were featured on the numerous lists I regularly consulted when planning my
classic film viewing binges. Regardless, these heroic black thespians have
nothing but my love, admiration, and utmost respect not only for their talent,
but for the courage they displayed in the pursuit of their craft during times
so replete with racism and hatred.
In conclusion, I think it fitting to extend a few invitations. To all of my classic
cinema fans, I invite you to join me in my rhapsodic exploration of America’s
film archives and the sociocultural statements of race contained within them.
To all of my classic film novices, I invite you to discover a new (or old,
rather) lens through which to view, study, and situate America’s racial
history. To everyone, I invite you to my journey through celluloid in black and
white.
