Showing posts with label civil rights. Show all posts
Showing posts with label civil rights. Show all posts

Monday, July 7, 2014

Belle (2014)

“Belle” is inspired by history, a 1770s Scottish painting of a half-black woman named Dido Elizabeth Belle on equal level with her Anglo cousin. The posing thumped historic, with the slave trade going on full hell tilt. “Belle” leans standard fictional Brit family drama cum courtroom thriller hoopla, thought it scores marks for telling that Britain and America built their empires on slavery. Fact. Story: Dido (Gugu Mbatha-Raw) is raised by distant, but wealthy relatives (Tom Wilkinson and Emily Watson) when life already was bleak for women –- zero rights. Her obstacles are fierce. Nonetheless, she finds suitors, one an anti-slavery proponent (Sam Reid). Meanwhile, Wilkinson’s high-court judge hears a case on slave cargo and insurance. His decision could topple the sick practice and bring economic ruin. (No more free labor.) Belle obsesses on the case. She swipes evidence, dressed in a hooded robe that had me thinking “Jedi.” Heroic Reid shouts so many truth and justice speeches, I thought, “He’d make a great Superman!” Miscast Tom Felton doesn’t help as a snarling bigot. Is he aware he’s no longer playing Malfoy? Amma Asante’s drama is problematic, yes. Look past that. B

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Lee Daniels’ The Butler (2013)

Perfect case of best intentions, and short results. “The Butler” aspires for Oscar glory and to do nothing less than tell the story of African-Americans and their plight to obtain true equality in America through the eyes of one White House butler (Forrest Whitaker) and his family (Oprah Winfrey as an alcoholic wife, and David Oyelloyo as an activist son). 

The titular butler is Cecil Gaines -– based ever so loosely by a thin thread on real-life figure Eugene Allen -– and his prideful job and moral millstone is to play silent witness to the terrible and great moments of the 20th century Civil Rights movement as he serves tea and roast beef to a line of succeeding American presidents. Naturally, or so the film wants us to believe, each POTUS is won over to see the light of love and racial equality by Gaines’ stoic silence and dedication to the job, making sure the butter knife is just perfectly set so. 

Look, Whitaker knocks the part out, no surprise. He’s been a favorite actor of mine since “Platoon,” and his quiet anger and love shine through in scene after scene. But he’s still standing still for 99 percent of the film, like an end table. Mouth shut. It is Winfrey who near owns the film. Her rounded performance captures illness, anger, love, and jealous hate of the attention Cecil gives Jackie Kennedy, and is the sharp. The wife, though, barely leaves the house. That’s a mixed-bag. See, Daniels’ staging of those at-home scenes with Whitaker and Winfrey shine and sting as we finally see the American story through the hearts of our nation’s most belittled people. This is no “Leave it to Beaver” American Dream lie sold by conservative Tea Party drones. 

But, damn, “Butler,” is a mess. We get an eye-rolling list of Hollywood big names as those presidents, each one more miscast than the last: Robin Williams as a fuddy-duddy Ike, John Cusack as an “SNL” version of Nixon, and -– worst move ever -– Alan Rickman as a Reagan so piss-ant dreary, one wonders if anyone here ever saw film of the real man. Reagan dripped charisma. Love him or hate him, you know the man practically sparkled. Rickman? Not at all. Sorry. These cameos stop the film and had the audience snickering. 

As well, spread out for five decades and hitting every historical race marker like some warped liberal version of “Forrest Gump” -– that feels racist to say, but it’s true -– “Butler” plays like a road trip with a rush-rush-rush pop racing the family car down I-95, yelling to the children in the back, “There’s New York, there’s Philadelphia, there’s Washington, we’ll make Orlando by noon,” never stopping to see Independence Hall. 

This history is too important for such treatment. The scenes of black protesters at lunch counters being molested and tortured are soul-crushing, and this is not ancient history. This story would have made an amazing television series on HBO, with room to truly explore what it means to work in a marble building that represents the highest office in all the world, but have absolutely no power of one’s own, unable to even safe your own child from death or a policeman’s billy club. Mr. Allen’s life seems to have played more quieter than the story here. I want to see that life. Not a stand-in quietly serving Hans Gruber supper. B-

Saturday, September 17, 2011

The Help (2011)

“The Help” is impossible to hate or dismiss. If you have a sense of justice. But make no mistake about it, this is a Disneyfied dramatization of the long civil rights struggle by African Americans, and yet – a Hollywood tradition in “Glory” and “Mississippi Burning” and dozens upon dozens of other films – it chooses to focus on wealthy white characters. The people who should be our total and absolute focus are secondary.

Worse, for every heartbreaking scene of racism, evil decorated in twisted Southern American Christian pride, the filmmakers serve up a comedic aside or comeuppance to let us know, we will leave the theater feeling good. No, “Help” is not great. But by the sheer strength of Viola Davis’ acting and the scary notion that an entire block of American voters consider this era to be America’s finest, it must be seen. Flaws and all.

Let us get my major grind out of the way. “Help” is geared toward the widest American audience possible, so it will not cut bone. It will not show the true Jim Crow South, made horrifically real and alive in the book “Carry Me Home.” (Read that book. Do it. Now.) It will not dare go the route of Spike Lee’s “Malcolm X,” with a rightfully angry black man -- that is a fine, true Civil Rights film -- ready to tear down the institution that has torn him down his entire life. It mostly avoids blood and death, and follows a liberal, white, pretty girl, because that’s what Hollywood thinks we want. Looking at box office receipts, they nailed an “Easy A,” to bring up Emma Stone. (“Easy A” is Stone’s biggest hit film.)

Stone plays the hero: Eugenia, a … wait for it … newspaper reporter (liberal!) who starts out writing a housecleaning advice column but soon dives incognito into telling the stories of black maids/ nannies – The Help -- hired by wealthy families. Including her own. In a Hollywood story, a young black woman or man could never dream up this idea. No. Help, so to speak, has to come from outside. Just like the heroic FBI (!!!) had to help in a certain Gene Hackman film I mentioned above. (Talk about a crock of history.) And, I know, it’s all based on a book. A best-seller. Whoopdeefriggin’ do, my point still stands.

But I digress. Stone’s newly minted University of Mississippi grad Eugenia returns home to the town of Jackson as an aspiring writer, her eyes now open to the horror that she was raised in and never thought of for a second. Eugenia’s first choice for the book is Aibileen Clark (Viola Davis), the caretaker of her best pal’s daughter. Aibileen is, of course, scared of revenge from her white employers and local Klan, the latter of whom never actually appears. That would scare test screening audiences after all.

Eugenia asks upfront dumb questions: Do you regret raising the babies of others, whilst missing out on the lives of your own children? And do you have dreams other than being a maid? Well, no, shit, girl. Really? But here’s the beauty of this film: Davis rips the film from Stone with a fierce, devastating performance. She makes that awkward scene work. When Aibileen talks of her life, her body language vibrates with heartbreak, sadness, regret and, yes, anger, directed at herself and the world that belittles her based on skin color. (I can’t image being so treated, I’d rage forever. I would burn buildings down, no lie? Would you not?)

We also follow another white family, headed by a Stepford Wife-type monster, played by Bryce Dallas Howard. She is the villain, a young lady who speaks of Christian charity and yet proclaims Separate but Equal must always stand. The character veers close to caricature, but Howard – pouring out judgmental evil from her eyes – makes it work. Hilly, that’s her Southern Belle name, takes great pleasure in ridiculing her own maid, Minny (Octavia Spencer). And Hillies still exist today, no lie, and I have met them.

It is Minny who serves a dish of revenge, the comedic comeuppance, and brings about the film’s most controversial moment. It’s funny. I admit I laughed. I did. I also wondered if any such thing could have ever truly happened, in a state where murder upon African-Americans for the lightest infraction was the norm. The whole gag seems a modern, not historical, touch. I suppose from the book. I skipped reading it. Thankfully, the final scenes have Aibileen taking on her oppressors. No Eugenia about. It ends seriously, with quite a heart-breaker, and with an uplift.

So, see the film. Watch it for the scene toward the end where Eugenia walks into Aibileen’s home and sees a roomful of African American women. It is the first time I have ever seen a summer Hollywood flick that featured a roomful of African American woman, and that in itself says the struggles depicted here are not ancient history. They still exist. And be warned, when we have presidential candidates saying our Founding Fathers worked to end slavery and congressmen who shrug off the Civil Rights Act as passé federal oversight, and make a half-hearted apology that they were taken out of context. Jim Crow, institutionalized racism with state’s rights ... it could happen again. (That “Take our country back” mantra is a threat, do not doubt it. We have a black man in the Oval Office.)

But also know this: When you are watching and laughing along at the funny bits (and I am guilty) in a movie about this era, remember not many people were laughing during the real 1963. Not in the South. The emotions, I gather from stories told to me and read by that occurred before my birth, were far more grim. On both sides of the divide. Give me “Malcolm X.” It is far closer to the ugly truth. This could play on TV, Sunday night movie, uncensored, and not raise a pulse. B-

Friday, August 14, 2009

Glory (1989)

"Glory" was a longtime favorite film, top five. It's dropped down the list quite a bit since I saw it in a theater in 1989, being absolutely blown away by the film's story of the first black Union regiment in the Civil War. And I still am blown away, in absolute awe of the relentless depictions of battle, and the camp scenes, and the drama of an America going through self-inflicted, suicidal hell (and we think we have it rough now, oh, what bad memories we have) to regain part of its soul. Or maybe get a new one, depending on how you see history. Maybe the latter, more, to me.

Matthew Broderick put away his Ferris to play Robert Shaw, the young colonel tasked with leading the 54th Mass. Among his charges are Morgan Freeman as a grave digger turned spiritual guru, Andre Braugher as free man and childhood friend of Shaw's, and -- in a breakout role -- Denzel Washington as an escaped slave righteously and rightfully angry at the world.

The battle scenes are gritty, dirty and seem realistic (having participated in Civil War re-enactments myself) and the story, again, is amazing. Director Edward Zwick ("Legends of the Fall") lays on the pomp and the heroism thick, but this still is a great, great film. The cinematography by Freddie Francis still amazes 20 years later. Some hate Broderick in the lead, but I think he's perfect. Broderick is a light dramatic actor (excellent comedian), and he plays a man out of his league here who must rise to the occasion and the sheer aura of those around him. At film's end, Broderick does that. A

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Lakeview Terrace (2008)

Directed by Neil LaBute, "Lakeview Terrace" gives a twist to the Neighbor From Hell Thriller plot: The couple is interracial (Patrick Wilson and Kerry Washington) and the brooding psychopath next door is a racist black (Samuel L. Jackson) ... who happens to be an L.A. cop. The film is at its best in showing verbal tit-for-tats, especially between Wilson and Jackson, and then the couple themselves as cracks form in the marriage. The film stumbles as Jackson's hell-bent cop slogs through several on-the-job cliches (the crying thug is laughably bad), and all-out stumbles as a massive forest fire destroys the neighborhood during the gun-popping climax. Not remotely subtle. C+

Milk (2008)

Sean Penn is life-changing in "Milk," the Oscar-winning biopic of gay civil rights leader Harvey Milk of San Francisco, slain on November 27, 1978 (the day my brother was born). Penn's entire body language, movement, even his smile and very eyes, disappear into the role of Milk, a NYC transplant who comes West in 1972 to open a small business.

Fed up with police abuse and constant bigotry from the political right, he soon becomes a community leader and then seeks city office. He gets the nod after multiple failed attempts and soon becomes the face of homosexuality in America. Is it any surprise he was murdered?

The cast of this mostly flashback-style biopic is amazing, from Emile Hirsch ("Into the Wild") as a young gangly hustler to Josh Brolin ("No Country for Old Men") as the angry conservative and fellow city supervisor who kills Milk and S.F. Mayor George Moscone (Victor Garber).

Dustin Lance Black's screenplay is a detailed wonder that balances dozens of characters and a good deal of history. But it's not a perfect beast. He and director Gus Van Sant ("Good Will Hunting") add in a double phone call between Milk and a suicidal gay teen - in a wheelchair! - that plays as way too sentimental and coy. Of course Milk inspired gay youths across the country to feel good about themselves, we don't need neon pointers.

Worse, the duo paints hell-bent White as a closeted gay man finally uncorked and brimming with rage. It's a weak, dumb and seriously cliched liberal argument. Here's the deal: self-righteous Bible-thumpers kill or harass gays for one reason, because they can. It makes them feel better about themselves and their God. There's nothing deeper or more secret than that cold evil fact. Heck, Brolin doesn't seem to cop to this card either. His slowly unraveling performance is brilliant.

That said, this is an uplifting film that uses real-life archival footage to great effect. (That really is Diane Feinstein announcing Milk and Moscone's deaths, and that really is Anita Bryant as one of God's bigots, err, believers.) But this is Penn's film, more so than "Mystic River." His Milk is geeky, shy, painfully trusting, jumpy in his own skin and prone to failed romances with immature or unstable men. He's much like any man, but he chases men. Not women. Who knew Penn had that in him.

Milk is not played as a hero or a saint, but a man who saw no one to lead his people and so became that leader. Penn deserves every accolade out there. A-