SUENOS BONITOS: a review of "In The Heights"

"IN THE HEIGHTS"
Based upon the stage musical "In The Heights"
Book by Quiara Alegria Hudes   
Music and Lyrics by Lin-Manuel Miranda
Screenplay Written by Quiara Alegria Hudes
Directed by Jon M. Chu
**** (four stars)
RATED PG 13

Wondrous!!! 

What a time we live in, here in the 21st century, currently a period fraught with considerable tension, malice, inconsiderateness, insensitivity, selfishness, avarice, and purposeful cruelty, exacerbating the turbulence of our social/economic/political landscape and or collective national health and survival. It is a horrific time, one that has compartmentalized us from each other, whether physically, ideologically and spiritually. Honestly, now that we live in a world where empirical facts are questioned, nuance is non-existent as perceptions and beliefs have become so unforgivably binary. 

And then, there is the matter of race.

Never in my lifetime have I been a witness to acts of racism presented in such a severely overt manner.. It is the blatant inhumanity that is most hurtful. The cruelly willful inability to even try to honestly see the shared humanity between an individual, ethnic group or community that is different than the dominant White culture only further works to compartmentalize, reducing full human beings to fear based fantasy, disabling any ability to see each other properly and completely.   

It is such an exceedingly dark, grim period and just in time, here arrives a blinding ball of sunshine in the form of Jon M. Chu's "In The Heights," his deliriously joyous, visually luxurious, deeply felt adaptation of the Tony Award winning musical drama by Quiara Alegria Hudes and Lin-Manuel Miranda. While I am one that typically rejects any and everything that smacks of a certain forced merriment, "In The Heights," for all of its splendor, is cemented with a truthful gravitas and palpable respect and affection for the lives, experiences and souls of the people it is clearly celebrating. 

As with the stage musical, Jon M. Chu's "In The Heights," is centered around the collective of characters who reside in the predominantly Dominican neighborhood of Washington Heights of Upper Manhattan in New York City. The magnetic Anthony Ramos stars as Usnavi de la Vega, our film's narrator as well as the nearly 30 year old owner of the neighborhood bodega who dreams of returning to his native Dominican Republic in order to resurrect his late Father's business. 

Through Usnavi, we meet his teenage cousin Sonny de la Vega (Gregory Diaz IV), who works at the bodega and is undocumented; "Abuela" Claudia (Olga Merediz), the elderly neighborhood matriarch who raised Usnavi after the passing of his parents; Kevin Rosario (Jimmy Smits), owner of the local taxi company plus his daughter, troubled and homesick Stanford University student Nina (Leslie Grace); Usnavi's best friend Benny (Corey Hawkins), who is also Kevin's employee and Nina's neighborhood boyfriend; Daniela (Daphne Rubin-Vega), who owns the neighborhood saloon and her employees Carla (Stephanie Beatriz), Cuca (Dascha Polanco) and aspiring fashion designer Vanessa Morales (Melissa Barrera), upon whom Usnavi harbors a long standing unrequited crush; and finally, The Piraguero (Lin-Manuel Miranda), whose piragua business is threatened by the arrival of a Mister Softee truck.

As Usnavi weaves his story, we are all given a front row seat into the hopes and dreams of a community and its people, especially when faced with life challenges (a lengthy blackout in a sweltering summer) and greater tribulations (gentrification, financial struggles, feelings of displacement) and as told via a bounty of vigorously high spirited songs and musical sequences.

With regards to the movie musical, Jon M. Chu's "In The Heights" is a flat out winner from end to end. It is a dynamically energetic and beautifully first rate production propelled by Lin-Manuel Miranda's outstanding songs, the absolutely dazzling choreography by Christopher Scott, the luscious Cinematography by Alice Brooks and unquestionably the inventive, supremely warm, succulent direction by Chu, who guided his extraordinary cast to glory to a wealth of riches in performances, singing and dancing. 

Despite the varying genres of the actual songs, which range freely from selections heavily fused through salsa, hip-hop, and freestyle rap, for instance, "In The Heights" exists as much as a classic Hollywood musical as Gene Kelly and Stanley Donan's "Singin' In The Rain" (1952). The film positively soars with its stupendous opening salvo "In The Heights," the downright electrifying "The  Club" which itself is immediately followed by technicolored skyrockets of "Blackout," and, without question, a spectacular Busby Berkeley styled sequence set at a public swimming pool ("$96,000"). 

Elegant visual effects richly enhance the proceedings within "It Won't Be Long Now," as Vanessa dreams of a life as a fashion designer as the sky above her unfurls in lush fabrics and most vibrantly in a literally gravity defying ballet between Benny and Nina in "When The Sun Goes Down."  

But, where Chu's film and Lin-Manuel Miranda's songs speak their most impressive volumes are selections that speak directly from the inner lives of the characters with all of their wishes, frustrations, regrets, fears, failures and triumphs--precisely the very best songs that make our most beloved musicals so memorable and cherished, as we are seeing souls become music.   

With "No Me Diga" and the aforementioned, "It Won't Be Long Now," respectively, I loved witnessing the inner turmoil and parallel stories of both Nina and Vanessa, two young women with equally conflicting viewpoints of leaving their beloved neighborhood, venturing outwards from that security and questioning whether they are meant for a world outside of their own. The film's emotional peaks arrive as the characters fall into sorrow, beginning with "Abuela" Claudia's elegiac musical soliloquy "Paciencia y Fe," and continuing through the choral "Alabanza" and then further through revitalization via the soaring "Carnval del Barrio." 

What was so impressive to me was how Chu handled the extremely delicate balancing act of ensuring the pathos of the film and its characters remained so firmly intact while being filtered through the artifice of a musical with characters literally breaking into song. And again, the entire cast, so beautifully anchored by the sensational Anthony Ramos, absolutely all radiated from the screen, so obviously enraptured with the opportunity to tell the stories of their own culture and to do so with sheer joy.   

It feels more than fitting that I have seen this film immediately after seeing Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson's "Summer Of Soul (...or, When The Revolution Could Not Be Televised)" as both films are impassioned, celebratory odes to the culture, community, communion of a people. And in its depiction of a neighborhood deep in the sweltering heat of summer, Chu's film also greatly recalled, of all things, Spike Lee's "Do The Right Thing" (1989), which despite the brutal tragedy of its final sections, is an otherwise resplendent film overflowing with the natural joys and rhythms of life itself. 

Yet, most of all, as "In The Heights" showcases a variety of people who emerge from the various communities and cultures which constitute Mexican, Puerto Rican, those from Dominican Republic, Afro-Cuban, and Afro-Latino/Latinx, all residing together within this one neighborhood, we are indeed receiving a story of the immigrant experience. To that end, we are all also witnessing how through the interconnectivity of cultures and generations, variations of the same immigrant experience has continued to play out over and again, most notably, through the conflict of balancing assimilation into the new culture while retaining the culture from which one has originated, which even then leads us to the greater issues of how different cultures thrive and survive within a greater national community that so often vilifies them.  

Beautifully, "In The Heights" is decidedly not a film about cultural pain even though there are painful moments of doubt, failure, and tragedy. Chu has delivered an exceedingly humane film that boldly unveils a sheer resistance to the darkness of the world via the vitality and resilience of a community refusing to shadow its own collective light regardless of how determined the obstacles of life seem to wish to extinguish that light. And in that manner of representation and delivery, the messages of "In The Heights" are propulsive and paramount in its collective power, which so often can nearly raise you completely out of your seats through the dazzling grace of its energy and spirit.      

Jon M. Chu's "In The Heights," is a feast for the eyes, ears, heart and soul fueled with performances filtered through sheer elation, sparkling choreography, singing and some truly elegant visual effect yet is grounded in an intergenerational story of a people and community, richly represented and presented with bountiful truth and humanity. It is a film wise enough to know that not every story needs to be littered with tragedy and tears while deftly ensuring the inherent human drama remains intact. 

Sometimes, our stories necessitate being shared through the medium of uplift for it is so easy to fall into despair and holes so deep and ark that we are unable to see ourselves as we truly are, especially those of us in communities that are marginalized, discriminated against, abused and targeted. Stories of uplift or stories presented through uplift are designed to inspire. Not by any cliched sense of manufactured movie manipulation but through the act of being seen, being heard, being felt just as we are, therefore allowing us to see ourselves and inspire ourselves and hopefully, others outside of our respective communities will be able to see us as we are too.   

As the variety of characters within "In The Heights," all armed with their respective struggles, obstacles and challenges are ultimately echoes of each other, we are asked to find those same echoes within ourselves as we all navigate life in this ever expanding and evolving nation of immigrants. 

That is precisely what makes Jon M. Chu's "In The Heights" such a marvelous experience to behold as it is truth and resistance to darkness by way of song, dance, and the rich tapestry that exists within the familial bonds of a community. And it is also one of 2021's brightest and best films.

ARE YOU READY????: a review of "Summer Of Soul (...or, When The Revolution Could Not Be Televised)"

 

"SUMMER OF SOUL (...OR, WHEN THE REVOLUTION COULD NOT BE TELEVISED)"
Directed by Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson
**** (four stars)
RATED PG 13

I was born in 1969. 

For reasons that still remain ever so mysterious to me, I have always held this deep, to practically primal, relationship with my fascination with the 1960's. How enraptured I have always been, especially as a child, with newsreel stories that illustrated that decade's midpoint to the dawn of the 1970's, as American society was facing its cultural sea change due to the turbulence of the generation gap, the counter culture, the sexual revolution, the Vietnam war and unquestionably the Civil Rights movement. The aesthetics of the period, from fashion to hairstyles and of course, the continuously revolutionary and psychedelicized music, only helped to serve and shape a world view, the core of which, an admittedly more utopian ideal, still resides inside of me. 

I could see the chaos of the time only through snapshots of images and sounds, always wanting to gather a greater sense of what that time was really like. Yet, whenever I asked my parents to illuminate and flesh out my perceptions, the answers I was given were decidedly muted to completely unexciting, almost as if holes were being punctured into the balloon of illusion. While everything I had seen and read about contained truth, there was an even greater truth that my parents displayed to me: the sights I would see in archived news footage did not fully describe or represent what was happening or even not happening everywhere. I was repeatedly seeing one representation of a historical period, decidedly and truthfully, a representation delivered through the lens of Whiteness. And in doing so, how many other lenses, ones that would fully present the larger mosaic of society, were being unseen, therefore depleting a greater understanding of ourselves and the time period during which we co-existed?

Recently, I reviewed Director Sam Pollard's terrific documentary "Black Art: In The Absence Of Light," a work that lushly presented a largely unseen (or more truthfully, unacknowledged) collective of Black artists, historians, educators, curators, collectors, writers and journalists within the more European based canon of the art world. It is a film that beautifully exists to not only expand the nature of our perceptions of the medium of art, it more importantly and gorgeously extended itself to expand upon the Black consciousness of who we are and what we can be. For again, if we are not able to see ourselves, then we are denied the opportunities to be inspired by ourselves to become whatever we are able to ascend towards.

Ahmir Thompson, famously known as Questlove, drummer/songwriter/producer/bandleader of The Roots, as well as revered DJ, musicologist, author and Professor at the Clive Davis Institute of Recorded Music at New York University, has now expanded his copious gifts even further by becoming a film director and believe me, his debut is a grand slam!! "Summer Of Soul (or, When The Revolution Couldn't Be Televised)" is an electrifying, evocative and supremely emotional document of a cultural event that otherwise would have been lost to time. 

Much like the late Sydney Pollack and Producer Alan Eliot's extraordinary retrieval and full restoration of "Amazing Grace" (2019), the document of the late Aretha Franklin's live performance recording of her iconic "Amazing Grace" double album (released June 1, 1972), material that was shelved and unseen for 47 years, what Questlove has achieved is akin to a movie miracle. In addition to rescuing a mass of unseen and superlative performance footage from some of the peak Black musical artists of soul, blues, pop and gospel of its day, the film, like the very best documentaries, transcends the immediate subject matter to unveil an impassioned statement of the evolution of Black consciousness 52 years ago and how it mirrors that continued evolution within the 21st century. And furthermore, the film serves as a dissertation about the nature of our perception of our collective history.

Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson's "Summer Of Soul" details the experience of the Harlem Cultural Festival, an event held over six weekends in Harlem's Mt. Morris Park at which over 300,000 people attended. And, stunningly...the event was FREE to the public! 

The festival, as produced and directed by nightclub singer Tony Lawrence, with aid from the then Republican New York Mayor John Lindsey, was designed as a testament and tribute to Black pride and culture, and arrived as the Civil Rights movement, grim sequence of political assassinations of President John F. Kennedy (1963), Malcolm X (1965), Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy (both 1968), the rise of President Nixon and the overall social/political/economic landscape of the nation, and Black America in particular, was reaching a combustible apex. 

Despite attracting performers on the level of B.B. King, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Abbey Lincoln and Max Roach, Hugh Masakela, Sly and the Family Stone and so many more, plus attaining corporate sponsorship from Maxwell House and General Foods and even then, having the entirety of the event completely filmed, the contents of the festival have been unbelievably unseen ever since...until now.

Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson's "Summer Of Soul" is a stunning, sun soaked film of community and communion, firmly settling itself next to the likes of Mel Stuart's "Wattstax" (1973), Michel Gondry's "Dave Chappelle's Block Party" (2005) and the aforementioned "Amazing Grace." Featuring new interviews with some of the festival's performers as well as some of the patrons who attended the series when they were in their late teens, Questlove has delivered an unabashed labor of love, a fervent poem to the community of Harlem, a valentine to a specific time and place in Black culture and history, and an outstanding musical artifact of a time and period during which Black artists existed to enrich and enliven as well as entertain. 

Leave it to a drummer on the level of Questlove to essentially open his film with a drum solo, one performed by none other than a then 19 year old Stevie Wonder no less!! Yet, instead of being anything approaching self indulgence, the sequence is a fireworks display of a performance, preparing us for the dynamic presentation to follow, while also brilliantly accenting the cultural undercurrent and purpose of the festival itself, in the past as well as the present. 

From purely the standpoint of a music documentary, "Summer Of Soul" is first rate from end to end. From the stoned soul picnic vibes of The Chambers Brothers' "Uptown," David Ruffin's "My Girl," and Gladys Knight and the Pips' "I Heard It Through The Grapevine" to the soaring songs of Black togetherness as witnessed in The Edwin Hawkins Singers' "Oh Happy Day," to the sweat and fire of B.B. King's "Why I Sing The Blues," every single musical sequence is a showstopper. 

Instead of serving itself up simply as a parade of stars, which would have easily been more than good enough considering the high quality of the performances themselves, I deeply appreciated how Questlove and his interview subjects made great strides to provide a larger context to the music being seen and heard. Within this festival, and therefore this film, music is not a passive event. It is designed for you to engage with it, to attain a complete experience as the music is a form of communication, conversation and connective tissue from performer to audience, from one racial group to another, from us to ourselves and from ourselves to our ancestors and back again. To that end, we are then able to see the interconnectivity between the music styles and genres themselves, all of which are elements of the Black history which birthed all of them.

With the performances of Mongo Santamaria, Ray Barretto, Herbie Mann, and Hugh Masakela, the film showcases the linkage between the music and communities of Black, Latino, African, Puerto Rican, and Afro-Cuban, all of whom resided within Harlem. We can hear the blues of Pops Staples' guitar in The Staple Singers' gospel, as well as influences of gospel in the righteous funk of Sly and the Family Stone's "Higher." And in one of the film's most musically explosive sequences, we bear witness to a sky scorching duet between the inimitable Mavis Staples and Mahalia Jackson (!), and really, what was more rock and roll than that?!

Beyond the actual music, the festival, and now the film, affords us the opportunity to bask in the presentation of ourselves in ways that challenge and expand our own horizons into what and how we, as Black people, are able to envision ourselves. As previously stated, 1969 was truly a psychedelicized time as a more conservative (i.e. White American) appearances and attire gave way to the cultural changes towards presenting ourselves through more African themed clothing as well as our unapologetically natural hairstyles. 

The decidedly psychedelic outfits of The 5th Dimension, in addition to their hybrid sound of soul, pop and folk, was a quietly revolutionary act in and of itself when it came to the perceptions of what beautiful Black people could look and sound like. Sly and the Family Stone, in particular, was the most radical group in attendance in mere appearance alone, from the band's wardrobe to the sight of a mixed race/mixed gender band of musical equals (therefore pre-dating what we would see from Prince more than a decade later).

Yet, most of all, it was remarkable to see over and again throughout the film, from performers to audience members, the sense of awe felt when witnessing a veritable sea of Black people shoulder to shoulder in harmony and without incident, unveiling a deep celebration of self while also and in essence fully challenging the perceived inherent sense of wrongdoing and evil of Blackness. 

How clever it was of Questlove to have as one of the very first images in the film, an announcement over the PA system of an audience member's lost wallet, which was found and could be reclaimed. Questlove also presented how we, as Black people, were so effectively able to self govern as the Black Panthers provided security for the entirety of the event (as the New York City police department initially refused to perform the job but eventually assisted) without conflict. Seeing every moment succeed was indeed the powerful message necessary to be received during a time when we left the concept of the "Negro" behind and claimed "BLACK" as our cultural identifier, one that was committed to cultivating the Black excellence that resides within ourselves and delivered from ourselves to ourselves in an incendiary musical sermon by Nina Simone and her shattering recitation of the poem "Are You Ready?"

Questlove's "Summer Of Soul" so richly provided a sprawling canvas on which we, as Black people, are represented so lovingly and fully, that we, again, are afforded the opportunity to see ourselves in ways we typically do not within media sources. Seeing each other in such a powerfully inspiring and beautiful light allows us to help us to SEE us and I can only imagine what a film like this would have been like if it were viewed by the masses in 1969.

Which leads us to the mystery and miracle of what Questlove has achieved with "Summer Of Soul," for why was a document such as this now seen for over 50 years? As the film informs us, back in 1969, there was no interest to be gathered from sources who could then attain and distribute the visual contents of this festival and broadcast them nationwide for what was deemed to be solely "a Black show." Even when attempts to capitalize upon juggernaut that was Woodstock, by referring to the Harlem Cultural Festival as "the Black Woodstock," no interest was gathered whatsoever. And so, the footage sat, leaving the art, the music, the people and the time, lost to memory and time...as if it had never happened at all. 

At the outset of this review, I essentially asked the question regarding the nature of what history is. In my mind, history is the collective experience of all those who have lived through the experience and not solely the document of the one or the few who have the access to record, document and then present that particular account because in doing so, we are treated to only a certain perspective rather than the mosaic of life and lives lived. Yes, there are facts. But, just the facts do not represent the fullness of truth. Again, my fascination withthelate1960's is founded and cemented in the images and sounds that have been presented over time and decidedly through that aforementioned lens of Whiteness. 

With regards to Questlove's "Summer Of Soul" (and to a certain extent, Mel Stuart's "Wattstax" as it is a film which is rarely seen or mentioned these days) Michael Wadleigh's "Woodstock" and that festival itself is the proverbial elephant in the room regarding this period of time in American history. Now do not get me wrong, I LOVE "Woodstock"!!!! I vividly remember when I first saw it and how much of it blew my head apart and even served to jet fuel my '60's fascination, to the point where Jimi Hendrix's rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" is the definitive version in my soul. 

And that, is where I take issue now...  

Woodstock, the three day festival, which also occurred in 1969 (and less than100 miles away from Harlem at that in Bethel, New York) and the subsequent Michael Wadleigh documentary film released in 1970 alongside the soundtrack album (released May 11, 1970), is the definitive statement, the benchmark concert film, the watershed statement of the counter culture in America and because of its cemented in stone status, it is the ONLY statement. 

But why???? 

And who are the powers that be that have anointed it to that pedestal? Maybe it would've ascended to those heights naturally but why not have that festival plus others held, and therefore filmed, during that exact same time co-exist to represent a larger palate of the period? Why does there have to be only one and one that, again exists through the lens of Whiteness? 

Yes, certainly the presence of Richie Havens and Santana injected and suggested that wider lens through which to view that period--and truthfully, the level of Blackness contained in Hendrix's fireworks are as unquestionable as they are untouchable--but Woodstock is filtered through a White perspective, one that people of color could be invited into but it is a White perspective nonetheless.  

Beyond the performances, beyond the politics, beyond the presentation of Black culture and pride in 1969, the movie miracle of what Questlove's "Summer Of Soul" has achieved is found in downright startling moments and sequences when we view performers and audience members in present day watching the footage of what was thought to be forever lost, except within their own memories, which by this point may be hazy enough to almost feel as if it were a dream.  

Just take a moment to ponder. So many of the performers themselves have passed on without having seen this footage and the audience members who were 19 years old at the time of the festival are now 71, making 52 years of holding onto memories that are unvalidated due to the actual material confirming those memories being hidden. What if they could have been re-watched and therefore, re-introduced for all of this time? But it wasn't and this serious omission results in an erasure of history, a history that would have served a greater purpose than just harboring a collection of songs. 

At one point, an audience member now aged 71, tearfully regards the footage and exclaims, "I'm not crazy!" Precisely!!!! Because what he knew to be true but could not reach or touch or prove due to the shortsightedness, accidental or intentional, of others, has denied a culture the right and opportunity to regard itself in order to see itself, learn from itself and rejoice in itself. 

Yet, now in 2021,we can.

Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson's 'Summer Of Soul (...or When The Revolution Could Not Be Televised)" is a film of reclamation as well as one to be rejoiced, for we now all can see how beautiful it was and how beautiful it is! 

And it is also one of the very best films of 2021.

SAVAGE CINEMA'S COMING ATTRACTIONS FOR JULY 2021

Will this be the month I try to make my grand return to the movies?

I still do not know for certain as my anxiety due to Covid has not waned in the least and my trepidation for taking that dive into the deep end of a re-opening world while the pandemic still exists does not set well with me but then...I cannot stay away forever. I cannot allow fear to guide my life, especially wile being vaccinated and still taking my own precautions via wearing a mask. 

Yet...we will see. Regardless, Savage Cinema continues and although last month was interrupted again by life responsibilities, I am happy to announce that a full, brand new review of a just released film is written and ready to be shared with you and I am going to try and sneak in one more film to keep those creative juices flowing. 

And so...I wont make any promises for the month and I also do not wish to waste your more than valuable time. Just please continue to be safe so we can all feel confident to return to what we all love so dearly.   

SAVAGE CINEMA'S COMING ATTRACTIONS FOR JUNE 2021

 

So...we're back?

Between the beginning of last month and this point at which I am writing to you, our life during COVID-19 has changed significantly due to infection rates going downwards, the public becoming vaccinated against the virus and life seeming to open itself up in full again with the lifting of government mask mandates. 

As for me, in my city, I am already seeing less and less mask wearing (especially at the grocery stores), and I have also been keeping tabs on how individual private businesses would be handling the lifting of mask mandates within their spaces (some businesses are requiring staff to continue wearing masks while optional for the public, while others are still requiring masks to be worn, possibly due to the size of the stores in question). For myself, I am still continuing to wear my masks, mostly due to my teaching profession and how the children are obviously not able to be vaccinated as of yet, and partially due to my own trepidation which falls into equal parts psychological and personal due to the cynical realities of human behavior.   

As for returning to the movie theaters, that is a tricky one for me to navigate because it is difficult to jump back onto the horse and not having been on one for so terribly long, and even as much as I have missed it. Truth be told, I ventured inside my first coffeehouse since possibly February 2020 nearly two weeks ago and I also had my first fast food since possibly the very end of 2019 (!), just this previous weekend. So, racing into a movie theater feels very much like jumping into the deep end without knowing how to swim. 

That being said, I know that I will have to try and especially if the pandemic numbers continue to shift downwards. My loose mental plan is to maybe return in late July to see the latest Marvel movie "Black Widow," but until then, I will continue to try and screen films here at home, something I hope I will have more time for as the main school year is about to wind down. 

At this time, I have one review that I would like to try and write for a film I viewed a few months back and from there, we'll see. Returning to a certain fullness of writing power, such as it is, is a process and I am hoping that if you have stuck with me for this long, you will be happy to hang with me a bit longer.  

To be continued...

BLACK ART MATTERS: a review of "Black Art: In The Absence Of Light"

"BLACK ART: IN THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT"
Produced and Directed by Sam Pollard
**** (four stars)

I have an experiment that I am asking you to undertake. 

I am asking you to think about any times during your lives in which you may have visited an art museum. Simply casual visits. Not for research or anything. A regular outing. Now...when going to an art museum, how many works do you remember seeing that were created by Black artists and then, please think to when was the very first time you ever saw work created by a Black artist? Nothing that you necessarily had to seek for. But, what was just...present.

Additionally, there is this: One can easily go through life never having set foot within an art museum and still be aware of the existence of Monet. Or Leonardo da Vinci. Picasso. Vincent van Gogh. Yet, are you able to remember when you became aware of a Black artist of some prominence? Not in a class or through a lesson. But through the osmosis of just living life in America, an America dominated by Whiteness.

This particular experiment is one I utilized upon myself as I began watching Sam Pollard's brilliant, beautiful documentary "Black Art: In The Absence Of Light," and truthfully, I honestly could not devise an answer. But what I did discover through viewing was a greater window not only into the art world, and a selection of the Black artists, historians, dealers and collectors who populate that world. Pollard's film delivered unto me a greater view of Blackness itself, making his work function just as highly as many of my favorite documentaries: a film that transcends its subject matter and extends itself into themes grander and more encompassing to the human experience overall. 

Utilizing the landmark 1976 exhibition Two Centuries of Black American Art, as curated by the late artist/scholar David Driskell as a leaping off point as well as a bookend, Sam Pollard's "Black Art: In The Absence Of Light" approaches to primarily accomplish what Driskell achieved 45 years ago: to honor the work and legacies of Black artists and therefore, educate the public at large to the existence of these Black artists and their legacies in order to widen the perception, conversation and appreciation of the art world in its entirety.

Including interviews with David Driskell, both archived and conducted especially for this film before his passing on April 1, 2020 due to complications from COVID-19, Pollard's film introduces us to Black artists from before, during, afterwards, and including those who were ultimately inspired by Driskell's watershed exhibit. 

While every figure Pollard presents expands the mosaic of the art world as a whole, delving into each artist's signature style and process also expanded the nature and purpose of each artist's creative process as well.

We meet Radcliffe Bailey (painter, sculptor, mixed media artist), who utilized 500 discarded piano keys and constructed a sculpture representing the Middle Passage. We are also introduced to both Kehinde Wiley (portrait painter) and Amy Sherald (painter), each of whom were graced with the privilege and responsibility of creating portraits of President Barack Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama.  

The room sized Black silhouette paper artwork of Kara Walker (painter, print maker, filmmaker, installation artist, Professor) showcases an artistic honesty about the Black experience through a grim surrealism that is perceived as being confrontational and polarizing even among Black audiences, some of whom characterize Walker's work as being exploitative while others champion the rightfulness of its often disturbing nature.      

And then, we also are presented with the purposefully representational art of Kerry James Marshall (painter/Professor) whose own work was conceived through his being inspired by the representational work of Charles White (painter, visual artist), as well as being a reaction to the reality that when visiting art museums, it is rare to see Black people in pictures let alone seeing images of Black artists creating art. Furthermore, Marshall's process fully challenges and therefore, upends the nature of what colors actually are. As he states pointedly, "Black is not the absence of color. Black is particular kinds of color." Meaning that with the three bases of Black (Ivory, Carbon and Mars) that one could purchase at an art store, a full spectrum of colors could be created from the base of blackness. For me, a nearly lifelong perception of what Black is was shattered, altered and re-shaped into what Black can be.

With regards to the necessity of Black artists and Black art being firmly recognized as being essential pieces of the American canon--for as David Driskell expressed with finality, "The American canon is not complete without it."--Pollard's film wisely delves deeper into the nature of inclusion, from the museums that are reluctant to showcase Black artists to tensions within the very groups that are already marginalized. 

When the film turns its attention to Faith Ringgold (painter, writer, mixed media sculptor, performance artist), an unapologetic Feminist and activist, whose refusal, despite her immense artistic skill and creativity, from being admitted into The Spiral, a New York based collective of African-American artists during the 1960's, the questions raised are palpable. Who decides who gets to be invited into or excluded from the canon of significant Black art? Who gets to decide what is significant Black art and what isn't?  

From matters of inclusion, we reach the topic of diversity within Black art and the art world in full, from the need for Black curators, Black museums, Black art journalists and critics and even further, prominent Black art collectors, individuals, like Swizz Beatz for instance, who can assist to raise the profile of Black artists within society, which even more crucially, helps us to elevate each other. From elevation, we are then able to inspire, just as witnessed by the image of then 2 year old Parker Curry gazing in awe at the portrait of Michelle Obama. For through the art that arrives from Black artists, we, as Black people, have the opportunity to feel seen in spaces where we are typically not. And if we are able to see ourselves and each other here, then we can be inspired to be seen and recognized everywhere.

For a film that runs just a hair under 90 minutes, Sam Pollard's "Black Art: In The Absence Of Light" covers a tremendous amount of material with an energetic, fully involving grace that results in an engrossing experience. Pollard's warmly provocative style showcases every artist in succinct detail yet as rich and complex as the art they each create. In fact, so engaging all of the artists are as interview subjects, conversationalists as well as creative figures, Pollard could have easily helmed completely individualized documentary films for each person. 

Most urgently, yet gently so, Pollard's film delivered one revelation after another, from ones of the nature like the aforementioned fallacy of Black being the absence of color but revelations that for me, proved themselves to being more primal. Some of them were more "a ha" moments certainly. But, what I am speaking of are the deeply significant revelations, those that began with feelings of sadness, incredulity and even a taste of self-directed anger or disappointment, which then ultimately built themselves upwards towards a sense of validation and liberation. 

At this time, I wish to return to the experiment I asked of you to undertake at the outset of this posting. It was during a sequence filmed at the Art Institute of Chicago when I forced myself to seriously think back to the times when I ventured to art museums during my life. I think to the times as a child and teenager, when I went to the Art Institute, either with family or on school field trips. I think of the times as an adult, going to the same museum, or visiting Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art in the early 1990's as well as copious trips to the Chazen Museum of Art in Madison, WI, a location where I have taken children on several school aged field trips over the years. And it was here, a mere 12 minutes into the film as I watched and reminisced, it hit me how much that I had taken at face value and therefore, taken for granted that I really had not seen representations of myself within the art presented. 

I concede that maybe I did see some examples but do not remember. And yes, there is certainly Chicago's DuSable Museum. Yet as that location is not exclusively an art museum and is considerably more of a historical museum, I tend to keep each specific museum separate in my brain...which in and of itself, also may be indicative of the larger and more seriously problematic issue. I, as an African American living in a society purposefully designed for Whiteness, had been conditioned to not readily see examples of myself and in doing so, to not even question our absence. 

To think about it within this moment, the feeling is more than insidious as it stretches to every fabric of American society but keeping strictly to the medium of the arts, it was the same for television and the movies regarding for whom stories were told and centered around and who had been given access to make them. Even within literature, if not fully described by the author suggesting otherwise, when visualizing characters, my brain would default to imagining, seeing Whiteness. Unless given permission, representations of Blackness were not included and if invited, it was through a more marginalized capacity, always reminding me that I am part of a world for White people rather than being a Black person in a world for everyone.

By being marginalized at best and ignored at worst, I felt ashamed that I did not know of really any of the figures presented within "Black Art: In The Absence Of Light," when what we see within the film are a collective of world class talents and creators whose names should be as easily recognizable as their European counterparts. Of course, we know of Jean-Michel Basquiat or Gordon Parks but those are just two Black figures when the world is, at the very least, aware of White artists from a variety of eras and genres, and no one even has to be an art aficionado to have heard of Monet, Picasso, and/or a Da Vinci. To that end, I should have known about David Driskell, Faith Ringgold or Kerry James Marshall and more. 

When everything is said and done, I feel that if "Black Art: In The Absence Of Light" is asking anything at all of us as viewers, it is pushing us to question where do we expect to see Black people in the world? Or even more pointedly, as Black people, where do we expect to see ourselves in a world designed for Whiteness and even then, why do we have these expectations? Are we only meant to be seen in the field of athletics, on stage holding a microphone or as a headline or chalk outline? 

When it is predicated that we are only to be seen in specific places and space, if any at all, then that enforced fallacy becomes a certain reality...even when it defies logic. For instance, logically, I knew as a child that Black people existed all over the world but I vividly remember that when I saw my first British Black person on television, that was the moment I realized that we really did exist beyond America and Africa. I needed to see that image in order to help myself see us. As a life long rock music fan, I remember when I first saw the images of the members of the bands Fishbone and Living Colour, Black men making up Black bands creating the music that Black people are not supposed to play, despite the fact that Black people invented it. Regardless, I needed to see those images in order to help myself see us. 

Over and over again while watching Pollard's film, I saw the images I needed to see in order help myself see us, to help myself to see the world of Blackness that is not overtly seen, acknowledged and recognized in a world of Whiteness. Much like the film's subtitle and the artists the film celebrates, Blackness in its totality, complexity, variety and nuances feel to operate in the absence of light, and for now, Pollard's film is that light designed to present a reality that we are fooled into thinking does not exist.  

Thanks to Pollard's film which introduced me to a host of Black artists, and furthermore, Black historians and educators, Black curators and collectors, Black writers and journalists, now I know of their work and for that, I am exceedingly grateful to this film for expanding my consciousness, perception of myself and my own sense of what Blackness is and can be. Again, logically, I know that there are Black artists and that Black art exists. But when one does not actually see it, the brain is fooled into somehow thinking that it does not exist. This is why representation matters so powerfully for if we can see it, yes...we can be it! 

Sam Pollard's "Black Art: In The Absence Of Light" is a testament to the continued and ever evolving renaissance of the art world and canon as created by Black hands, hearts, minds and souls. It is a lushly executed experience that invites as it provokes, enriches as it engages you in mental debates with yourself and what you once felt to be valid, and deftly informs of how much truly exists even when the proverbial spotlight is completely turned away. 

I gently urge you to seek out this film upon your streaming platforms, bask in its superbly warm glow...and be illuminated!!

DEATH LOOP: a review of "Two Distant Strangers"

 

"TWO DISTANT STRANGERS"
Screenplay Written by Travon Free
Directed by Travon Free & Martin Desmond Roe
**** (four stars)

This film was traumatizing. 

In this past week, I, along with the remainder of the nation (and I would assume, considerable sections of the world outside of the United States) awaited the results of the Derek Chauvin trial, the Minneapolis police officer who placing his knee upon the neck of George Floyd for nine minutes and twenty six seconds, resulted in Floyd's murder via asphyxiation. The tragedy, all captured on a cellphone video courtesy of then 17 year old Darnella Frazier, the world all saw the exact same horrifying, inhumane footage, sparking a global level of moral outrage and solidarity within the entire Black Lives Matter movement that had been unlike anything witnessed prior. 

And even still, there were no guarantees of that proverbial moral arc of justice swaying in the proper direction, which is entirely due to the history and continuation of the systemic racism contained within policing towards Black people in the United States. We all saw the same thing but that did not mean justice would arrive. And in my mind, if we lived in a world where the likes of George Zimmerman could walk free after pursuing and murdering Trayvon Martin (a child, no less), and the officers who murdered a sleeping Breonna Taylor still had not even been arrested, then I did not harbor much hope in attaining justice for George Floyd. 

So...I essentially avoided the trial. Just seeing bits and pieces on the evening news. But, I tried to maintain some sense of ironic detachment, I guess because I honestly do not think I could handle a ruling that would potentially give police, plus armchair warrior racists, a full throated green light to hunt and kill Black people knowing consequences would not exist. 

All of these thoughts, plus so many more, weighed upon me heavily as I watched the short film "Two Distant Strangers" from Directors Travon Free and Martin Desmond Roe, a work that just won the Oscar for Best Live Action Short Film at the 93rd annual Academy Awards...and deservedly so as this is a ferociously inventive, emotionally devastating experience that merges a dark magical realism,  with intensely brutal realities to struck me at the core of my mounting fears and anxieties that are inexcusably connected to living as a Black man in America. And still, it is essential viewing.     

Travon Free and Martin Desmond Roe's "Two Distant Strangers" stars a most impressive Joey Bada$$ as Carter James, a graphic designer and comic book artist who awakens one beautifully sunlit day in the bed of Perri (Zaria Simone), the morning after their first date. After some flirtatious banter and the clear promise to re-connect, all Carter wishes and intends to do is to return home to his beloved dog dog, Jeter. 

After exiting Perri's building, Carter stops for a quick cigarette yet unexpectedly bumps in to a passerby, accidentally spilling coffee upon his shirt. The brief, slightly heated exchange between the miffed passerby and the apologetic Carter catches the attention of Officer Merk (a frightening Andrew Howard), who instantly and wrongly profiles Carter, questions the wad of cash inside of his backpack, the cigarette itself and then, proceeds to illegally search Carter's belongings. As if happening like whiplash, Carter's life descends into nightmare as he is attacked by Officer Merk, wrestled to the ground and choked to death on the sidewalk, while being entirely filmed by a local street merchant upon her cellphone and with his gasps of "I can't breathe!!!" desperately uttered from his lips. 

And then...Carter awakens in Perri's bed. Gradually convincing himself that what he had experienced had been nothing but a horrific dream, Carter becomes unsettled as he experiences several moments of deja vu as he prepares to return home to his dog. Yet shockingly, just as before, Carter is encountered by Officer Merk again leading to a confrontation that results in Carter's death. 

And once again, Carter reawakens in Perri's bed.

While it may seem that Travon Free and Martin Desmond Roe's "Two Distant Strangers," is essentially Harold Ramis' "Groundhog Day" (1993) merged with say, Ryan Coogler's "Fruitvale Station" (2013), the film is by no means an affair that approaches the frivolous or exploitative. In fact, as Free expressed himself in a recent interview on MSNBC's essential "American Voices" with journalist/host Alicia Menendez, the film allows viewers over the running time of 29 minutes, "to experience what it feels like to be Black for 24 hours."  

Dear readers, I urge all of you who do indeed choose to watch this film, to not take Travon Free's description as hyperbole or self-congratulatory hype. As I expressed at the outset of this posting, the film was decidedly, and rightfully, traumatic to endure. If the experience of watching this film for you proves itself to being equally upending, then the filmmakers have performed their job exceedingly well by creating a powerfully effective piece of cinema filled end to end with pitch perfect performances, sharp and multilayered storytelling, and a brisk yet fully complete sense of pacing fueled by the work of Editor Alex Odesmith and sumptuously visualized via crisp Cinematography by Jessica Young. 

Additionally, and most importantly, Free and Roe have found a disturbingly inventive way to add their undeniably impassioned voices to our continuing national conversation about the status of policing in America, state sanctioned violence that is predominantly leveraged against Black and Brown people continuously without consequence and the desperate pleas from people of color to anyone who will listen as we exclaim that our lives are of equal importance and inherent value of existence as our White counterparts. The sheer empathy contained within every moment of "Two Distant Strangers" is palpable to the point of being primal.    

With its hybrid of an almost science fiction level of fantasy and brutal realism, "Two Distant Strangers" ultimately serves as an allegory. The story of Carter James being repeatedly and relentlessly pursued and murdered by Officer Merk, where both figures exist in a vicious, violent time loop, or better yet, a death loop, is fully representative of the status in which Black Americans find ourselves within 21st century America. For every time Carter James finds himself murdered by Officer Merk, regardless of the situations in which both characters find themselves, I found myself thinking of the real world Black people who have murdered, either via the police or by the hands of racist vigilantes, as well as wondering to myself, "Will I be next?"

The beauty of Joey Bada$$'s performance as Carter flows from the ease at which we already feel as if we know him fully within the film's first scenes. He is clearly and instantly warm and affable, intelligent and professional, romantic and sensitive, clever, caring and so obviously in love with his canine companion. Yet, with each murder and subsequent reawakening, Bada$$ conjures up crucial levels of humanity to this character, which makes every time he dies and every time he returns to the start of his day in Perri's bed (plus his reactions to every time he re-opens his eyes) deepen with the pain, sorrow, anger and fear at viewing a life wrongfully ended for no other reason than he was breathing. While Carter James exists as one character, every murder of him took me to another news story about yet another Black person either harassed, profiled, pursued, hunted and/or killed and the effect for me existed beyond being sobering. It felt like sinking and being unable to re-emerge.  

To that end, Officer Merk represents not solely a person but the entire systemic, institutional racism that by its design was created for the purpose of Black people not being able to rise, advance and in far too many cases, obtain the means to survive it. He is the ultimate perceived inherent goodness, fairness and justice of White people and the White systems created and upheld, regardless of the content of character and deed. In turn, Carter James, as envisioned through Officer Merk, is the perceived inherent maliciousness of Black people, always suspect and untrustworthy, always up to something nefarious and criminal, forever embodying all that is evil, regardless of reality, rooted in fantasy and in need of being snuffed out.

Andrew Howard's performance is fearsome as well as insidious, as it is a confrontational work that toys with us, in the same way that the character toys with Carter and his perception of how he can possibly navigate and maybe even circumvent this dark time loop in order to make his way back to his dog. Yet, unlike "Groundhog Day," where Bill Murray's character had to grow and discover how his own behavior affected his ultimate outcome, Carter is bested every single time and finds no sense of resolution no matter how he chooses to engage with his fateful day. And as wrenching as the film is, what saves it from being excruciating is the sense of hope contained within Carter's resolve. That despite everything Officer Merk throws at him, regardless of how many times Merk kills him, somehow, someway, he will get back home to his dog. Just as with all Black people because even with all of the tragedy we, as a people, have endured...we remain!     

At this time, I feel the need to express myself in a more personal manner as a means of the thought and emotional process I experienced as I watched "Two Distant Strangers."  Obviously, I am just one Black man and my individual experience as a Black man in America is not remotely representative of every Black man in the nation. In fact, within the breadth of my life, I count myself to have been extremely lucky to have not been on the receiving end of any levels of racism that approached the dangerous or life threatening. 

To that end, I have been a Black face in predominantly White spaces for most of my life and therefore, it is an experience I am more than used to. But since my college years, and especially as I have aged, I became increasingly aware and now am entirely cognizant of those inexplicable uncomfortable feelings that arise when those very feelings are projected or directed towards me. Enduring the stream of micro aggressions, the coded language and attitudes that have grown from undercurrents to the more overt and in turn, I have had to equally endure certain level(s) of code switching and public stifling of my complete self so as not to trigger retribution from the prejudices of others. 

What feels most foreign, and now more prevalent than I have ever experienced, is that foreboding sense of feeling unsafe, an elevated sense of danger, that creeping doom due to the overall intensity of the societal tenor regarding people pf color as enabled by over a decade's worth of flame fanning and igniting by right wing media, right wing politicians and unquestionably, the words and actions as delivered by the previous President of the United States. 

There are behaviors I engage with today that I never would have thought of even as recently as one year before (or at least pre-COVID-19). A need to stick strictly to familiar locations. Ensuring that I am safe at home before the sun falls for the evening. And most of all, every night when I do return home from work, I send a text to my Mother in Chicago, informing her that I am indeed back at my house safe and sound. I need to impress upon you that this is something I have never done before in my adult life and I am doing this solely because she is as scared for my safety as I am scared for myself. And all I am trying to do after a day's work is to just get back home.   

Vibrant and devastating, exhilarating and enraging, superb and sorrowful, Travon Free and Martin Desmond Roe's "Two Distant Strangers" deftly plunges into the pulse, tragedy, fight and trauma of the Black Lives Matter movement. Again for those who still proclaim to not understand the meaning of the statement, Black Lives Matter is a cry to a howl to a scream to stop killing us for we are human beings with families, friends, passions and dreams just like anyone else and we deserve to live and be treated and valued as human beings. 

That is exactly where I found myself as I viewed this short film.

On Tuesday, April 20, 2021, after 10 hours of deliberation, Derek Chauvin was found guilty on all three counts of second degree murder, third degree murder and manslaughter in the death of George Floyd. I exhaled a sigh of relief after expecting the very worst because, and please remember, the outcome of this trial, as obvious as it was considering what the entire world saw, was, in actuality, not obvious. The fact that the outcome of the trial was not obvious is disheartening and acutely distressing as the historical lack of consequence has outweighed basic humanity countless times that it is difficult to even believe in a system that is inherently biased against Black people. 

But yes, this time, for George Floyd, the right outcome arrived. Yet, true to the form of this nation, we could not even have 24 hours to bask in our relief.. Hell, we could not even have 5 hours before being emotionally pummeled again by the news of 16 year old Ma'Khia Bryant, shot and killed by police in Columbus, Ohio. This is precisely why I have to scoff at the notion that justice was attained for George Floyd despite my relief at the trial outcome. In fact, what I felt the very most was deep sadness. I do not believe that George Floyd ever wished to become a martyr for a global cause for racial justice. All George Floyd wanted was to return home and see his family again. 

George Floyd just wanted to go home. And like him and like Carter James, we all just want to go home.

SAVAGE CINEMA'S COMING ATTRACTIONS FOR MAY 2021

 

As we begin again...

While I am not really able to make any promises (and perhaps, this is a way of remaining somewhat cautious), I am hoping that the month of May will bring Savage Cinema back in earnest...even though life at the movies has not returned to the fullness of anything resembling normal as of this time. 

I will say that your friendly neighborhood film enthusiast is indeed fully vaccinated!! (How about you?) Even so, I am unquestionably more than conscious that our global pandemic is nowhere near being something that we can relegate firmly to the past, and to that end, I am not feeling so comfortable to return to the confines of a movie theater regardless of how much I miss it. It is still going to be some time, as far as I am concerned. 

But that being said, there is more than enough material for me to catch myself up on and I actually have notes for a few films I have seen over the previous few months that I can refer to for all new reviews...maybe. You see, dear readers, so much time has passed since I happened to see these films that having notes to refer to or not, the memories of those films are not as fresh as I would prefer them to being when I get down to writing a review. I am going to try and see what I can do and if it proves to not being as successful as I wish, then those reviews will be transformed into a new batch of "Savage Cinema's Short Takes." Only time will tell.

But yes, I am hoping that I can now fully return to this blogsite where I can write and share to my heart's content about this thing that I have loved so very much for so much of my lifetime. Thank you all for your patience with me and let's see where this month will take us...