Published on Portside (https://portside.org)
'I Am Not
Your Negro' Will Make You Rethink Race
A. O. Scott
Thursday, February 2, 2017
New York Times
A few weeks
ago, in reaction to something we had written about [1]blackness
and whiteness in recent movies, my colleague Manohla Dargis and I received a
note from a reader. “Since when is everything about race?” he wanted to know.
Perhaps it was a rhetorical question.
A flippant
— though by no means inaccurate — answer would have been 1619. But a more
constructive response might have been to recommend Raoul Peck’s life-altering
new documentary, “I Am Not Your Negro.” Let me do so now, for that reader (if
he’s still interested) and for everybody else, too. Whatever you think about
the past and future of what used to be called “race relations” — white
supremacy and the resistance to it, in plainer English — this movie will make
you think again, and may even change your mind. Though its principal figure,
the novelist, playwright and essayist James Baldwin, is a man who has been dead
for nearly 30 years, you would be hard-pressed to find a movie that speaks to
the present moment with greater clarity and force, insisting on uncomfortable
truths and drawing stark lessons from the shadows of history.
To call “I
Am Not Your Negro” a movie about James Baldwin would be to understate Mr.
Peck’s achievement. It’s more of a posthumous collaboration, an uncanny and
thrilling communion between the filmmaker — whose previous work includes both a
documentary and a narrative feature about the Congolese anti-colonialist leader
Patrice Lumumba — and his subject. The voice-over narration (read by Samuel L.
Jackson) is entirely drawn from Baldwin’s work. Much of it comes from notes and
letters written in the mid-1970s, when Baldwin was somewhat reluctantly
sketching out a book, never to be completed, about the lives and deaths of
Medgar Evers, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr.
Reflections
on those men (all of whom Baldwin knew well) and their legacies are
interspersed with passages from other books and essays, notably “The Devil Finds Work,” [2] Baldwin’s
1976 meditation on race, Hollywood and the mythology of white innocence. His
published and unpublished words — some of the most powerful and penetrating
ever assembled on the tortured subject of American identity — accompany images
from old talk shows and news reports, from classic movies and from our own
decidedly non-post-racial present.
Baldwin
could not have known about Ferguson and Black Lives Matter, about the
presidency of Barack Obama and the recrudescence of white nationalism in its
wake, but in a sense he explained it all in advance. He understood the deep,
contradictory patterns of our history, and articulated, with a passion and
clarity that few others have matched, the psychological dimensions of racial
conflict: the suppression of black humanity under slavery and Jim Crow and the
insistence on it in African-American politics and art; the dialectic of guilt
and rage, forgiveness and denial that distorts relations between black and
white citizens in the North as well as the South; the lengths that white people
will go to wash themselves clean of their complicity in oppression.
Baldwin is
a double character in Mr. Peck’s film. The elegance and gravity of his formal
prose, and the gravelly authority of Mr. Jackson’s voice, stand in contrast to
his quicksilver on-camera presence as a lecturer and television guest. In his
skinny tie and narrow suit, an omnipresent cigarette between his fingers, he
imports a touch of midcentury intellectual cool into our overheated,
anti-intellectual media moment.
A former
child preacher, he remained a natural, if somewhat reluctant, performer — a master
of the heavy sigh, the raised eyebrow and the rhetorical flourish. At one
point, on “The Dick Cavett Show,” Baldwin tangles with Paul Weiss, a Yale
philosophy professor who scolds him for dwelling so much on racial issues. The
initial spectacle of mediocrity condescending to genius is painful, but the
subsequent triumph of self-taught brilliance over credentialed ignorance is
thrilling to witness.
In that
exchange, as in a speech for an audience of British university students, you
are aware of Baldwin’s profound weariness. He must explain himself — and also
his country — again and again, with what must have been sorely tested patience.
When the students erupt in a standing ovation at the end of his remarks,
Baldwin looks surprised, even flustered. You glimpse an aspect of his
personality that was often evident in his writing: the vulnerable, bright,
ambitious man thrust into a public role that was not always comfortable.
“I want to
be an honest man and a good writer,” he wrote early in his career, in the
introductory note to his first collection of essays, “Notes of a Native Son.”
The disarming, intimate candor of that statement characterized much of what
would follow, as would a reckoning with the difficulties of living up to such
apparently straightforward aspirations. Without sliding into confessional
bathos, his voice was always personal and frank, creating in the reader a
feeling of complicity, of shared knowledge and knowing humor.
“I Am Not
Your Negro” reproduces and redoubles this effect. It doesn’t just make you
aware of Baldwin, or hold him up as a figure to be admired from a distance. You
feel entirely in his presence, hanging on his every word, following the
implications of his ideas as they travel from his experience to yours. At the
end of the movie, you are convinced that you know him. And, more important,
that he knows you. To read Baldwin is to be read by him, to feel the glow of
his affection, the sting of his scorn, the weight of his disappointment, the
gift of his trust.
Recounting
his visits to the South, where he reported on the civil rights movement and the
murderous white response to it, Baldwin modestly described himself as a
witness, a watchful presence on the sidelines of tragedy and heroism, an
outsider by virtue of his Northern origins, his sexuality and his alienation
from the Christianity of his childhood. But he was also a prophet, able to see
the truths revealed by the contingent, complicated actions of ordinary people
on both sides of the conflict. This is not to say that he transcended the
struggle or detached himself from it. On the contrary, he demonstrated that
writing well and thinking clearly are manifestations of commitment, and that
irony, skepticism and a ruthless critical spirit are necessary tools for
effective moral and political action.
“I Am Not
Your Negro” is a thrilling introduction to his work, a remedial course in
American history, and an advanced seminar in racial politics — a concise,
roughly 90-minute movie with the scope and impact of a 10-hour mini-series or a
literary doorstop. It is not an easy or a consoling movie, but it is the
opposite of bitter or despairing. “I can’t be a pessimist because I’m alive,”
Baldwin said. “I’m forced to be an optimist.”
Links:
[1] https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/05/movies/how-movies-tackled-race-and-class-in-2016.html
[2] https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2014/04/the-most-powerful-piece-of-film-cr
[2] https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2014/04/the-most-powerful-piece-of-film-cr
Donations can be sent
to the Baltimore Nonviolence Center, 325 E. 25th St., Baltimore, MD
21218. Ph: 410-323-1607; Email: mobuszewski [at] verizon.net. Go to http://baltimorenonviolencecenter.blogspot.com/
"The master class
has always declared the wars; the subject class has always fought the battles.
The master class has had all to gain and nothing to lose, while the subject
class has had nothing to gain and everything to lose--especially their lives."
Eugene Victor Debs
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