Our
first outsider cinema, African-American film already had a long history before I
came to it in the early 1990s. Fresh out
of college and living in Brooklyn, I got interested in Spike Lee’s films,
especially Do the Right Thing. It grabbed me not only as a semi-hip film geek,
but also as a young white resident of a dodgy downtown Brooklyn
neighborhood. I loved how the film was
crafted, how it dealt bluntly with social power and perception, and how it so
authentically portrayed New York sensibilities in a neighborhood so close to my
own.
Another
early moment in my connection to this niche involved film posters. In the mid-90s, I gave MoMA gallery talks on African-American
film posters from the 1920s to 1950s. This
plugged me into the rich history of black independent film as well as how blackness
was portrayed attractively and with diversity in public during the era of Jim
Crow discrimination. Black athletes, musicians,
lovers, heroes, villains, comedians, ministers, families, even cowboys. To my surprise, when I researched the films,
I found that many had been made (or at least financed) by white people. Looking back, maybe I shouldn’t have been so
surprised, given the ongoing challenges faced by black filmmakers as well as dominant
tendencies to co-opt the marginal.
That’s
part of what makes films like Sweet Sweetback’s
Baadasssss Song, Killer of Sheep, Tongues Untied,
and The Watermelon Woman so
exciting—that they were made at all, and with such credibility. Still, I like the popular films too. Now living in L.A., I often get sucked into Boyz n the Hood
when it comes on TV, for similar reasons that attracted me to Spike Lee’s film,
plus the charisma of Ice Cube. To my
chagrin, I’ve also been watching Malibu’s Most
Wanted and Soul Plane,
enjoying the raw ethnic comedy at face value but also more critically—asking myself
what it means to me as a white man.
As
the adoptive father of a girl from Ethiopia, African-American film and culture
have become even more important to me, especially the Africa part. Sometimes I tune into The Africa Channel to watch
music videos with my daughter. Or, with
my wife and son, films like Saint Louis Blues,
a remarkable Senegalese film that combines local people and issues with
Hollywood-style musical and road-film genres.
In learning about the complexities of transnational / transracial
adoption, I’ve attended lectures and read a lot, but also learned from films such
as the encyclopedic and deeply personal Live and Become.
All
of these films vary in their independence from mainstream commercial cinema as
well as their motivations and meanings.
Together, they suggest a vibrant mosaic visible in just one small part
of what’s called “independent film.” As a
group of films that have been important to me, they also say things about
me. Where I’ve been, what I’ve done, who
I’ve been and am becoming. I’m not
exactly the target audience for this niche, nor an expert on it, but it still
has mattered a lot to me over the years.
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This
post is part of a series in which I talk about independent film in a more
detailed, wide-ranging, and personal way than I usually do here. And it’s a chance to hear from you. Feel free to post a comment anytime or let me
know if you’d like to write a post.
By
James
Latham
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