Last year, my favorite film of the year was Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained. It was a catharsis of
sorts, a cartoonish revenge fantasy written and directed by a white man. It
took the seriousness of its subject matter and mixed in elements of blaxploitation
films to create a dark, but ultimately fun vision of Southern racism, slavery,
and American injustice. The satire at its core was a powerful indictment of the
savagery of entitled white males, and the double standard that
African-Americans face when vying for a bit of that power themselves.
Many African-Americans were horrified and angry about Tarantino’s
vision. Some, like Spike Lee, said they would never even see the film – yet another
example of a white man trying to impose his views and understanding on a black
man’s suffering. For a long time I was frustrated with these views. From my
perspective, I thought Tarantino was fair, reflective, and ultimately
empathetic.
After seeing Steve McQueen’s 12
Years a Slave, I understand why so many blacks were angry. The depiction of
slavery, the discussions about it, and the heroes selected in our cinema have
been the property of white men. Sensitive, thoughtful, caring white men, but
white men nonetheless. McQueen has put together a remarkable film, a statement
about the inhuman institution of slavery, but from the black perspective. His
is the first film that treats whites—even the benevolent ones—as the “others”
who become the audiences objects of scorn, ridicule, pity, and shame. His is
also the first film in which white characters are not the heroes. Cinema has a
long tradition of films involving race issues to feature liberal whites who come
to the rescue of black characters. Most recently, we’ve had movies like The Help, The Blind Side, and even Django
Unchained to remind us how forward thinking, kind-hearted white people can
make life better for poor, pitiful black people.
Our hero is Solomon Northrup (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a free black man
living in Saratoga, NY with his beautiful young family. Solomon is a sought
after violinist, a respected member of his community, and well-educated. But it
is due to his talents and naïveté that he is able to be tricked by two white
kidnappers into following them to Washington, D.C. as a performer. One night,
Solomon is living the high life, dining and drinking with his new friends; the
next morning, he finds himself in chains, sold by his “friends” and with no
papers to prove his identity. His new slave owner, ironically named Freeman
(Paul Giamatti), bestows a slave name on Solomon – Platt.
As Platt, Solomon quickly learns that it doesn’t pay to show your
humanity, your intelligence, or you compassion. He is eventually sold to
another, more sympathetic owner, Ford (Benedict Cumberbatch), a minister who
warms up to Platt and even gifts him with a violin, which he hopes “will bring
us both great happiness in the years to come.” But, as Platt’s fellow slave,
Eliza (Adepero Oduye), points out, for all of Ford’s kindness, he still owns
slaves, he still sees them as property. This becomes apparent as Platt comes
into conflict with Ford’s hired white hand, Tibeats (Paul Dano), who tests
Platt’s self-respect and dignity with his simpering, jealous abuse of power.
Platt eventually winds up in the ownership of Edwin Epps (Michael
Fassbender), who is every bit as crazy as he is a merciless taskmaster. Epps
has developed a taste for the flesh of Patsey (Lupita Nyong’o), his best cotton
picker, which has caused significant conflict between himself and his wife
(Sarah Paulson). Their combined cruelty push Platt to the limits of despair,
especially in a climactic scene in which the totality of the horror of slavery,
both past, present, and future is laid bare.
McQueen’s cinema is brutal, uncompromising, but never exploitative. He
uses his darkest imagery – of Platt hanging from a tree by a noose as life on
the plantation goes on around him, of midnight dances in which bedclothed
slaves are forced to dance merrily for the benefit of the sadistic Epps and his
wife, of the worn, hopeless faces of the slaves – to force us to face the reality
of our history. He refuses to give us moments of levity to undermine the
horrors. There are negro spirituals, but they are sung with the despair of
those who only seem to half believe the words. Even the ending, which
inevitably features Solomon’s return home, is a moment of devastating beauty, a
culmination of pain and misery as opposed to the triumphant moment designed to
allow the audience to leave the theater feeling inspired and satisfied in the
knowledge of “well, glad that’s
history.” Instead we are left to ponder the fates of those who were not as
fortunate as Solomon Northrup – slaves like Patsey, whom he left behind to endure
more unspeakable acts and abuses at the hands of the Epps.
After watching 12 Years a Slave,
I found myself questioning the way our society views racism and slavery. There
are many who believe that since there are no survivors of that era, we just
need to let it go. There are many who say we live in a post-racism society.
This film makes it clear that there is no end to it all. We may not be able to
own slaves any longer, but we can still own the philosophy, the inhuman
attitude that allows for discrimination and racism to exist. Our world is a far
cry from the world of Solomon Northrup, but it is still crying.
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