Despite the fact that I consider myself a proud American, I do think that our history has been far from blameless. The two greatest stains (though they are not the only ones) on this country founded on principles of freedom and equality, in my opinion, are the genocidal treatment of the Native Americans and the brutal and barbarian practice of slavery that African Americans suffered under.
We should, of course, never forget that there are still Native Americans in this country, and the matter, as it were, is never closed. In the public eye, however, the struggles for equality by our African American population is still very central. We may have a black president, but the nature of race relations here has hardly settled into a comfortable balance (the fact that Obama is considered black, rather than half-black, for instance, is a relic of the time when "black blood" was considered a negative thing, and that one drop would "taint" the purity of a person's ancestry.) Even though racial segregation is no longer enshrined in law, the specter of slavery and Jim Crow rears its ugly head in the continuing socio-economic inequalities that persist.
So, full disclosure for those of you who do not know me: I'm white. And a great deal of the controversy that is stirred up by Quentin Tarantino's latest film Django Unchained, such as Spike Lee's condemnation despite his refusal to see the film, stems from the fact that he is a white writer/director making a movie about the cruel first act of African American history. Hollywood, despite nominally representing many of the egalitarian ideals and positions of a liberal democracy, continues to be dominated by white, male directors (though it is one industry in which a minority to which half my ancestors belong, namely the Jews, do seem to be able to keep pace with white people of Northern and Western European descent.)
Truthfully, I agree that we ought to have more films about the African American experience created by African American artists, but does that mean that the subject should be totally beyond the reach of non-black filmmakers?
I'm inclined to disagree. Tarantino's previous film, for example, Inglourious Basterds, is very much a companion piece to Django Unchained. In both films, the protagonists are members of victimized populations that turn the tables and take revenge on their oppressors. As a grandson of two Holocaust survivors, I did not object to Basterds (at least not on the grounds that Tarantino was ineligible to make such a film.)
But then, admittedly, it is not quite the same. In this country, at least, I have only very rarely felt alienated by my Jewish ancestry (the "War on Chirstmas" bullshit is too laughable for me to feel threatened.) The U.S. is a relatively safe place for the Jews, arguably the safest place for them in the world. On the other hand, African Americans, despite having a much larger population here, continue to be targeted by racial violence (the deplorable murder of Trayvon Martin, for instance, is a haunting example.)
Yet at the same time, I think there is also something to be said for a white filmmaker approaching this subject. By keeping alive the memory of the sort of thing that happened, and not shrinking away from the brutality of the violence, we avoid whitewashing the past and making it seem as if slavery wasn't so bad. Just as African Americans should be reminded of their need to constantly fight for equality, White Americans should be reminded of what they are capable of doing if they forget the sins of their ancestors.
Tarantino, of course, is not a conventional filmmaker. In many ways, he is not actually making a historical drama set in the early 1860s, but is instead making an action flick set on the screen of a 1970s multiplex. His films have evolved to become more artificial, and to listen to him in interviews, this is intentional.
Long story short: By all means, people should talk about what this film represents in our nation's perpetual struggle for harmony, but I'm more interested in talking about it as a story.
Django himself is a bit of an enigma. For the vast majority of the story, we see him a quiet man with deep anger, but careful self-control. On occasion, this anger boils to the surface, yet he seems to have enough control to direct it toward those who deserve to be in its way. He's fiercely intelligent, and while we are initially dazzled by Schultz' ability to casually switch between his friendly, avuncular mode to his cold-blooded-killer mode, it is Django who is smarter and has better control. When he finally goes to Candyland, the sick, ironic name of "Monsieur" Candie's (Leonardo DiCaprio) plantation, to rescue his wife, he embodies the black slave-dealer character he has created with hardly a crack in the facade while Schultz struggles to maintain composure in the face of such horrific brutality.
Perhaps, this is because, having lived the life of a slave, there is nothing there to shock him. Schultz is a man of violence, yes, but his is the world of small towns or wilderness and fast shoot-outs followed by awkward but amicable resolutions with local law enforcement. His is an orderly world, where he abides by the law, even if he does so in shocking and violent ways. He does not kill unless it is for a bounty or in self-defense (well, except once - which triggers plot point two.) So it is, perhaps, not surprising that he is unable to cope with the reality of slavery. Cristoph Waltz does an amazing job here, retaining the same mix of pleasantness and ruthlessness as he did with Landa in Basterds, yet turning it around. With Landa, the pleasant conversationalist was a mask to cover the predatory mind behind it, whereas Schultz ultimately proves to be a good man of principle whose violent lifestyle is more a product of his environment than his character.
The villain, Calvin Candie, who is not exactly the antagonist (slavery itself is the true big bad of the film,) is portrayed by a wonderfully over-the-top Leonardo DiCaprio. Candie presents himself as the epitome of the sophisticated southern gentleman, affecting a love of French culture despite neither knowing the language nor understanding anything but the most superficial aspects of his professed object of interest (in a glorious exchange, Schultz informs Candie that Alexandre Dumas, author of The Three Musketeers, which Candie describes as one of his favorite books, was black.) In many ways, Candie represents the white-washing of the antebellum South - a projection of aristocracy and class that belies a casual attitude toward barbarism. Until he realizes that Schultz and Django are not who they say they are, he treats them with all the southern hospitality that is expected. He radiates calm and civility even as he watches two men wrestle to the death mere inches from his seat. He is a brute in a fancy suit.
By far the most problematic and challenging character in the story is Samuel L. Jackson's Stephen, who is an elderly slave who now serves as Candie's devoted butler. Despite all the white-supremicist rhetoric that black people cannot live as civilized people, Stephen is a trusted confidant, secretary, and manager of the other slaves. Stephen has internalized all of the racism of the society to the point that he is mortified when Django arrives, and at first refuses to prepare a room for him as a guest. In the theater, Stephen was probably the character who produced the most laughs - this walking irony - but at the same time, those were extremely qualified, awkward laughs. The "happy slave" is of course an insidious myth on most levels - an attempt to justify what is an atrocity against human rights. But in Stephen's case, it is a representation of how the definition of one group of people being inferior can create a hierarchy that leads to more and more hate and racism. I am reminded of one of the Vice Principles of my Middle School, who told us that when he was younger, he, a light-skinned black person, avoided darker-skinned African Americans because of the sense that they were somehow "more black," and thus inferior. By creating a division between the slaves, the Candie family got themselves a loyal servant, rather than one that was merely afraid of retribution.
Despite being the love interest and goal of the entire film, Broomhilda, or Hildy, played by Kerry Washington, is a kind of ethereal presence, appearing only briefly. Throughout his journeys, as Django transforms from a somewhat lost fish-out-of-water to a quick-drawing champion, he is haunted by visions of his wife, spurring him on. We don't spend a great deal of time with Hildy the woman, who, despite having the "comfortable" life of a house-slave (as if being forced to have sex with Candie's guests was a "comfortable life") still retains the same strong will toward freedom she's always had. As Schultz tells us, she shares a name and, indeed, much of the story of the mythical Brunhilda. Django, here, is Siegfried, storming the castle that is Candyland to rescue his beloved. There is something mythical about her, yet as soon as the two are reunited and no longer forced to hide their connection, the mythical dissolves and we briefly get a glimpse of two people who both love each other, and are old friends as well.
I think part of the reason I liked this film better than Inglourious Basterds was that there was more to it than revenge. Despite the bloody (and I mean bloody) business that Django gets to once everything hits the fan, at no point does it seem the blood is the goal. He is there to rescue his wife. In the face of an enemy as monolithic and world-threatening as Hitler, self-destruction in the name of defeating him may seem justified, yet Django does not walk into Candyland with any intention of going out in a blaze of glory. He's there to begin a life of freedom with his wife. Perhaps they have not yet lighted the powderkeg that will end slavery in the US (see Lincoln for that, I suppose,) but as far as Django is concerned, this is a story about fighting for happily ever after.
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