How the legendary screenwriter of "Roman Holiday" and "Spartacus" defied Congress, broke the blacklist and raised his family.
Photo by Mitzi Trumbo
Dalton Trumbo
No one has ever summed up the Hollywood blacklist of the 1950s — and, by extension, the entire history of that decade’s anti-Communist witch hunt — any better than this:
“The blacklist was a time of evil. No one on either side who survived it came through untouched by evil. There was bad faith and good, honesty and dishonesty, courage and cowardice, selflessness and opportunism, wisdom and stupidity, good and bad on both sides. It will do no good to search for villains or heroes or saints or devils because there were none; there were only victims. Some suffered less than others, some grew or were diminished, but in the final tally we were all victims because almost without exception each of us felt compelled to say things he did not want to say, to do things he did not want to do, to deliver and receive wounds he truly did not want to exchange. That is why none of us — right, left, or center — emerged from that long nightmare without sin.”
Those words were spoken by Dalton Trumbo in 1971, when he received a lifetime achievement award from the Writers Guild of America — as he noted at the time, an award bestowed by those who had fought for him, those who had betrayed him and those who had only the vaguest notion who he was. In “Trumbo,” the new film directed by Peter Askin and adapted from Christopher Trumbo’s off-Broadway play about his father, the speech is given an electrifying reading by actor David Strathairn. “Trumbo” is a terrific picture, a blend of interviews and archival footage and readings of Trumbo’s letters and speeches (by Strathairn, Michael Douglas, Joan Allen, Paul Giamatti, Brian Dennehy and others) that vividly illustrates why the blacklist remains an urgent issue 60 years later. One could wish it were a bit more honest about the sources of Trumbo’s obvious mixed feelings about himself and his fellow leftists. (Perhaps Christopher Trumbo’s forthcoming book will address this.)
Dalton Trumbo was the most famous and probably the most talented of the Hollywood 10, the group of left-wing film industry professionals who went to prison after refusing to cooperate with the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1947. Along with many other actors, writers, directors and musicians, they were then banished from the business. Trumbo himself served 10 months in federal prison after his conviction for contempt of the 80th Congress; as he remarks in an archival interview seen in the film, he entirely agreed with the verdict, as he felt nothing but contempt for that Congress and several later ones.
He continued to write scripts under assumed names and in impoverished circumstances after his release from prison, and spent several years with his wife and three kids in Mexico working for little or nothing. He wrote at least 30 films and doctored or rewrote countless others. He won two Academy Awards decades after the fact, one of them posthumous. (They were for “Roman Holiday” in 1953 and “The Brave One” in 1956.) His other screenplays included “Kitty Foyle” (nominated for a 1940 Oscar), “Gun Crazy,” “Lonely Are the Brave,” “The Sandpiper” and the antiwar classic “Johnny Got His Gun,” adapted from his own novel and his only directing effort. Trumbo also became the first of the Hollywood 10 to break the blacklist, when Otto Preminger hired him to write “Exodus” and Kirk Douglas hired him to write “Spartacus,” both made in 1960.
If the Hollywood blacklist and the entire Red Scare has become a murky, antique-seeming affair in most people’s minds, there are reasons for that. Inevitably, the passage of time and the death of nearly all the participants has turned it into a remote artifact of black-and-white newsreel footage. I think the fact that most of the Hollywood 10 and other blacklistees continued to work, under various ruses, and even formed an expatriate Red community of sorts in Mexico, makes the whole thing seem like a romantic caper. In fact, it was a cruel and deeply symbolic act of tyranny that displays all too clearly one of the running themes of American history: Convince people that their family’s safety is at stake, and they’ll believe all kinds of outrageous lies and turn against their neighbors who happen to look or act different. I know, that’s starting to seem unpleasantly familiar, but let’s not get ahead of the story.
Historians in recent years have legitimately attempted to wrestle with the era’s complexities and shine light into its darker corners. It has long since become clear, for example, that many American Communists, Trumbo included, succumbed to the paranoia and authoritarianism that by Stalin’s time were ingrained doctrines of their faith. Ironically enough, during World War II Trumbo apparently informed the FBI about his contacts with people he suspected were Nazi sympathizers. He later said this was a “foolish” decision, and that he quickly understood that the agents were more interested in him than in his letters from possible Hitler-lovers. None of this is mentioned in the film.
Along with honest historical inquiry, however, has come a smug, contrarian right-wing campaign to muddy the waters and make the paranoid derangement of ’50s America seem somehow justified. If American Communists held a misguided faith in the Stalinist Soviet state, the thinking goes, and if some tiny percentage of them were Soviet agents or spies (and let’s stipulate that those things are true) then all 80,000 or so were, prima facie, seditious revolutionaries and threats to democracy — and the Hollywood 10 really were trying to pervert healthy Americans with Red propaganda concealed as entertainment. Not all versions of the neocon rehabilitation of McCarthyism are quite so baldly ludicrous, but all must make the imaginative leap that a tiny, ineffective and consistently persecuted political movement, which throughout its brief heyday attempted to reassure the public that “Communism is 20th century Americanism,” was in fact an immensely powerful and sinister force.
All disputes about history are really arguments about the present, and that goes double in this case. Contemporary right-wingers don’t care about the real story of Dalton Trumbo, his nine original co-defendants or the dozens of other blacklistees that followed. (A random assortment: John Garfield, Dashiell Hammett, Judy Holliday, Langston Hughes, Gypsy Rose Lee, Arthur Miller, Zero Mostel, Dorothy Parker, Edward G. Robinson, Artie Shaw, Orson Welles, Josh White.) In fact, as Askin’s film makes clear, Trumbo was a witty, irascible, mule-stubborn individualist who grew up on Colorado rangeland and was a poor candidate for Marxist-Leninist groupthink. He was a Communist Party member for, at most, four or five years, and like most other American Reds of the period — like, say, my mother — he was more attracted to the excitement, the sense of action and heady adventure, than to the core ideology. (No, I’m not a neutral observer of this issue, if that’s even possible.)
What the more intelligent neocons see in the 1950s crackdown on Communism is both an underlying pattern and an instructive example, having to do with power and how to wield it. The real target of the Red Scare was not the handful of prominent lefties like Trumbo who had their livelihoods destroyed and their reputations ruined but rather the rest of society, which proved by and large to be craven, suggestible, and downright eager to hew to a new standard of patriotic conformity. Whether this was accidental or intentional, pursuing a highly unpopular minority provided authoritarian elements in this country with a test case: How far could constitutional rights and liberties be eroded by government-sponsored fear-mongering? The answer was pretty far, and would-be dictators from J. Edgar Hoover to Dick Cheney have been renovating and repeating the pattern ever since, with a different half-imaginary enemy in the gunsight.
In one devastating letter read in the film, Trumbo observes that the liberal producer who doesn’t believe in the blacklist but apologetically tells him he can’t hire a known Communist because “that’s the country these days” is more oppressive than any congressional blowhard. His eloquent anger toward the country that he believes betrayed freedom, principle and basic human decency in its moment of postwar crisis is matched by his confidence that if he could poll the entire American population on one question — “Would you like a man who informs on his friend?” — the universal answer would be no.
But the lesson of “Trumbo” that clearly resonates in 2008 is that even in an increasingly pluralistic society, public tolerance can readily be turned against those who hold troubling ideologies or alien beliefs, and in that situation terrible things become acceptable. Some of those things are small, like the cruelty and ostracism Trumbo’s daughter endured in elementary school, and some are larger. One of the anti-Communist movement’s darkest triumphs was the Emergency Detention Act of 1950, which envisioned the suspension of constitutional rights in a national emergency, and funded the creation of six concentration camps for American civilians who “probably will engage in, or probably will conspire with others to engage in, acts of espionage or sabotage.” It was passed by Congress over Harry Truman’s veto, but without much public debate.
Not much about this act is easily available online, a startling fact in this age of information overload. Congress repealed it in 1971, and the six camps — some of them formerly used as Japanese-American internment camps during World War II — fell into disrepair. But it obviously struck some people as a good idea, and so today our secret prisons are in other countries and governed by no law, and so far they have not housed any cantankerous Hollywood screenwriters. No one, as Trumbo said, who lived through the blacklist years emerged from them unscathed by evil, and now that evil has been visited on later generations. His wife and kids loved him, and he finally got his Oscars. Surely that counts for something.
“Trumbo” opens June 27 in New York and Los Angeles, with national release to follow.
Do we still need Black History Month?
Three great documentaries air, including "More Than A Month," where one filmmaker explores his conflicted feelings
A still from "More Than a Month"
Black History Month is an idea that filmmaker Shukree Hassan Tilghman finds passé. In his documentary “More Than a Month,” which premieres Thursday on PBS’ “Independent Lens,” he walks around with a signboard that says END BLACK HISTORY MONTH and receives plenty of dirty looks. But he also gets more support than he suspected — after he explains that history should be part of the American story, told even during months with more than 28 or 29 days.
As he goes about his somewhat whimsical quest, some caution him that without that annual anchor, there’d be even less black history taught than before. He takes his campaign on the road; peers into the home of the month’s originator, Carter G. Woodson in Washington, D.C.; meets with the Association for the Study of African American Life and History; and goes to Virginia to see what black history means to big fans of the Confederacy.
Eventually he gets more serious about his task, realizing that while history may convey how we were, the way we tell history conveys how we are. And he’s had one direct effect: His mother, an activist, moves the date for a black history performance she had been planning out of February to help demonstrate that it is part of the fabric of U.S. history all year round.
One day, even television networks may spread their black-heritage documentaries beyond the confines of February as well. Unfortunately, two remarkable documentaries air at the same time Tuesday in many markets.
After demonstrating that he’s a sensitive observer of life in black America with “Hoop Dreams,” Steve James is back with “The Interrupters” – a more ambitious film that follows a fearless group of activists and amateur psychologists determined to end urban violence. It makes its national TV debut this evening on Frontline (check local listings).
That James and author Alex Kotlowitz (“There Are No Children Here”) decided to focus on Chicago at the precise time its youth-killing rates and lurid viral videos made it a national news story put them in the center of the cyclone. Their alarming footage, from the center of exploding violence and retribution, put the superficial approach of the national news media and government officials — who did little more than hold press conferences — to shame.
Even more remarkable are the counselors and community-minded people, many of whom learned their lessons in the streets, who put their lives on the line to defuse the mayhem out of a regard for love and doing what’s right.
Among them, Ameena Matthews deserves to be some kind of national heroine for her street sense, humor, decency, insight and bravery, which seem to change everyone she approaches. No matter how explosive the situation, she can enter, speak sensibly and have people listen.
James and Kotlowitz do treat their subjects seriously, listen to what they have to say and show how the activists are getting things done. For the inches of progress made before our eyes, it’s a hopeful film.
“The Loving Story,” on HBO, may seem like it is tied to Valentine’s Day. But it’s only providence that the couple at the center of the story is also named Loving.
But loving is the key. Richard Loving and Mildred Jeter were both members of a small community in Virginia where whites and blacks freely worked and socialized. They met and fell in love, and like anyone else might do, got married.
But there were laws in Virginia, as there were in more than a dozen other states, outlawing any such mixing of races through marriage, using a word that is as ugly as the prejudice, miscegenation.
Somebody called the cops and the happily married duo were hit with a felony charge in 1958 — and a year in jail – which would be suspended if they’d just leave the state. Any visits back to see family or friends would have to be done individually, lest they risk arrest. They decided to fight the law, not only for their own sake, but as Mrs. Loving says in the sweetest possible way, for other people as well — because “it isn’t right.”
“The Loving Story” is in some ways the exciting case of the two young American Civil Liberties Union lawyers who agreed to take the case on and brought it to the U.S. Supreme Court. But that’s only because lawyers like to talk, especially looking back at what they can now see was the biggest case of their lives. Although there is a surprising amount of footage of the Lovings in the film, they never do say very much. They just want the right thing done. And in the end, it is.
The two are not around to tell their story, though one of their daughters is. He died in a car accident in 1975; she in 2008 at 68, surrounded by family and friends. The last anti-miscegenation law wasn’t repealed until 2000 in Alabama. Theirs is a love story that hasn’t been fully told previously — and may not have had a showcase had it not been for Black History Month.
The civil rights battle ignored by the U.S. media
The documentary "Black Power Mixtape" tells a counter-history of the 1960s, through the eyes of foreign journalists
A still from "The Black Power Mixtape 1967-1975"
It was tough enough to track the social and political upheaval of the 1960s through domestic news coverage, let alone to pay attention to what the rest of the world was reporting. But journalists from abroad were fascinated by the roiling changes — and often saw it quite differently.
Though U.S. network coverage of civil rights cruelties helped rally the country against the worst offenders in the South, coverage of revolutionary groups such as the Black Panther Party more often took J. Edgar Hoover’s extremist stance that it was the most dangerous internal threat to the U.S. Rarely did it look at the accomplishments of its free breakfast programs, community organizing and determination to stand up to police harassment and brutality.
Swedish newsmen and filmmakers who didn’t follow the FBI line came to America to learn what they could, looking at life in largely segregated black America, talking frankly and seriously with black leaders and closely following their trials.
Footage of the era, said to have been sitting in a Swedish basement for three decades, became the eye-opening documentary “The Black Power Mixtape 1967-1975” making its U.S. television debut on PBS’ “Independent Lens” Thursday night as part of its Black History Month series.
The modernist title owes in part to filmmaker Göran Hugo Olsson using modern-day commentary, from musicians in many cases, to accompany the found footage. Talib Kweli, Erykah Badu and Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson of the Roots add their contemporary revolutionary musing among commentaries by professors and historians.
The wealth of Swedish footage owes in part to the Panthers’ desire to see their movement as an international one, or one that certainly relied on support from outside the U.S.
It is the Panthers’ Embassy in Algeria where Eldridge Cleaver holds court, for example, far from the threat of FBI invasions. Martin Luther King Jr.’s visits to Stockholm to meet King Gustaf VI Adolf that are well preserved, and King’s traveling partner Harry Belafonte recalls the meeting.
Some of the earliest footage in the film shows a young Stokely Carmichael speaking in Stockholm in 1967, stating in the simplest terms the recent history of black movement in the U.S., carefully stepping beyond the nonviolent action approach by King.
“In order for nonviolence to work, your opponent has to have a conscience,” he points out coolly. “The United States has none.”
In some ways, it is the footage of Carmichael, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and honorary “prime minister” for the Panthers, that is the revelation of “The Black Power Mixtape.” How suppressed has his voice been over the years, even at a time of black history mining?
It’s certainly eye-opening for modern-day commentator Kweli, who exclaims, “He has so much passion and fire inside of him,” yet remains quite cool. “He seemed like a regular dude.”
After telling reporters in Stockholm, “I’m not as patient as Dr. King,” Carmichael takes over a Swedish interview of his own mother in Chicago to get to the point: The family’s struggles and limited opportunities can be boiled down to the fact that they are black.
One gets the sense that Swedish journalists enjoyed visiting black ghettos, where they tried to get a taste of life as they paused for interviews with Huey P. Newton and Kathleen Cleaver.
The coverage was noted in the U.S. as well, when TV Guide in a cover story complained about its negativity. Swedish reporters interviewed the story’s writer, balancing it with the view of director Emile de Antonio, who dismisses TV Guide as “an absolute nothing magazine.”
Officially, Sweden had been so critical of America’s role in Vietnam that the U.S. pulled its ambassador from Stockholm in 1968 and ended diplomatic relations with the country altogether for a time in 1972, after Prime Minister Olof Palme compared the bombings of Hanoi with the worst atrocities of Nazis.
Whatever the diplomatic relations, Swedish journalists certainly took the black revolutionaries more seriously and were plainly excited to be the first TV reporters to talk to an imprisoned Angela Davis. Still, because they worked from the same script, the question soon boiled down to: Do you have to use violence to reach your goals? Davis, receiving her first media visitor, was plainly annoyed by this, in just about the only footage that’s in color rather than black-and-white.
“When somebody asks me abut violence, I just find it incredible,” she says. “What it means is that the people who ask have no idea what people have gone through, what black people have experienced in this country since the time the first black person was kidnapped from the shores of Africa.”
The revolutionary tone of the film may provide grist for those on the right who erroneously see PBS as some kind of government-funded left-wing propaganda machine. When was the last time Louis Farrakhan was given a forum to talk about white devils?
But “The Black Power Mixtape” qualifies as a social history of a revolutionary movement, one quashed by a mid-1970s drug infusion to black neighborhoods that film participants are quite sure was caused by the government.
More than that, the modern voices in the film are resolute that lessons of the past need to be learned as the struggle goes on.
Wind power: Renewable resource, or another corporate scam?
A fascinating new film about one small-town political fight takes on the pseudo-green wind industry
A still from "Windfall"
In telling the story of a small-town political fight over wind power, Laura Israel’s fascinating documentary “Windfall” at first seems like another entry in the long laundry list of post-”Inconvenient Truth” doomsayer environmental films. Indeed, “Windfall” has some of the rural, homespun feeling of Josh Fox’s Oscar-nominated “Gasland,” which helped ignite a national debate over the natural-gas extraction method known as fracking. Israel’s film also offers a direct riposte to Bill Haney’s “The Last Mountain,” in which Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is seen promoting wind power as a clean alternative to the dirty and destructive combination of mountaintop-removal coal mining and coal-generated electricity.
Viewed through a long lens, “Windfall” is about much more than the hidden costs and unexpected side effects of wind-power generation, or about a citizens’ uprising in the tiny town of Meredith, N.Y., in the Catskill region 150 or so miles northwest of Manhattan. (Mind you, both are gripping stories.) It’s about the American tendency — and very likely the human tendency — to look for magic-bullet solutions to complicated social and economic problems, where none are available. It’s a microcosmic version of the political divisions — between left and right, environmentalists and free-marketers, corporations and citizens — that have virtually paralyzed our republic. It’s a reminder that whenever a virtually unregulated industry (as in this case) offers capitalists a chance to defraud the little guy and make a bundle, they’ll do it. It’s a tantalizing case study that suggests ordinary people still have the power to steer a course between faceless bureaucracies and greedy capitalists, but only just — and only if they can find a way to overcome their differences and work together.
In the abstract, wind power sounds like a good thing to nearly everybody. It relies on an essentially infinite resource, carries little or none of the obvious environmental downside of coal or oil, and presents no Fukushima-style doomsday scenario. Wind generation has become a major focus of venture capital; Israel includes video of a hearing a few years ago at which T. Boone Pickens told a congressional committee that he could imagine, in the relatively short term, 20 to 25 percent of the country’s electricity demand being fulfilled by wind and other renewables. I have no way to evaluate that claim, but the experts Israel consults in the film think it’s hokum. Given the inherently inconstant nature of wind, they argue, it’s not a stable or permanent solution to our energy crisis, and is unlikely ever to amount to more than a drop in the bucket.
Setting aside the discussion of whether it’s worthwhile to pursue wind power in the first place — and we shouldn’t really set that aside — there might be locations in the Great Plains states, the Southwest and the high western deserts where wind farms, even on the enormous scale imagined by Pickens, would do no great harm. But as people in Meredith and numerous other communities in the wind-friendly rural Northeast and Great Lakes region have discovered, living anywhere near those gargantuan wind-harnessing engines is quite a different matter. These days, the typical industrial wind turbine is around 400 feet high — the height of a 40-story building, or twice the length of a jumbo jet. The blades alone can weigh upward of 35 tons, and the entire assembly anywhere from 150 to 400 tons (resting on a platform of concrete and rebar, which itself may be 30 feet deep and weigh several hundred tons). It’s an enormous construction site, culminating in a high-voltage electrical device, that emits a 24/7 whoppa-whoppa-whoppa noise and incessant low-frequency vibration, and is topped with a brilliant flashing light. By daylight, there’s the nightmarish strobe effect — the vast rotating shadow that falls across an entire neighborhood when the turbine is between you and the sun. (While the question of whether it’s actually unhealthful to live near a turbine is unresolved, it’s definitely unpleasant.) If your neighbor put one up in her backyard without asking permission, how would you feel?
As it happens, I have a personal interest in the events and location of “Windfall,” because I spend summers in a town just a few miles from Meredith. But nothing about the town or its surrounding area (in Delaware County, N.Y., one of the poorest and least populated counties in the Northeast) is untypical of rural America. Meredith has a mix of longtime residents and big-city emigrants, and its longtime dairy-farm economy has largely collapsed in recent years, partly replaced by an unstable mixture of tourist-oriented businesses, craft initiatives and boutique organic farming. These social tensions came to the fore, predictably, during the wind-power debate, with the major landowners and dairy farmers on one side — hoping for the rather skimpy royalties paid by the corporate investors in wind — and many “recent” New York City arrivals, convinced that the region’s economic future depends on its unspoiled landscapes, on the other. (I use the scare quotes because anyone who’s lived in Delaware County less than 30 years is often viewed as a newcomer.)
People on both sides of the issue in Meredith assumed at first that the anti-turbine forces were an elitist minority, partly because the town board had always been dominated by the same landowning families, and partly because wind-power companies had signed people up to secret agreements that forbade them from discussing anything about the relationship. What ensued was a fascinating lesson in democracy (and a version of the same lesson the Tea Party and its supporters may learn later this year). After 826 people — more than half of Meredith’s total population — signed a petition opposing the town board’s pro-development policy on wind turbines, it turned out that the people who thought of themselves as the “real” residents were in the minority, and the jig was up for the wind industry in this one tiny corner of America. Yet as one newly elected board member reflects at the end of the film, nobody came out of this fight feeling good. A formerly harmonious community is now bitterly divided, and the Mitt Romney-style venture capitalists of wind power will just move on to the next town and sell their pseudo-green poisoned chalice to somebody else.
“Windfall” opens this week at the Quad Cinema in New York and the Facets Cinémathèque in Chicago. It opens Feb. 9 at the Art House Cinema 502 in Ogden, Utah, Feb. 24 at the Clinton Street Theater in Portland, Ore., and March 2 at the Northwest Film Forum in Seattle, with other cities and festival screenings to follow. It’s also available on-demand from cable, satellite and online providers, including Amazon, iTunes and VUDU.
Sundance opens with “riches to rags” story
The festival begins with the incredible true story of the tycoon, the beauty queen and their massive dream house
A still from "The Queen of Versailles"
PARK CITY, Utah — According to the mayor of this ski-resort town, which is a famous outpost of crunchy liberalism smack in the middle of the most Republican state in the union, it took the arrival of thousands of outsiders for the Sundance Film Festival to get the place back to normal. Last year the Utah Legislature passed a resolution declaring climate change a hoax, as Mayor Dana Williams told us before a Thursday night screening. Since then, Mother Nature has retaliated: It has barely snowed in the Wasatch Range this winter, leaving the region’s fabled slopes almost bare. But a day that began with drizzling rain and temperatures in the 50s ended with a healthy dose of the white stuff, while we all sat inside in overheated auditoriums watching movies.
Sundance has ditched its former tradition of having one main opening-night film, instead screening four different pictures, two American (a narrative feature and a documentary) and two foreign (ditto). This is all to the good, and avoids invidious comparisons with more Hollywood-centric festivals — but there’s little doubt this year that photographer-turned-filmmaker Lauren Greenfield’s documentary “The Queen of Versailles” was first among equals. The unbelievable-but-true story of Florida real-estate tycoon David Siegel and his ex-beauty-queen wife Jackie, who nearly went broke while trying to build the biggest house in the country, is like a Theodore Dreiser novel for our time, infused with the vivid, vulgar spirit of reality TV. It often had the sold-out Eccles Center howling, but also has elements of profound tragedy and allegory.
After everything starts to go south for the Siegels, Jackie has to take their enormous brood of children — or some of them anyway; I believe they have eight — back to her upstate New York hometown on a commercial flight. (Previously, they had gone everywhere in their private jet, of course.) But she’s still baffled when she gets to the Hertz counter at the airport in Elmira, N.Y., and asks, “Who’s my driver?” She grew up in modest middle-class circumstances and hasn’t been nosebleed-rich for that many years, but she has totally forgotten that regular people don’t have chauffeurs.
And the thing is, I never felt that Greenfield was mocking Jackie, who comes across as a likable, commonsensical middle-aged mom (albeit one with considerable, um, cosmetic enhancements) and is in many respects the heroine of the movie. She really is an ordinary person who has led a life that goes beyond the unlikely or the bizarre to the flat-out impossible. Her previous jobs included cocktail waitress and nursing-home attendant, and here she is pumping out kids and managing a 26,000-square-foot house for a sour and distracted rich guy 30 years older than her. (That’s not the uncompleted house modeled after the Palace of Versailles; that one was supposed to be 90,000 square feet.) By the end of the film, with most of the household staff laid off, Jackie’s job includes wandering around scraping dog crap off the carpeting in room after room, and discovering how many of her children’s pets have died from neglect.
David Siegel, who made his enormous fortune by selling time-share vacation rentals in places like Florida and Las Vegas (and Park City) to working- and middle-class people who couldn’t quite afford them, is apparently suing Greenfield over his portrayal in the film. Specifically, he objects to the Sundance brochure describing “Queen of Versailles” as a “riches-to-rags” story, and while I’m no lawyer, I suspect he’d have a better case if that weren’t exactly how he puts it in the movie. What David really doesn’t like, I suspect, is seeing himself on-screen as a brooding old cuss with no life outside his work and no time for his own children. He shuts himself up in a cluttered den with a widescreen TV and stacks of papers, trying to find a way to rescue both his Orlando dream house and his Vegas condo tower, now deeply underwater. (Time-share lending was essentially a species of subprime mortgage, and when credit dried up so did Siegel’s business.)
Still and all, Greenfield does allow us to see Siegel’s human qualities, especially the fact that he’s chasing the same ersatz vision of luxury, the same unattainable simulacrum of the good life, that he’s been selling to poor people one Vegas weekend at a time. He’ll probably never finish his Versailles, but even if he does it’ll have cockroaches and the same ghastly paintings of his family in pseudo-medieval finery. Siegel and his wife are of course entirely unaware that their attempt to build a replica of Versailles in Florida, and fill it with “Louis XIV-type antique furniture,” is a cruel and altogether too appropriate historical joke. But that’s really not their fault; they live in a country that has become a parody of itself.
Pick of the week: The amazing American journey of Harry Belafonte
Pick of the week: Day-O! How the singer-activist blended Caribbean shtick and fierce political passion
Harry Belafonte (Credit: HBO)
For several generations of people too young to remember the civil rights era, Harry Belafonte may seem like a baffling figure, familiar mainly from protest marches seen on television and Caribbean-shtick pop songs heard on grandma’s car radio. Who is this elderly African-American celebrity with the Italian-sounding name and the aristocratic demeanor? Why did he become famous in the first place, and why does he sometimes come off as the self-appointed radical conscience of black America? Most famously, Belafonte ignited immense controversy both within and without the black community by repeatedly suggesting that Colin Powell and Condoleezza Rice were the “house slaves” of the George W. Bush administration.
Those inflammatory remarks are not mentioned in “Sing Your Song,” the rich and fascinating new documentary about Belafonte’s life and times, which was written and directed by Susanne Rostock but has clearly been authorized and approved by Belafonte and his family. We learn a great deal about Belafonte’s central role as a towering figure of the early-’60s civil-rights movement, when he was confidant and advisor to Martin Luther King Jr. But also unmentioned are his visits to Fidel Castro in Cuba and Hugo Chávez in Venezuela, his warm relations with the Soviet leadership before the fall of communism, or his assertion that George W. Bush was a greater terrorist than those who perpetrated the 9/11 attacks.
For the record, I believe that Belafonte’s remarks about Bush are entirely defensible, if impolitic. What he has to say about Barack Obama’s first term can only be imagined, because the current president’s name, startlingly, is never uttered. (His father’s is; Barack Obama Sr. first came to the United States from Kenya by way of a Belafonte-sponsored scholarship.) I don’t bring up Belafonte’s past associations or overseas visits in order to red-bait him (as his ideological opponents have done exhaustively over the years). My point is that “Sing Your Song” is a vital document of American history, which I recommend to everyone, and also an attempt to massage the patriotic legacy of a complex and polarizing figure.
One thing Rostock’s film makes abundantly clear is the fact that Belafonte had the opportunity to become a high-profile and sometimes strident social activist because his first incarnation as a celebrity was about as wholesome and non-polarizing as a black man could possibly be. Born in Harlem but largely raised in Jamaica by his grandmother, Belafonte ultimately brought the island’s folk songs back to America as mid-’50s pop-calypso hits like “Matilda,” “Man Smart (Woman Smarter)” and of course “Banana Boat Song,” which you’ve definitely heard even if you don’t know what it’s called. (Irrelevant footnote: Belafonte’s story speaks to me personally in all sorts of ways, but partly because it parallels that of my own father, who was born in the same month of 1927 a few dozen blocks to the north, and then was sent back to his own grandmother on a somewhat colder island.) With his trademark tight pants and unbuttoned shirt, the muscular Belafonte became a sex symbol to millions of white women and girls at a time when interracial marriage was still impossible in many states, and toured with a mixed-race folk group to cities where black audiences had to watch from the balcony.
I realize this is stretching a little, but Belafonte in the ’50s — viewed strictly as a cultural archetype — was something like an early version of Obama, an articulate and handsome light-skinned African-American who spoke standard English better than most white people did. (To this day, Belafonte’s pronunciation of the word “theater” is redolent with cultural specificity; he says it as Bette Davis or Lynn Redgrave would have.) But as Belafonte himself explains it in the film, his path to stardom was at least partly calculated. Near the beginning of his performing career as a folk singer, he remembers, his idol Paul Robeson came to see him backstage at the Village Vanguard and told him: “Get them to sing your song, and they’ll want to know who you are.”
If anything, “Sing Your Song” may convey the impression that Belafonte’s career as a pop singer and stage and film actor — a shameless ham, it must be said — was simply a means to an end, a tool to be used against Jim Crow and apartheid and other forms of racism and injustice around the world. While I suppose it’s true that Belafonte’s close working friendship with King, or his later relationships with Nelson Mandela and Jean-Bertrand Aristide, may weigh more in the scales of history than “Banana Boat Song,” he honestly may be selling himself a little short. Sure, some of Belafonte’s calypso numbers may be cheesy, but he was a generous singer with a huge spirit, who pioneered multiculturalism and “world music” long before anyone used those words. The performers he introduced to mainstream audiences included Odetta, Nana Mouskouri and, most famously, Miriam Makeba — and his 1962 album “Midnight Special” featured a then-unknown harmonica player named Bob Dylan. (In the movie, you’ll watch him perform “Hava Nagila” on network TV in 1959, which became part of his concert repertoire for years. You can think that’s silly or think it’s awesome; I vote for both.)
Belafonte’s early association with Robeson (who was without doubt a communist) will raise in some viewers’ minds the long-cherished right-wing assumption that Belafonte was or is a treacherous Red seeking to destroy the American way of life. Even bracketing the fact that the two things are not connected — most American communists were not traitors, just as most American Muslims do not support terrorism — the evidence is pretty thin. Even the right-wing investigative site Discover the Networks can go no further than claims that Belafonte was “aligned with the Communist Left” and that he “views America as an evil and profoundly racist nation.” Depending on your definition of “evil,” those vague and disputable terms could be used to describe all kinds of people, from Cornel West to Noam Chomsky to Roger Ebert (to me).
“Sing Your Song” never addresses these allegations directly, other than sourcing most of the FBI’s files on Belafonte to a shadowy figure named Jay Richard Kennedy (aka Samuel Solomonick), a one-time Communist Party insider turned showbiz executive and government informant. Kennedy was Belafonte’s manager for several years — while his wife served as Belafonte’s therapist! — and the two of them apparently fed the FBI some ludicrous “Manchurian Candidate” line about Belafonte being a double agent “controlled by Peking.” My Internet searches suggest that at least one academic is trying to write a book about Kennedy/Solomonick, and I can’t wait to read that one.
I don’t support everything Belafonte has ever said or done, but he’s a hugely important American dissident who’s been on the right side way more often than the wrong one, and who pioneered a path followed by many other activist celebrities, from Marlon Brando to Sean Penn and beyond. Even in this carefully staged self-portrait, we meet a man in his 80s who is aware of his failings as a husband and father (although his two youngest children, David and Gina, helped produce the film) and plagued by the thought that all his labors against tyranny and injustice have not nearly been enough. On one hand, he comes off as boundlessly optimistic, seeking to hand off the torch of rebellion to a new generation; on the other, since the 1980s he seems to have hardened and grown less tolerant of politics. He declined to attend Mandela’s inauguration as president of South Africa because of his rift with Bill and Hillary Clinton, and declined to attend Coretta Scott King’s funeral because Bush would be there.
With his physical health precarious, Belafonte keeps touring the globe, meeting with European hip-hop artists, L.A. gang members, prison inmates, Native American leaders and his own council of African-American “elders,” in search of some resolution or program that might reverse the global tide of neoliberal capitalism and pseudo-democratic police states. He’s a hero, all right, but not the kind who gets to ride triumphantly into the sunset at story’s end. More like the hero of a long-running tragedy, the kind of hero once summarized this way by the English socialist William Morris: “Men fight and lose the battle, and the thing that they fought for comes about in spite of their defeat, and when it comes turns out not to be what they meant.”
“Sing Your Song” opens this week at the IFC Center in New York and the Playhouse 7 in Pasadena, Calif. It opens Jan. 20 in Santa Fe, N.M.; Jan. 27 in Portland, Ore., San Francisco and Seattle; Feb. 3 in Denver; Feb. 10 in Albuquerque, N.M., and Bellingham, Wash.; Feb. 12 in Montgomery, Ala.; Feb. 17 in Hartford, Conn.; and March 16 in Minneapolis, with other screenings and venues to be announced.
Page 1 of 39 in Documentaries
Failure 
Arrested Development - Occupy Style 
Back from Burma (or is that Myamar) 
Do we still need Black History Month? 
Trench warfare rages over Keystone pipeline 
An offensive advocate for LGBT rights 
Why Ron Paul is still relevant 
The deep roots of the war on contraception 
Our stubborn faith in aphrodisiacs 
Did the war on drugs kill Whitney Houston? 
Why everyone is still writing off Santorum 
The hysterical American decline 
Occupy Valentine’s Day 
