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THE OSCAR FOR REALISM GOES TO...| PAGE 2 OF 2 As Steiger pointed out last winter at a Long Island symposium on the film, the emerging mutual respect between the two men, based on their abilities as policemen, becomes far more important than their differences of race. The two are also alike in their frailties and prejudices, which, as in life, are complex and resist the crude, broad strokes Steven Spielberg used to paint "Amistad." When the two cops discover that a suspect in the murder is a wealthy businessman who is opening a factory that would mean jobs for blacks, Gillespie notes that it should be of particular interest to Tibbs. "These are your people, Virgil," he says. In what is no doubt shocking to modern ears accustomed to the plaints of "diversity," Virgil rebukes him. "Not my people -- yours," he snaps. Tibbs' line, lest we forget, is not about racism toward his "own people," but about what were profound differences between Northerners and Southerners, whether black or white. In his book "The True and Only Heaven: Progress and Its Critics," the late historian Christopher Lasch noted that the modern civil rights movement was based in large part on Martin Luther King Jr.'s appeal to whites as fellow Southerners. Lasch describes how Leslie Dunbar, a white civil rights activist, attended a White House reception for civil rights activists and listened to Southern accents "buzzing hungrily" over the barbecued ribs. Dunbar couldn't help but notice, he later wrote, the "fraternity of white and black that for the moment makes every Northern white man and every Northern Negro ... an outsider." It is the difference of geography, as much as skin color, that separates the Philadelphian Tibbs -- who wears a suit like nobody's business -- and Mississippian Gillespie. Such nuance is lost in our era, when films like "A Time to Kill" and self-flagellation fests like Clinton's commission on race depict race relations in TV terms, as a simple struggle between soulful, righteous blacks and KKK goons who show up on "Geraldo." This kind of paternalism ignores history and the surprisingly high level of goodwill that existed between the races, at least compared to today's climate of hysteria. Setting up straw men reduces blacks to figures of pity or elevates them to superhuman nobility rather than allowing them to be human beings, with the same strengths and flaws as whites. In treating Tibbs as a man with depth regardless of his skin color, "In the Heat of the Night" was more sophisticated, and realistic, than our supposedly more enlightened age. When Tibbs, ignoring all his better leads, goes after a suspect who is a white racist, threatening to "drag this cat off his hill," Gillespie looks at him with shock. "Man," he says to Tibbs, "you're just like the rest of us." When Virgil learns that the racist is innocent, he admits that his desire to haul him down was erroneously based on "personal reasons" -- a racially motivated desire for revenge. This kind of admission makes Tibbs vulnerable and more human than a thousand sensitivity seminars could. Imagine Jesse Jackson admitting such a thing. Steiger's Gillespie, too, flowers into a recognizable human being rather than a cartoon figure served up for liberal denunciation. Acknowledging that the factory opening would help Tibbs' "people," Gillespie reveals an awareness of race-based economic oppression without pontificating like a Murphy Brown. Gillespie also concedes that Tibbs is the sharper mind, proven by the fact that Tibbs solves the murder. The two come closest together near the end of the film as they share a drink at Gillespie's house. They both talk about how they miss women, and for a second are communicating as nothing more than men. But only for a second. Irritated when Tibbs says he is no lonelier than Gillespie -- a truly equalizing gesture -- Gillespie blows up, calling Tibbs a "boy," and telling him he doesn't need his sympathy. Tibbs leaves the house, spitting that he's going "where whitey isn't allowed." Were "In the Heat of the Night" made today, the scene would have ended with a warm and fuzzy hug or a crowd pleasing punch-out of Gillespie. It is a tribute to the writers and director Norman Jewison that they resisted the treacle, opting to stay true to the fragile, imperfect humanity of the characters. In doing so, the filmmakers reveal a respect for the intelligence of the moviegoing audience -- an audience that these days has both politics and emotions rammed down its throat by bam-bam directors like Spielberg and Oliver Stone.
In the final scene at the train station where Gillespie drops Tibbs off,
the sheriff calls to him, "Take care, y'hear?" They look at each other for
a moment, then both men smile. In this delicate exchange, the two
characters see each other not as stereotypes but, for better or worse, as
human beings. There's a lesson here for today's Hollywood mythmakers and
race merchants.
Mark Gauvreau Judge has written for the Washington Post, the Weekly Standard and the New York Press. He is the author of "Wasted: Tales of a Gen-X Drunk" (Hazelden). |
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