By Charles Taylor
By Chris Klimek
By Chris Klimek
By Amy Nicholson
By Amy Nicholson
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
When filmmaker Mario Van Peebles spoke at Texas Southern University last fall, he emphasized the problem of black filmmakers' "second movie" -- that is, the one they make outside the hood. He spoke in the wake of John Singleton's Poetic Justice, which opened to high expectations and big first-weekend money, then withered at the box office. Van Peebles told his African American audience that if they wanted to see on-screen black people outside of the kill-or-be-killed mode, they should support more gentle and well-rounded films with the same enthusiasm they had shown for, say, his New Jack City.
But should is a deadly word where moviegoers of any race are concerned. One of the most vital American films of the '80s, The Right Stuff, flopped financially because viewers feared they were being invited to a history lesson. Malcolm X underperformed in part for the same reason.
Should is an equally deadly word for a filmmaker. It may have taken John Singleton out of the ghetto, but it also took him into a terrain he apparently wasn't ready to explore.
Now two more black filmmakers, Matty Rich and Ernest Dickerson, are facing the should beast. Both have recently released their second films, and in both movies the directors have ventured well outside the safe (cinematically safe, at least) confines of their respective Fort Apaches. Beyond that, though, Rich and Dickerson are more different than alike. Though they both debuted with despairing looks at ghetto violence, in their second outings the two travel quite different paths.
The most dramatic shift of focus comes with Matty Rich's film. Rich is, or was, a child prodigy. Essentially a self-taught filmmaker, he wrote and directed his personal coming-of-age story, Straight Out of Brooklyn, at age 19. Not surprisingly, the film has so many rough edges that it might have poked critics' eyes out had it not caught the black filmmaker wave. But in its depiction of a troubled father-son relationship, Straight Out of Brooklyn does show heart, even if it lacks technique. And that Rich produced any kind of coherent film under his circumstances was remarkable. That could be the reason Touchstone took a chance on him; with The Inkwell they gave him a coming-of-age story set in 1976 in a bourgeois black beach community on Mar-tha's Vineyard. Simply learning that such a community existed, and exists, is just about worth the price of admission.
Unlike Rich, Ernest Dickerson has been shooting movies for years -- as Spike Lee's longtime cameraman. But his first time in the director's chair was with 1992's Juice, a trapped-in-the-ghetto story that didn't add much to the genre. In his sophomore film, Surviving the Game, he's again on the mean streets, at least at the start, but he lets us know right away that his game has changed. He presents the dreadlocked Ice-T not as a hood but as a righteous black man, homeless, maybe, but filled with compassion. Ice-T's character, a man of the '90s named Mason, is plenty aware of racism, but he's not embittered. A wheezing old white man is his best friend. But before long, Mason's fragile street life falls apart, and two benefactors scoop him up and carry him into the woods of the Pacific Northwest, which is even farther from the ghetto than Martha's Vineyard is.
Unfortunately, long before Mason sets foot in the wilderness, we realize that Dickerson's film is merely another remake of The Most Dangerous Game, and a particularly silly one at that. Sur-viving the Game should be punctuated with a question mark.
Boiled down to its high concept, Rich's Inkwell is no more original than Dickerson's Surviving the Game. In fact, if its characters were white, the movie would qualify as an after-school special (if you cut the Straight Out of the Summer of '42 sexual initiation story, that is). But Rich manages to balance his broad race questions with an actual story. He's still not the smoothest director around -- his narrative loses its way at times, and he doesn't make his actors work hard enough -- but he does show that he can get his mind around a number of issues.
Inkwell's central character is Drew (Larenz Tate), a teenager who isn't growing up as fast as his ex-Black Panther father (Joe Morton) would like. The story implies that his parents' rocky relationship makes young Drew want to hang on to his inner child. Kenny, the father, has never gotten over the fact that not only was the revolution never televised, it never happened. Kenny agrees to take Drew to visit his maternal, and very Republican, grandparents on Martha's Vineyard, but he's not happy about it. Once there, Kenny and his wealthy brother-in-law, Spencer (Glynn Turman), resume a long-standing battle about the black man's place in America. You know there'll be trouble when you see a portrait of Richard Nixon hanging in Spencer's living room.
Kenny sneers at the comfortable black sunbathers as "sell-outs"; Spencer defends them by saying they've made the American Dream real for blacks. Turman makes his character work by punctuating the statement with a cynical laugh, which both undermines his little speech and mocks Kenny for taking life so seriously.
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