Not P but Baldwin

[Allan Balliett]

It's been a long wait but the film ("I am Not Your Negro")  about James
Baldwin's unfinished final book has gone to DVD and streaming. You can
stream it at both iTunes and Amazon. If you have Amazon Prime, you can
stream it for free! Here
<https://www.amazon.com/I-Am-Not-Your-Negro/dp/B01N6Q00JM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1498347244&sr=8-1&keywords=i+am+not+your+negro>

I've watched about a third of it (will watch the rest this evening) and
have to admit that, yes, it is a life changing film. It also has reminded
me how careless I have been to not think of James Baldwin for all these
decades.

-Allan in Shepherdstown, WV where we are so progressive we've given Blacks
two sides of town

*I Am Not Your Negro” is a thrilling introduction to his work, a remedial
> course in American history, and an advanced seminar in racial politics — a
> concise, roughly 90-minute movie with the scope and impact of a 10-hour
> mini-series or a literary doorstop. It is not an easy or a consoling movie,
> but it is the opposite of bitter or despairing. “I can’t be a pessimist
> because I’m alive,” Baldwin said. “I’m forced to be an optimist.” AO Scott*


AO Scott's Review is at http://bit.ly/legacyNword (or below)

 A few weeks ago, in reaction to something we had written about blackness
and whiteness in recent movies, my colleague Manohla Dargis and I received
a note from a reader. “Since when is everything about race?” he wanted to
know. Perhaps it was a rhetorical question.

A flippant — though by no means inaccurate — answer would have been 1619.
But a more constructive response might have been to recommend Raoul Peck’s
life-altering new documentary, “I Am Not Your Negro.” Let me do so now, for
that reader (if he’s still interested) and for everybody else, too.
Whatever you think about the past and future of what used to be called
“race relations” — white supremacy and the resistance to it, in plainer
English — this movie will make you think again, and may even change your
mind. Though its principal figure, the novelist, playwright and essayist
James Baldwin, is a man who has been dead for nearly 30 years, you would be
hard-pressed to find a movie that speaks to the present moment with greater
clarity and force, insisting on uncomfortable truths and drawing stark
lessons from the shadows of history.

To call “I Am Not Your Negro” a movie about James Baldwin would be to
understate Mr. Peck’s achievement. It’s more of a posthumous collaboration,
an uncanny and thrilling communion between the filmmaker — whose previous
work includes both a documentary and a narrative feature about the
Congolese anti-colonialist leader Patrice Lumumba — and his subject. The
voice-over narration (read by Samuel L. Jackson) is entirely drawn from
Baldwin’s work. Much of it comes from notes and letters written in the
mid-1970s, when Baldwin was somewhat reluctantly sketching out a book,
never to be completed, about the lives and deaths of Medgar Evers, Malcolm
X and Martin Luther King Jr.

Reflections on those men (all of whom Baldwin knew well) and their legacies
are interspersed with passages from other books and essays, notably “The
Devil Finds Work,” Baldwin’s 1976 meditation on race, Hollywood and the
mythology of white innocence. His published and unpublished words — some of
the most powerful and penetrating ever assembled on the tortured subject of
American identity — accompany images from old talk shows and news reports,
from classic movies and from our own decidedly non-post-racial present.


Baldwin could not have known about Ferguson and Black Lives Matter, about
the presidency of Barack Obama and the recrudescence of white nationalism
in its wake, but in a sense he explained it all in advance. He understood
the deep, contradictory patterns of our history, and articulated, with a
passion and clarity that few others have matched, the psychological
dimensions of racial conflict: the suppression of black humanity under
slavery and Jim Crow and the insistence on it in African-American politics
and art; the dialectic of guilt and rage, forgiveness and denial that
distorts relations between black and white citizens in the North as well as
the South; the lengths that white people will go to wash themselves clean
of their complicity in oppression.

Baldwin is a double character in Mr. Peck’s film. The elegance and gravity
of his formal prose, and the gravelly authority of Mr. Jackson’s voice,
stand in contrast to his quicksilver on-camera presence as a lecturer and
television guest. In his skinny tie and narrow suit, an omnipresent
cigarette between his fingers, he imports a touch of midcentury
intellectual cool into our overheated, anti-intellectual media moment.

A former child preacher, he remained a natural, if somewhat reluctant,
performer — a master of the heavy sigh, the raised eyebrow and the
rhetorical flourish. At one point, on “The Dick Cavett Show,” Baldwin
tangles with Paul Weiss, a Yale philosophy professor who scolds him for
dwelling so much on racial issues. The initial spectacle of mediocrity
condescending to genius is painful, but the subsequent triumph of
self-taught brilliance over credentialed ignorance is thrilling to witness.

In that exchange, as in a speech for an audience of British university
students, you are aware of Baldwin’s profound weariness. He must explain
himself — and also his country — again and again, with what must have been
sorely tested patience. When the students erupt in a standing ovation at
the end of his remarks, Baldwin looks surprised, even flustered. You
glimpse an aspect of his personality that was often evident in his writing:
the vulnerable, bright, ambitious man thrust into a public role that was
not always comfortable.

“I want to be an honest man and a good writer,” he wrote early in his
career, in the introductory note to his first collection of essays, “Notes
of a Native Son.” The disarming, intimate candor of that statement
characterized much of what would follow, as would a reckoning with the
difficulties of living up to such apparently straightforward aspirations.
Without sliding into confessional bathos, his voice was always personal and
frank, creating in the reader a feeling of complicity, of shared knowledge
and knowing humor.

“I Am Not Your Negro” reproduces and redoubles this effect. It doesn’t just
make you aware of Baldwin, or hold him up as a figure to be admired from a
distance. You feel entirely in his presence, hanging on his every word,
following the implications of his ideas as they travel from his experience
to yours. At the end of the movie, you are convinced that you know him.
And, more important, that he knows you. To read Baldwin is to be read by
him, to feel the glow of his affection, the sting of his scorn, the weight
of his disappointment, the gift of his trust.

Recounting his visits to the South, where he reported on the civil rights
movement and the murderous white response to it, Baldwin modestly described
himself as a witness, a watchful presence on the sidelines of tragedy and
heroism, an outsider by virtue of his Northern origins, his sexuality and
his alienation from the Christianity of his childhood. But he was also a
prophet, able to see the truths revealed by the contingent, complicated
actions of ordinary people on both sides of the conflict. This is not to
say that he transcended the struggle or detached himself from it. On the
contrary, he demonstrated that writing well and thinking clearly are
manifestations of commitment, and that irony, skepticism and a ruthless
critical spirit are necessary tools for effective moral and political
action.

“I Am Not Your Negro” is a thrilling introduction to his work, a remedial
course in American history, and an advanced seminar in racial politics — a
concise, roughly 90-minute movie with the scope and impact of a 10-hour
mini-series or a literary doorstop. It is not an easy or a consoling movie,
but it is the opposite of bitter or despairing. “I can’t be a pessimist
because I’m alive,” Baldwin said. “I’m forced to be an optimist.”
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