Tokens of Affection

[July 3rd, 2002] If film is a reflection of life, what does it mean when the highest-grossing films of the last 12 months--Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Spider-Man, Attack of the Clones--have either had no black characters or only minor/token black characters? Could it mean that African Americans lack power in this country? Could it be that African Americans, who represent a disproportionately high percentage of moviegoers--almost one-third of the motion-picture audience--are being marginalized and getting screwed? But occasionally, just as in life, Hollywood will feign redemption with images of integration designed to relieve guilt for the banks packed with black dollars.

This week will see the release of Men in Black II, the latest in the now well-established buddy genre. Little more than a simple variation on the old Abbott and Costello comedies, and Paramount's pair-offs (Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin), the buddy film traditionally features two polar opposites, working together to accomplish similar goals and, by the end, growing to respect on another. And what's more opposite than black and white?

The origins of what is now considered the traditional buddy film can be found in the late '50s and early '60s, as America was facing its most difficult trials and tribulations, racially speaking. When Sidney Poitier starred opposite Tony Curtis in 1958's The Defiant Ones, it lay the groundwork for Hollywood's most effective weapon in dealing with the black audience. In The Defiant Ones, and the subsequent In The Heat of the Night, Poitier defined the archetype of the black buddy--the Nurturing Negro who helps the white protagonist overcome his weaknesses, especially his bigotry.

After a brief respite during the '70s, when the blaxploitation genre briefly allowed black action heroes to go into battle solo, the buddy picture came into its own the following decade. Hollywood was desperate to keep the African-American audiences with black films like The Mack and Foxy Brown, while at the same time determined not to alienate its own--white people.

The result was the resurgence of the buddy film; or more appropriately, what I like to call the "affirmative-action action film." Hollywood was able to include "safe" black characters that didn't threaten the sensibilities of its white audiences in Topeka. Ultimately, these safe black characters gave white America what it wanted most in its people of color: a loyal compatriot who, if need be, was willing to die for them. More important than that, Hollywood needed films that could make money in foreign markets, which studio executives are always quick to point out "don't buy black."

Now, don't get me wrong: I love a good action film as much as the next person. But the affirmative-action action hero isn't bringing much to the table. More often than not, the black buddy comes in two garden varieties. First is the wise-cracking, street smart soul brotha--think Eddie Murphy in 48 Hours, Richard Pryor in Stir Crazy or Chris Rock in Bad Company. More often than not, these guys are Tonto to some white actor's Lone Ranger. The other black buddy is the wise mentor--Danny Glover in the Lethal Weapon films and Morgan Freeman in everything--who, like the runaway slave Jim in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, teaches valuable lessons to his younger, white counterpart.

The unprecedented box office success of Stir Crazy and 48 Hours led to a formulaic integration of movies and television. The ensuing onslaught of films like the popular Lethal Weapon series (with Mel Gibson and Glover)--not to mention television's Miami Vice (with Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas)--would solidify the foundation of the buddy genre.

Over the years, the buddy film has continued to grow; although the growth has been more in terms of box-office revenue than any sort of artistic merit. Nearly all of the film industry's leading black men--Murphy, Glover, Will Smith, Wesley Snipes--made their mark in the genre, which paved the way for future solo projects.

The significance of these films beyond financial impact should not be underestimated. If nothing else, they feed the illusion of a racially diverse motion-picture industry, and in doing so, reflect an Ebony and Ivory sort of brotherly love in America that doesn't exist.

But short of providing the most visceral of entertainment, these films serve little purpose. If anything, they do more damage to the furtherance of black film: As long as buddy films continue to capture the dollars of black audiences, there is no need to produce films that cater to the needs of those audiences, who are often starved to see images of their people on the screen.

Here's where we start to tread upon dangerous ground. There are those that will argue that films like Waiting to Exhale or The Brothers, which cater more specifically to minority audiences, are too exclusive and don't promote the sort of diversity that this country needs to achieve its We Are the World, hand-holding dreams. Well, that exclusivity--a luxury afforded to white people in this country on a daily basis--is something a lot of people who aren't white heterosexual men have never enjoyed.

Hollywood will continue to make buddy films, for better but mostly for worse, because they tend to be a sure bet. But if the incredible success of the Rush Hour films starring Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker is any indication of the genre's future, then perhaps someday it will be white people who are Hollywood's necessary evil. And since film is a reflection of life, what will that mean?