content analysis

Eula Biss writes beautifully in the February issue of The Believer (which I am always slow to read despite subscribing) about fear and racism and being a so-called “pioneer” in a “bad neighborhood.”  She compares the experience of Laura Ingalls Wilder and Wilder’s “ambivalence” and “sense of loss” in displacing American Indians with Biss’s own experience as a pioneer in a racially and economically mixed neighborhood. In describing her initial experiences, Biss writes,

During my first weeks in Rogers Park, I was surprised by how often I heard the word pioneer. I heard it first from the white owner of an antiques shop with signs in the windows that read WARNING, YOU ARE BEING WATCHED AND RECORDED. When I stopped off in his shop, he welcomed me to the neighborhood warmly and delivered an introductory speech dense with code. This was a “pioneering neighborhood,” he told me, and it needed “more people like you.” He and other “people like us” were gradually “lifting it up.”

Understandably, Biss is frustrated with the word “pioneer,” and comments,

The word pioneer betrays a disturbing willingness to repeat the worst mistake of the pioneers of the American West—the mistake of considering an inhabited place uninhabited. To imagine oneself as a pioneer in a place as densely populated as Chicago is either to deny the existence of your neighbors or to cast them as natives who must be displaced. Either way, it is a hostile fantasy.

In catching up with my TV watching while sweating like a beast on the treadmill, I saw this highly disturbing segment from the TV version of the ever brilliant This American Life.

I realize that a tremendous amount of research has documented gentrification in American cities and many of its ugly consequences. But these two bits of media put the issue in particularly stark relief for me. I personally have had some experience with some of what Biss writes about in Park Slope, Brooklyn, where organic food coops and pricey boutique knick-knack stores slowly morph into un-ironic dollar stores and frequently held-up KFCs.

With young people returning to cities in recent years, we can only expect these unspoken tensions and sometimes open hostilities to expand. What to do about it is a very difficult question. Of course, city council members are all too eager to see neighborhoods “redeveloped.” And many of the so-called pioneers deserve some sympathy. Lot of them are college graduates who were promised that there would be professional jobs upon graduation, but have had to resort to living in a cheap apartment, working for a temp agency, and sheepishly borrowing money from their parents to pay bills. On the other hand, what are poor families to do? At one point, a young black boy on a bike shouts out to Biss, “Don’t be afraid of us!” How heartbreaking that young kid should have to grow up with the idea that he is by birth a person feared in his own neighborhood.

Be Kind, Rewind (2008)
Director: Michel Gondry

I’ve been told by several friends that this movie is a mess, that the ending is abrupt, that there is no core theme of the film. But after seeing BKR this weekend, I respectfully disagree. BKR takes on several important issues – of community, art, and authenticity – in a brilliant and sensitive manner. Unlike the many reviews available online, I will focus less on the plot of the movie and more on the social and artistic questions it raises. Don’t worry, I’ll avoid any major spoilers.

BKR is set in Passaic, NJ, a declining, semi-urban, multi-racial city. As many reviewers have observed, director Michel Gondry clearly learned a lesson about community from shooting Dave Chappelle’s Block Party (2005). The community depicted here is a vital one with strong social ties and many eyes on the street. Most of the residents are black, but a few middle aged or elderly white folks are still hanging in there (perhaps, holdovers from a better time for the neighborhood). One of the great successes of the film is how natural and realistic the interactions between community members are. Jack Black and Mos Def’s joyful give-and-take with neighborhood kids and slightly tense stand-offs with local teens in hooded sweatshirts are among the best scenes in the movie.

Many of the characteristics of black neighborhoods documented in ethnographies by Elijah Anderson and others can be seen here. For example, Mr. Fletcher (Danny Glover) and Mike (Mos Def) encourage the neighborhood youths to appreciate black heroes (particularly Fats Waller) and the local black history. In Code of the Street, Anderson discusses how black “old heads” serve to remind black youth of their history and encourage moral behavior. However, as Anderson notes, the authority of old heads is declining and this, too, can be seen in the movie. Mr. Fletcher seems to have lost some of the authority he once had and is conflicted about how to best serve the community. The Passaic City Council wants to demolish the historical building where Mr. Fletcher’s video store is located and replace it with an ugly and generic looking housing development. Though Mr. Fletcher is troubled by the arrival of a corporate video store into the neighborhood, he also tries to steal their core ideas (DVDs only, action/adventure and comedies only, uniforms, etc.) to keep his store alive.

Like many real black neighborhoods, the future of the one in the movie is threatened by an influx of corporate retailers and gentrifying housing developments. As the current residents are displaced, they will likely end up in housing projects elsewhere in the city. At one point, a City Planning official without a hint of irony says, “The projects can be really nice.” As Jerry (Jack Black) reminds Mike, there is no future here for the low income, primarily black residents. Despite these tough odds, BKR is a celebration of the community. When certain truths are revealed about Mr. Fletcher and the neighborhood’s undistinguished past, the entire community pitches in to preserve the local history and pride.

As comment on art, particularly film, Gondry presents complex portrait. After a magnetized Jerry, renders the store’s entire collection of videos blank, he and Mike set out to recreate the 80s and 90s movies. Ultimately creating a market for their recreated films, the duo creatively remakes dozens of big budget Hollywood movies on a non-existent budget. Among the remakes are Ghostbusters, Rush Hour II, Boyz n’ the Hood, Driving Miss Daisy, The Lion King, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and Men in Black. Gondry’s (or Mike and Jerry’s, as the plot would have it) genuisy low budget remakes reveal his own love for these big budget, Hollywood popcorn flicks. Yet, at the same time, the recreations also reflect a deep and abiding passion for importance of the artist as an auteur. Gondry, a popular artist often working on the edge of the avant-garde, clearly believes that today’s jaded audiences seek an authenticity unavailable in sleek, homogenized movies. The creative, independent artist can produce something far more meaningful and beautiful to people.

I was reminded of David Grazian’s Blue Chicago: The Search for Authenticity in Urban Blues Clubs (2003). In that book, Grazian argues that the need of blues musicians to manufacture “authentic” performances ultimately affects the nature of the performance itself. While audiences in a largely standardized world seek out the authentic, that very search can end up homogenizing the authentic cultural products. Gondry’s movie depicts an artist creating work that is both original and authentic (even if most of Mike’s movies are remakes). However, I couldn’t help but think that, in reality, The New York Times cover the clever filmmaking team in short order. In a matter of days, Mike could be on a plane to L.A. and signing a deal to make big-budget films. The studios would seek to co-opt and resell that authentic work. And one of the few remaining bright lights would be yanked out of the already struggling community.

CA Rating: **** (out of 5 stars)