Kansas City here I come!

This week's jazz film gave us yet another view of that crazy, wild, zany thing called jazz. Yes, the jazz world is a world full of scary people. Gangsters, even! A world where loose women abound, women who will do anything for their man. And, of course, jazz is a world of questionable morals. But we already knew that. And when we get to class we'll have a great chat about how it's really not that simplistic and all that jazz (oh, such a bad pun, and yet I had to do it).

What I think is particularly interesting about the film this week is the cultural context during the making of the film. By 1996 jazz is cannonized. Wynton Marsalis is a household name (okay, maybe not household, but he's pretty up there). And no one will complain about hearing "sin" music over the speakers at the local Star Bucks. Yet, Kansas City still falls into giving a stereotypical portrayal of jazz music.

Of course, it should be noted that Kansas City has its own particular share in the development of jazz. As it does its own peculiar history with political machines, corrupted government officials, etc. This is, after all, the city of Bonnie and Clyde and the Kansas City Massacre (both during the 1930s). It's particularly interesting to note that Kansas City's virtual lack of enforcement of prohibition has been linked to not only the rise in Kansas City Jazz, but also in the Kansas City Mob and organized crime. hmmm... Coincidence? Not according to this semester's jazz films.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say with this brief history lesson is that perhaps the portrayal of jazz and the crazy world that jazz surrounds in Kansas City is more telling of the city's own history with violence. Maybe jazz, in this case, is the victim--not the perpetrator.

Trumpet: The Musical Phallus

There is no question to what the trumpet represents in Spike Lee's "Mo' Better Blues." The opening credits' "sexy" portrayal of the trumpet set up the basis for the instrument's symbolism for the rest of the narrative. If the viewer didn't realize that the trumpet was indeed suppossed to be sexy in those opening scenes, then the first sex scene of the film tells it all. When Clarke comes to see Bleek during his practice hours, and they decide to have sex, the trumpet is the visible phallus of the scene--just look where it is being held.

Clarke is an interesting character in this film. She is a foil for Indigo, the "other" woman, the one you definitely don't want Bleek to end up with. I'm not sure how I feel about her encoutners with Bleek. Does she love him? Or is she merely there to get her foot in the jazz door? There is the fact that she is constantly coming to see Bleek during his practice hours. I can't help but think that this is Clarke's way of wanting Bleek to choose her over his music. I hope that is the case. If so, her character is much more complex. She is then no longer the girl that's only after the musician to get what she can from him.

Indigo is, of course, the woman who we are supossed to want Bleek to end up with. And, to our satisfaction, he does. Of course, the way Spike Lee resolves the film's events, Bleek's marriage to Indigo falls short of satisfaction. Does Bleek love Indigo? Or is he merely looking for a way to salvage some part of his failed life? The final scene in the movie, where Bleek's son, little Miles, is practicing his horn (an identical scene to the film's opening) certainly seems to support the idea that Miles is Bleek's real salvation. Is Indigo, then, only a means to an end?

It should be noted that there are some distinct differences in the opening and ending scenes. In the beginning, Bleek is not allowed to go out and play until he is done with his lesson. In the end, however, Bleek decides to let Miles go out and play. Of course, we're supossed to understand that Bleek is changing the cycle for Miles. Miles will, undoubtedly, grow up to live up to his namesake. So, maybe I'm just stating the obvious. Then again, I think Spike Lee was careful not to leave any loopholes. He knows exactly what he wants you to think about the film. And, for the most part, does a pretty good job of that.

I want to make a case for the use of color in this film. It seems to me that the use of color carries more significance than to merely appeal to visual aesthetics. Just think, for example, of Night Shyamalan's use of red in his movies. I bring this up because it seems to me that the times when the use of brivant colors really comes into play is when the action is focused at the night club, where all the real jazz happens. Think, for a moment, about the last scene we see in the night club, right before Bleek looses his lip. The action that takes place outside the nightclub, while Giant is getting beat up are completely blue. Meanwhile, the action inside, where Bleek's ultimate vituosity is being displayed is almost entirely in red. And those two colors are the most prevalent in the film. Either something is blue or something is red. I'm not sure what that means, but, as I sated before, I really don't think that it should be simply dismissed as pretty visuals.

Oops! They did it again...

Round Midnight presents some of the same issues we've had to face with other films we've watched in class. I'll start with the narrative. Although there were times when the movie was quiet entertaining, the over all narrative seemed very disjointed. It was often difficult to follow the action--especially as oftentimes it seemed that there really was no "action," but more a stringing-together of performances and "happenings" (?). The overall pace of the narrative only made it more difficult to follow. It was very slow, something that Dexter Gordon's perfomance heightened. Maybe it did not make it difficult to follow as much as it made it difficult to stay interested.

What I did find interesting was the use of the black and white "home movie" motif used intermittently throughout the film. Clearly, its goal was to provide the movie with a "documentary" feel, to lend the story more authenticity and ground it reality. I thought it managed that quite well.

The presence of the white male protagonist was also something that this week's film had in common with previous films we've watched. In Round Midnight, it is a white man that comes to the rescue. I thought it was interesting that our Frenchman, Francis, is able to acchieve what the black community cannot. It is only after Francis takes Dale to live with him that Dale is able to take control of his drinking, become financially responsible, and press on artistically. I also feel that Francis' interests in Dale are somewhat selfish. It seems like the reason it is so important that Dale succeed, is because without Dale's inspiring music, Francis cannot be successful--something clearly depicted in the movie.

The depiction of Dale Turner is altogether discomforting. This incredibly talented musician, who is able to create music that inspires art in others, is treated like a child--and depicted as such. Even in the previous films we've seen before where jazz artists are portrayed as needing "supervision," I feel that it is not as extreme as this film shows. Take Billie Holiday, for example. Even though "Lady Sings the Blues" clearly showed her as being dependent on her relationship with her husband, people didn't feel like they couldn't keep her out their sight. That is not the case with Dale Turner. In the film, Buttercup states it frankly, "you're like a child," she says, "can't let you out of my sight for a second." (or something to that effect).

On the up side, Herbie Hancock's score was beautiful. :)

All in all, I felt the point that the film was trying to get across was that bebop is an artform that should be appreciated and respected. Dale Turner's final monologue expresses the entire premise of the film.

Sun Ra & the Plan for Salvation of the Black Race

There is so much that can be said about this film. That said, please excuse the "stream of consciousness" nature of this blog.

I think the action and the music in this film reflect each other perfectly. There were no surprises in the score as there have been in previous films we've watched this semester. Free jazz, in this case, made the perfect soundtrack; it made sense. I mean, what else could depict sci-fi of the 50s and 60s meets the apocaliptic films of the 70s? The music's dissonance and lack of traditional metrical structure added intensity to the dramatic action. It kept the viewer very aware of the events of the film.

That said, the plotline of this particular film was often difficult to follow. For starters, it was difficult to make out exactly who the Black figure in the white suit was supposed to be. Was he a Satan figure? It certainly appears that way in the scenes when Sun Ra and this figure are in the desert (wilderness?). These particular scenes seem to allude to Christ's temptation in the wilderness. Sun Ra's portrayal as a Christ figure is a constant throughout the film.

There were many disturbing images in the film. The objectification of women is terrible. There doesn't seem to be any redemption in it. And boy is there a lot of nudity. Furthermore, there are many aspects of the film that are just plain laughable. The fact that Sun Ra is going to be "tortured" into giving out his secret on how to "convert harmonic progressions into energy" by forcing him to listen to Dixie is ridiculous. I'm assuming I wasn't supposed to take that seriously in any way.

However, there are some interesting points made in the film. For example, when Sun Ra appears at the youth center (?) and makes his speech about being a myth he makes very bold and valid statements. If he would have only followed that direction more.

Now, lets talk about the ending. Some very interesting things happen in the end. First, Sun Ra's "powers" come full circle. He "raptures" those who have "fallen" during the struggle up to his starship and also beckons them by way of "harmonic vibrations?". Just before that, there is a "resurrection" scene with a mummy (still not quite sure what exactly that's about). There is the scene where the dope user feels called to Sun Ra's starship. He tells Sun Ra that the reason he was using dope was because he "never felt like part of something." That certainly simplifies the situation, now doesn't it? Perhaps the most interesting part of the movie is how the African American news man is treated in the ending.

At the end of the film, the man approaches Sun Ra. He has decided to stay on earth, to take his chances despite Sun Ra's warning. As he begins to walk away Sun Ra stops him. Sun Ra tells him that he can't take his blackness with him, he'll take that with him on his starship. The next time the man is seen in the film he is no longer wearing his white gloves and white shoes, his way of speaking changes, and the way he interacts with others is completely different. When he comes to the "gentlemen's house" the other Black man calls him a boy in a derrogatory fashion. What is the man's reaction? "You colored people never learn, do you." Does this mean he is no longer a person of color? Not if Sun Ra took his blackness right? And if he is no longer Black, what is the film saying about what it means to be black or, as Sun Ra might put it, be "of the black spirit"?

So, who can be saved? This film seems to say that only Black people can be saved. And what exactly does it mean to be "saved" as far as Sun Ra is concerned? That I'm not sure about.

Lady Sings the Blues and Non-Playing So-Called Critics

I won't lie, it would be nice to see/read about a jazz musician's life that was happy (I know that's not the point, Mike, but just thought I'd share).


It is clear that "The Story" is still at play in this week's jazz biopic. The film was another representation of how the life of a highly talented, black, jazz musician was torn apart by poverty, sexual abuse, and drug addiction. Although the autobiography portrays a Holiday that is a functional addict (I'm sure Hollywood didn't think that kind of story would sell as well), one can't help but notice that the same themes (poverty, sexual abuse, drug addiction) are major factors in the book. This case is also supported by this week's article, "Jazz Autobiography." The article made it perfectly clear that the life of a black jazz musician is a hard one--any discrepancies to pure fact aside.

The article's opening section, which quoted Mile's experience with jazz history at Juilliard from his autobiography resonated most with me. Clearly, the professor's explanation of why black people played the blues was horrifically erroneous and demonstrated the generation's ignorance on the subject. Yet when I think of the "history" that jazz autobiographies tell me I should believe, I can't help but think, "there's more to it than that!" Right? Maybe? Of course, I'm not entirely comfortable making such a statement (after all, I certainly wouldn't want to be considered a non-playing so-called critic).

I would appreciate, however, some clarification on the following concerns: Are we now equating the jazz musician's life with jazz music? Are we saying that one is the direct effect of the other (which I might understad), are we saying that one influences the other (which I feel is obvious), or are we saying that the two--life of a jazz musician/jazz music--are interchangeable (which I'm not so comfortable with). Maybe my confusion is due in part to my absence from class last week when we discussed the other biographical films.

I'm quite excited to hear what everyone has to say on the subject.

The Story: A Fine Romance

Reading Gabbard's chapter, "Black and Tan Fantasies," really helped stabalize my previous reaction to this week's films within a greater context. I especially appreciated his section on "The Story." When I first watched the films, particularly Sweet Love Bitter, which I watched long before I did the reading, the plot seemed so generic, so predetermined--like going to watch some chick-flick and knowing exactly what you're going to get before the film begins. But I expected more from this film, especially given that it was based on the life of a real jazz musician. I wanted the film to show the complications that make up real life. Maybe I came into the film with too high an expectation because, when those expectations weren't met, I walked away feeling like an opportunity had been missed, like something could have been done or said--about jazz--that wasn't.

Gabbard's chapter, however, really brought it all into perspective. It makes sense now that the plot would seem generic. When all is said and done, it is.

...a musician of genius, [insert any black musician here], frustrated by the discrepancy between what he can achieve and the crummy life musicians lead (because of racial discrimination ,or the demand that the music be made commerical, or because he has a potential he can't reach), goes mad, or destroys himself with alcohol and drugs...

This is exactly what I thought when I finished watching the film. I remember talking to a fellow classmate and saying something to the effect of, "Sweet Smell of Success? Yeah, basically poverty + drugs + prostitution = JAZZ."

Although it still seems incredible to me that this kind of film, the jazz biopic, can be so formulaic, I can at least appreciate--(okay, maybe appreciate is too gracious a word)--understand Sweet Love Bitter for what it is: an insight into popular, American culture.

The Sweet Smell of Success and DOA

It was, at first, difficult to distance myself from the story lines in each of the films we watched this week. It was so easy to just sit back and enjoy the story, to forget that I was suppossed to be watching it as an active participant rather than just a spectator of dramatic action. The technological advancements in film make it so easy to just enjoy the show. But, fear not, the wee academic in me won out in the end--I hope.

My first--almost instinctual--reaction was that the movies were merely more examples of how film portrays jazz as being in the midst of events of questionable morale. In that restpect, the films brought to mind the "Sin in Syncopation" article we read earlier on in the semester. Although, as we've mentioned in class, the article takes an extremist view against jazz music, the films we've watched so far certainly don't help to remedy the situation--DOA and Sweet Smell of Success included. In DOA the jazz club facilitates a murder. In the Sweet Smell of Success, it seems that individuals of questionable character are a jazz club's regulars.

However, upon closer analysis, it must be noted that the actual jazz musician in Sweet Smell of Success is the embodiment of honor and goodness in the film, complicating my previous, too-neat-and-easy assumption. Thejazz guitarist is the good guy, the guy with the wholesome morals, willing to stick by his convictions and take the consequences, unwilling to be part of anything remotely crooked. It can be assumed that the girl in the film leaves the easy life, a life of glamour and comfort, for a life as part of the jazz scene, in this particular case, a life where all that is goodness, honor, and ideals govern.

DOA, on the other hand... Well, you've got that one scene that takes place in the jazz club, right? It's the pivotal scene in the story and what's going on?... A married woman has too much to drink and is now hitting on another man right in front of her husband. There's the crazy man that we're told is intoxicated not by drink but by the music itself. And, of course, a man is murdered and he doen't even know it. What is this saying about jazz music? Is it a kind of drug? Can it only lead to your own destruction? It certainly doesn't seem to say that it's good for the soul. It should also be noted that the film seems to portray the jazz consumer as being a little off his rocker. Jazzies--those swingin' weirdos.

Now, if you'll please open your Bibles to Revelation chapter 7

I've got to say I thoroughly enjoyed the film this week. I enjoyed the story line, the special effects--I most enjoyed the musical numbers. But, of course, that's not enough for this blog, right? Right. So here goes...

Although I feel that both Naremore and Knee make interesting and valid points, I won't deny that, once again, in the tradition of good, left-wing academicians, they've gone just a bit too far for me. Let's talk costume-shop.

Okay, so Naremore says:
[Cabin in the Sky's] racist implications become especially apparent when we realize how often the two opposed realms are depicted respectively in shades of blackness and whiteness. The nightclub is situated in a noirish street, whereas the cabin is often flooded with light; Joe wears black tie and tails when he spends the Devil's money, and a white robe when he ascends a stairway to paradise; the Devil's henchmen (costumed as big-city elevator operators) are dressed completely in black, in contrast with the soldiers of the Lord, who wear uniforms of glowing white.

Nancy says:
GIVE ME A BREAK!
Look, I'm not saying there aren't "racist implications" in the film, what I am saying is that this is NOT one of them. It's sad, really, that a clearly intelligent individual can't see past his own agenda. Sorry, Naremore, but the good guys have been dressing in white since Bible times. Is it so fantastical, then, that as Petunia and Little Joe ascend the staircase to Heaven they would be dressed in white robes? That might as well be straight out of the book of Revelation. Okay, I don't want to get preachy. Moving on...

There is all this talk about jazz music not being "free" in the film. I don't know. I'm going to stick by what I've been saying for the entire semester. It's just not that simple. Jazz music, like every other form of music, is not a stable thing. It changed from Dixieland to Swing, and--Naremore beware--it hasn't even gotten to free jazz yet. So, are the performances choreographed? Sure, but that's performance for you. Nobody goes up for a performance without a plan--so this one's just a little more thought out. And, again, this isn't the venue for an all-out jam session--the only thing, I feel, would make Naremore and Knee truly satisfied.

Just a thought: Anybody else see a striking resemblance between Ethel Waters' night club dance moves and Charlotte Greenwood's "signature" dance moves? I know I saw similar moves in earlier films in the semester (can't remember which one) featuring an African American artist. Or was it just a popular move? Even if it was, I know Greenwood was famous for them.

Check & Double Check

This was, by far, a much easier film to watch than last week's. What amazed me most was the incredible leaps that the film industry took in just a few years. This films was much more like those we know today.

I have to say, I don't think I'd ever seen blackface until now. I mean, yes, I'd seen a couple of scenes, as there was in The Jazz Singer and in other films I'd watched when I was younger, but I'd never seen an entire film where two characters were in blackface the entire time. It made me uncomfortable. But I can't help but wonder if I would have been uncomfortable before having spent the last few weeks discussing the subject critically. I know I definitely felt uncomfortable during those times I laughed. Are we not supossed to laugh? Is that wrong?

Something else I found striking was the way language was such an integral part of the performance. I mean, the actors were clearly using a kind of "dialect" when speaking as Amos and Andy. This definitely made me think of our previous readings on the topic and certainly how dialect is so wrapped up in stereotype.

The King of Jazz

I couldn't help but think of Singin' in the Rain when we saw The King of Jazz this week, particularly the "Beautiful Girls" scene in the musical. Of course, the musical takes place during the time of the first "talkie." It references early cinematic aesthetics. In that respect, I really enjoyed experiencing early cinema first hand and making connections with those old films I grew up watching.

As far as jazz is concerned, the film brought to mind Rogin's "Blackface, White Noise" article. In the article, Rogin briefly mentions how there is a point in American history when jazz comes to mean almost any kind of up-beat music. Although I didn't agree with him as far as The Jazz Singer is concerned, I think that this film is an excellent example of what he was referencing. The music in the film is more reminiscent of carnival series music. By carnival series music I mean the music of John Philip Sousa and Jean-Baptiste Arban--two musicians that, in my opinion, redefine late 19th-century music and are big influences in early 20th-century popular music. Sousa is directly referenced as his marches find their way into the "jazz" music of the film. And, of course, who can miss the sousaphones in the band. Clearly, the film is trying to represent jazz as a purely American genre. The guy with the bycicle pump reminded me of Arban's famous variation solos--here's the theme, now let me show you all the ways I can play that theme. In a way, I feel that what the film hoped to accomplish was to anglocize jazz. It certainly seems that way when the closing number--the "melting pot" of jazz--credits only European influences. The result is the dryest, straightest "jazz" music on the planet.

As far as the visual spectacle is concerned, clearly Americans have always loved their slapstick comedy. The film seems to be a predecessor to the variety shows that will be very popular in later decades. But, most of all, what stood out to me was the overly-physical spectacle in Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue." I wonder if the clarinet player was being so physical in order to mimic the movement that is so present in so many jazz musicians. Was the film, then saying: Look, we move too, we really are playing jazz. It certainly seemed that way to me. It made me think that the whole idea behind the film was to show spectacle for the sake of spectacle. Something else that stood out to me was how much of the "world" the film portrays in stereotype. The whole finale was one huge stereotype.

Louis Armstrong and The Salvation Army

I came to the readings this week hoping to discover something to ease my mind from the troubling images I encountered in viewing the week's films.

As I mentioned in class last Tuesday, before I took this seminar I'd been assigned readings in previous courses that described Louis Armstrong's performance in Rhapsody in Black and Blue. I had automatically reacted negatively towards those who'd criticized Armstrong for his participation in the film, calling him an Uncle Tom. It made me flat out angry. What right did anyone have to dictate another individuals decisions? What did it matter what he was wearing, this was Louis Armstrong. It was unfair that he be expected to put his own personal convictions aside in order to make his entire race happy. Now, having seen the film for myself, I realize it isn't such a black and white issue (no pun intended).

To be perfectly honest, I was taken aback by his performance in the film. Here is a man who I've been taught to respect as a serious musician, a leading trumpet performer, dressed in leopard skins and wearing a tail. He's certainly nothing like the Louis Armstrong I'd first seen wearing an elegant tux with a different kind of tail while singing "Hello Dolly." And, I've been struggling with this since.

Two of this week's readings were particularly insightful on the matter: Philip Auslander's Personae (which I won't discuss here as it is the basis for my presentation tomorrow and I don't want to bore anyone twice) and the second chapter of Marvin Carlson's Performance: A Critical Introduction, more specifically his explanation of Umberto Eco's ostentation.

The image of the drunkard standing by The Salvation Army helped me to better grasp the range of meaning that one could bring to the Armstrong film, as well as any given image. Not only did it serve as a useful tool of reference with which to contextualize an idea that might otherwise be a bit too abstract to grasp easily (at least for me), but, also, it allowed me a "hands on" approach to the material. I should explain.

According to Carlson's explanation of Eco's ostentation, any meaning attributed to the drunkard standing by The Salvation Army only exists as a product of some interpreter recognizing signs in that image. And, quoting another theorist, that primary sign only exixts "because it is interpreted as a sign of something by some interpreter." In turn, I took this to mean that the range of signs, and therefore meaning alloted to those signs, is wholly dependent on the individual observer. In the case of Armstrong's film, the audience.

Back to Carlson's image. Your average American, upon seeing a drunkard by The Salvation Army might be lead to intrepret the sings in the following manner: Drunkard = representation of vice; Salvation Army = social service agency to the rescue. I bring the image to mind and think: Drunkard = soul in need; Salvation Army = Faith in action. The same two signs (drunkard/Salvatin Army) lead to completely different conclusions/reactions. Why? Well, in this particular case, my interpretation of those signs comes from my family upbringing. I'm a fourth-generation Salvationist. That means I see a Salvation Army sign and automatically think Church first, Christian service second--either way, the sign is always connected to my Faith. Next, I see a drunkard and automatically think: icon of Salvation Army history.

So, why am I sharing all of this? Well, as I understood the whole idea of ostentation (despite the fact that I feel like I'm talking in circles and have a nagging suspicion that this makes no sense to anyone but me), the reason one thing means something to me and something completely different to someone else, especially where visual spectacle is concerned, is due to the fact that, althought we both see one image, we each recognize different signs in that image.

Okay, stay with me just a little longer. Two people watch one image: A Salvation Army building. Each person thinks they see the same thing as the other. Are they? Physically speaking, Yes. Does that mean they see the same 'sign?' Absolutely not. One image; Two signs. You see social services; I see church. Does that make any sense?

Alright, so all of this to say...

There can be two ways of interpreting Armstrong's film. The key lies in what the audience interprets as signs. And, why does this matter? It matters because it means there's hope. It means that Rhapsody in Black and Blue doesn't automatically mean that Louis Armstrong is an Uncle Tom or a sell-out or anything awful like that. And that is important.

The End.

Rogin's Jazz Singer

I’m not going to say that Rogin’s essay, “Blackface, White Noise,” does not make some valid points; clearly there are instances where he provides valuable insight into the Warner Brother’s film, The Jazz Singer. I will say, however, that, in my opinion, the bad points far outweigh the good. At times I found myself questioning how he could possibly be referring to the Al Jolson film I’d seen. Rogin’s essay overflows with statements that are a stretch, at best. “The jazz singer escapes his Old World identity through blackface,” he writes, follows shortly with “The Jazz Singer [uses] black men for access to forbidden white women,” and then later with “Jack is the ‘master minstrel,’ […] his blackface double is his slave.” I understand the point he’s trying to make—the Jew uses the Black man in order to climb the White American ladder—but I’m afraid I feel that Rogin turns to the use of cheap tactics in order to validate his point (certainly this is evident in that last statement, a clear manipulation of the souvenir program’s words). His interpretation of the “erotic” “Blue Skies” love scene between mother and son, moreover, is more telling of Rogin’s own character than anything remotely relevant to the film or blackface minstrelsy.

Rogin cites the fact that Jack Robin’s “problems are with his father; none are with the gentiles” as another example of how the film “wishes” away the real context of conflict. He writes, “Cantor Rabinowitz’s hostility to American entertainment is not balanced by any American hostility to Jews […] Jack’s judenfrei-ing of the Rabinowitz name, so central to the story, as we shall see, responds only to the attractions of Americanization, not to prejudices against Jews,” which certainly leads one to believe that what Rogin must prefer is a documentary depiction of the life of the American Jew. Of course, that’s certainly not what The Jazz Singer is or was intended to be. Yes, the film ignored the injustices of real life. But was that the point of the film—to show them? If it was, then I retract my criticism of Rogin’s point, but if it’s not, which I feel is the case, then I say it is wholly fruitless to analyze the film in such a manner. Maybe I’ve missed the point, if so, please, Somebody, point it out.

What I find most upsetting, and saddening really, is the fact that in pushing his point (“Jack develops his character—expresses his interior, find his own voice—by employing blackface caricature.”) it almost feels as though Rogin is denying any identity other than that of the “Old World” to Jewish Americans. It sounds a bit as though he’s saying, without blackface, you have no identity—then again, maybe I’m stretching it a bit there myself. But, if “Raphaelson nor the intertiles acknowledge blackface as the instrument of that [Hebraic particularism to American universalism] transformation,” then might it be because it’s not? Maybe? Either way, the point cannot be evaded long, for when Rogin states that “blackface also gives Jack access to allegedly black qualities—intense emotionality and the musical expression that results from it,” here Rogin is clearly saying that Jack’s “tear” in his singing is the result of his blackface identity. I guess Rogin didn’t feel it necessary to pay any attention to the film where its clearly states that he gets his, as Rogin puts it, “emotionality and the musical expression that results from it,” from his Jewish father.

Then of course is Rogin’s point that the “delayed insight [the link between jazz, speech, and individual freedom] suggests why the first talking picture wanted to lay claim to jazz […] and why, in a racially hierarchical society, The Jazz Singer assigned freedom to a blackface ventriloquist rather than to an African American jazz musician.” It seems Rogin has forgotten the point he made previously about the Warner brothers being Jewish. It seems to me that what they wanted to do was represent themselves, tell their story, and blackface was a part of their history too—after all, Rogin does go through the trouble of making sure the reader knows Jolson is not the only Jew who’s made a name for himself by performing in blackface.

And, finally, how can I leave out Rogin’s argument that what every critic seems to miss is the fact that there is no jazz in The Jazz Singer: “Jazz may have been the Jazz Age’s name for any up-tempo music (Tin Pan Alley was selling most of its produc under the heading of ‘jazz’), but the indiscriminate use of the term no more excuses The Jazz Singer’s missing sound than blackface compensates for the absence of blacks.” A part of me just wants to really wish Rogin isn’t being serious. I mean, surely, he mustn’t only consider jazz to be bebop and the like. But alas, he is serious. Clearly ragtime does not constitute Rogin’s idea of jazz or the sound of jazz—someone should have told Scott Joplin.

The Critical Eye

I really enjoyed reading The Critical Eye. I especially liked the fact that it didn't assume the reader had any background on the subject. I'll admit, at times I wish it did assume. There were times when I didn't think three paragraphs were really necessary to explain a close-up.

Some areas that were of specific interest to me: how quickly media can influence society, and the effect that camara angles can have on viewers.

In the first chapter of the book, the authors write how only 38 months after the people of Fiji are introduced to American television programs, 74% of the teenage girls said they were too fat, 62% began dieting, and 15% found the answer to their dieting dilemmas in induced vomiting. How sad is that. This concept is definitely not anything new to me. I mean, everybody talks about how self-image is thwarted by the media. What I didn't realize was how quickly those effects would make themselves noticed. Along the same lines, when refering to how media affects its viewers, the writers state, "No one actually has to belong to any of the modeled groups. One only needs to want to belong and to want to be like the figures in the ads, to identify with them." Again, this isn't anything new. But what struck me was the-matter-of-fact way the writers present the material. I mean, I don't like to admit that I fall into the kind of audience the writers are talking about. Surely, I should be smarter than to fall prey to such tactics.

I also found the writer's discussion of the effect of camaran angles on audience percetion in chapter three particularly revealing. I have never paid ay attention to thechnical aspects of film like camara angle. The only time I remember making any notice of the technicalities of filming was when seeing Romeo + Juliet for the first and last time. But the fact that something like camara angle can affect real life--that's just scary.

This book has made me realize how important it is to view films critically. There is a whole level of understanding I've been missing out on.

Black Like You

I’ll start off by saying that, now that I’ve read it, I’m exhausted. There are so many issues that are brought up in the text. And, I can’t help but feel a bit disillusioned by it all. I understand, of course, that this is probably not the point. Maybe my reading of the text is far too shallow. But if we’re going to talk about reactions, here’s mine. What’s the point of discussing this if there just doesn’t seem to be a way of getting it right, of finding some answer, some solution? Of course, according to Strausbaugh, the solution lies in the discussion of the issues. I certainly hope he’s right. To make my case, however, take for example, Strausbaugh’s discussion on negro-dialect literature in chapter five. Of Paul Laurence Dunbar’s writing Strausbaugh states:

“There’s life in Dunbar’s best dialect verses, music, humor, vivacity. If he can be accused of literary blackface, can’t a reverse critique be made of his and Johnson’s formal verse—that it was a kind of phony whiteface poesy? And shouldn’t it be noted that, whether writing in dialect or with grave formality, they were doing whatever they thought was needed to reach White readers and audiences? They wore the mask. They were slumming, like Will Marion Cook and Bert Williams and countless others, and they knew it. It beat waiting tables or digging ditches.” (182)

And he’s right, isn’t he? I mean, what strikes me most of all is what seems to me to be a never-ending cycle of criticism. If you do it this way you’re an Uncle Tom. If you do it that way, you’re “wearing the mask.” And this is only one example. He gives plenty more. So what can one do?

I feel my cultural background, something that I have always believed to be a privilege—to experience, first hand, two completely different cultures—may, in this particular case, be a real disadvantage. I was born in Mexico to a Mexican father and an Anglo mother. I see myself as being fully Mexican as well as being fully White. My life has been marked by trying to accommodate this duality in my identity. So, when it comes to reading texts like Black Like You, there is a part of me that becomes so incredibly frustrated. I feel like I’m supposed to choose a side. I just don’t know which side that is.

Strausbaugh calls America a “mutt” culture several times throughout the text. I know this idea is something that some of my closest friends are fiercely against. And, though I will admit that there is something unsettling about describing an entire culture in this particular manner, something about it gives me comfort. The melting pot—“an industrial crucible, a smelting pot where the ‘metals’ of various races and ethnicities [are] hot-forged and hammered into a newer, stronger national identity, the American alloy,” (134)—it just sounds right to me. Maybe it has something to do with my own cultural background, something to do with my feeling that the only place where someone like me can belong would have to be a “melting pot.” I know that I will be criticized for feeling this way. There will be plenty of people that will call me ignorant. But if we’re going to talk about reactions, here’s mine.