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.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, February 11, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)