Archival photos
DETROIT C-
USA (143 mi) 2017 d:
Kathryn Bigelow Official
site
Sometimes the fact that Kathryn Bigelow used to be the wife
of mega-blockbuster champion James Cameron is all too apparent, and this,
unfortunately, is one of those times.
Arguably the biggest misstep in Bigelow’s entire career, this film is a
true embarrassment, with a promising subject matter, revisiting the Detroit
rebellion of 1967, where the film’s release commemorates the 50th anniversary
of the event. Yet this film reveals next
to nothing about black life, or black history, offering little relevant
commentary at all, and instead focuses the story on a lone racist cop and the
havoc he wreaks over the course of 24 hours, culminating in a hysterically
exaggerated incident where blacks at a motel are rounded up and terrorized,
using intimidation techniques gone wrong that result in several murders, where
this choice to single out a psychopathic policeman demeans the experience
overall, where accuracy is undermined by questionable facts, making credibility
an issue, all of which takes away attention from those residents who saw their
homes and neighborhood go up in flames, leaving a destroyed city in ruins. In a desire to overinflate a particularly
sadistic portrait of police brutality, Bigelow resorts to hand-held camera action
techniques to heighten the interest, where her film amounts to exploitation,
where bigger is better, a device her ex-husband used relentlessly throughout
his career, but in this case it actually takes interest away from the victims,
who appear bleeding and cowering against a wall while passively standing in a
line, each thinking they may be the next victims, as the police, with their
brazenly unlawful interrogation tactics, generate all the action through a
prolonged sequence of inflicted terror.
In a major misstep, Bigelow transfers all the power and interest to the
police, who become the featured characters, dominating the screen time,
allowing some to even sympathize with the cops, while the rest are minimized
and silenced. Through a chaotic editing
style, Bigelow’s lead-up never sticks with a single black character long enough
for any of them to become sympathetic to the audience, instead there is a
series of fractured events that are set amidst the chaos and anarchy of the
developing riots, where a constant stream of new characters are
introduced. This creates a narrative
vacuum that only the police are allowed to fill. Unfortunately, in her zeal to dramatize the
racial divide, she empowers the police with absolute autonomy, where the
centerpiece of the film is not just inflated police hysteria, but an endlessly
prolonged sequence taking up nearly half the film of unending psychopathic
police torture on innocent victims, who feel as though they’ve been kidnapped,
subjected to acts of murder, where the open display of white racist contempt
towards blacks is not only sick, but psychotic, plumbing the depths of moral
depravity. To suggest such barbaric
criminal behavior occurred would be one thing, but to make it the featured
aspect of the film is simply misguided, showing misplaced priorities. There isn’t an ounce of subtlety to this
film, as Bigelow uses a hammer to the head, literally driving in her message
like a pile driver. One could grow
concussed after the experience.
No one is disputing an ugly history of police brutality, but
Bigelow is the wrong director to deliver this message, as she seems immune to
the black experience, unwilling or unable to tell their story. Even in the middle of one of the worst black
riots in American history the story she chooses to tell almost exclusively
involves the actions of white people.
Coincidentally, if one takes a look at the film’s development team, the
director, the writers, the producers, the editors, and the cinematographers —
all are white. Nothing speaks to a lack
of diversity like the creative team behind a film. And therein lies the problem. If ever a film cries out for the need to hire
people of color when filming historically relevant events that are part of
black history, this is it. How can
Bigelow be so blind to what actually happened, as the riots and street
rebellion only constitute a few minutes of screen time near the beginning and
are largely ignored by her film.
Completely missing is why it ever happened in the first place. The film looks for no answers, but instead
delivers a heavy-handed message that feels like smug Hollywood sermonizing, as
Detroit’s black voices are simply neglected.
If a director wants to link these events to Ferguson, one of the most
notorious recent flare-ups of police overreaction, much of it due to the
militarization of the police forces, actually sending tanks into the streets
(as they were in Detroit when they called in the National Guard) following a
demonstrative public reaction to yet another police killing, then the common
denominator or human interest story needs to be delivered from the resident’s
point of view, as this is the story that Hollywood and the major news outlets
never tell. For instance, the Black
Lives Matter organization was formed after a constant stream of black
fatalities from the hands of the police led to no change in police behavior,
suggesting at least to police, black lives don’t matter, where in almost all
instances the policemen responsible were not charged or held accountable for
their behavior, so the pattern of routine police killings of young blacks
continues. Yet from the police point of
view (and the President, apparently, according to a similar argument made by
his personal attorney, Joe Dowd, as reported in The New York Times, Trump
Lawyer Forwards Email Echoing Secessionist Rhetoric - The ...), even today,
the Black Lives Matter group is viewed as a terrorist organization (Since when
is fighting against racial injustice an act of terrorism?), which shows just
how out of touch they are with what the problem is, as young black suspects are
clearly treated differently than whites, where a double standard is not only
ingrained into routine police procedures, but also the criminal justice
system. For instance, blacks are
arrested at nearly 3 times the rate of other Americans, where the rate is even
higher for murder (6 times) and robbery (8 times), while the likelihood of
black males going to prison in their lifetime is 28% compared to 4% of white
males, and if that black male drops out of high school, the number skyrockets
to 50%, while at the moment it is estimated that the police kill a black man,
woman, or child every 28 hours. Now this
is fifty years “after” the events depicted in the film, suggesting little, if
anything, has changed for black lives in America.
The opening few minutes of the film are the most inventive,
an animated sequence based upon Jacob Lawrence’s Migration Series, a panel of
60 paintings produced in 1941, funded by the WPA, illustrating the mass exodus
of blacks from the American South, lasting from 1916 until 1970, seeking refuge
in cities like New York, Chicago, and Detroit, not only in search of job
opportunities, but escaping racism and the threat of lynchings, hoping to find
freedom and a better life, but instead they were met with police brutality,
harassment, redlining, and more violence, as racism and segregation were just
as pernicious in the north, where in Detroit, elite police teams known as the
Big Four notoriously cruised the streets, one uniformed officer and three guys
in suits, big beefy guys riding around in Chrysler 300’s, reputedly hauling
shotguns and other unauthorized weaponry in their trunks, like baseball bats,
Billy clubs, and brass knuckles, making it their business to routinely stop and
harass black people with impunity, regularly assaulting young teenage boys,
inflicting serious damage, even resorting to stealing packs of cigarettes from
underage kids. (“Got a pack for me
today?”) Kids from all-black schools
would travel to all-white suburban schools for sporting events, but the referees
would make calls exclusively in favor of the white teams. Anyone who’s read The Autobiography of Malcolm X recalls that his pregnant mother
(with Malcolm) and preacher father’s family home in Omaha, Nebraska was burned
to the ground by the Klu Klux Klan riding on horseback, who surrounded the
house with shotguns and rifles, shattering all the windows, forcing them to
flee to Milwaukee, where they were awakened one night by pistol shots, as again
the house was set ablaze. Next he lived
for a while on the outskirts of East Lansing, Michigan, home of Michigan State
University, which maintained a common practice with many other neighboring
cities at the time, as no blacks were allowed on the city streets after
dark. Detroit has a shameful pattern of
housing discrimination that goes back nearly 100 years. When blacks moved into the city, whites moved
to protected neighborhoods, where 80% of the Detroit property outside the inner
city was subject to racial covenants, where white residents established
neighborhood associations to strictly enforce the rules. Even as early as 1945, when a respectable
middle class black family purchased a home in an all-white neighborhood in
Detroit, the white neighbors sued, with the Wayne County Circuit Court siding
with the white property owners, claiming the covenant forbid blacks from owning
property in that neighborhood. And like
Trump and his father who did the same with their property in New York, many
landlords openly refused to rent to blacks, or charged them 20-40% more for
rent than white renters. The government
in Detroit enforced racially segregated public housing and the mayor used his
veto power to block integration and public housing sites in white areas of the
city. White homeowners traditionally
greeted blacks who attempted to move into white neighborhoods with violence,
throwing bricks through windows, breaking in and damaging personal possessions,
burning effigies and crosses on their lawns, and basically harassing them
endlessly until they left. This is the
messy, untold story that Bigelow’s film ignores, as there’s a reason blacks in
Detroit distrust the police in the mid 60’s (where the story begins), as
they’re seen as an occupying force, with a history of routinely committing acts
of violence against them and continually getting away with it. In other words, to police, white property
interests, which they serve and protect, are diametrically opposed to black
interests. It’s a saga that sounds very
familiar to the carnage in New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina in 2005, as
the police protected the white neighborhoods and did little to stop the total
destruction and utter annihilation of the black neighborhoods, which stayed
underwater the longest, the last to have power and water restored, where little
more than a third of the destroyed houses have been rebuilt, with empty lots on
every block maintaining a ghostly presence even ten years afterwards. Sad but true.
In an opening police raid, busting into The Blind Pig, a
black, after-hours drinking and gambling joint honoring returning Vietnam
veterans, the customers scatter but escape routes are closed off, where they
are quickly rounded up and hauled against an outside wall on the street until a
succession of paddy wagons can take them all to jail, drawing the attention of
people gathering on the street, who express their anger at the police, turning
into an angry mob when delays prevent getting more transport vehicles, where
language grows more abusive and people start throwing bottles and bricks at
departing police cars, who barely escape unharmed, as it has already turned
into an out-of-control disturbance, with people smashing into storefront
windows and taking whatever they pleased, as there was no longer any visible
police presence. A festive atmosphere
continued on the streets well into the next day, as the badly outnumbered
police couldn’t control the swelling pandemonium, as rowdiness continued and
looting spread, where as many as 10,000 people were mingling on the street,
with burglar alarms going off constantly and shattered glass could be seen
everywhere, with looters growing in confidence, where initially food and liquor
were targeted, but eventually people were seen carrying sofas down the
street. A young Congressman John
Conyers, a Detroit Democrat, climbs on top of a car using a bullhorn to
encourage residents to calm down and go home, but he was met with a chorus of
“No, no,” as bottles were thrown immediately afterwards. From the black perspective, it was difficult
to be surprised or upset when all the fires, looting, and confrontations with
police broke out, as many felt it was about time, as it expressed a
long-existing, hidden rage that needed to be unleashed. From a white perspective, it makes no
rational sense to burn down one’s own neighborhood, but the rage could simply
not be contained, continuing over the next five days, with entire blocks in
flames, where it looked like a bombed out war zone, with entire blocks reduced
to rubble and ash, as 43 people died, over 2000 stores were looted, more than
2500 buildings either burned to the ground or damaged beyond repair, most never
rebuilt, with nearly 400 families displaced and over 7000 arrests, as
Republican Governor George Romney called in the State police and the National
Guard, along with U.S. Army paratroopers from the 82nd and 101st airborne units,
with heavily armed tanks arriving on the scene, sent in to stop the exploding
anarchy from spreading into other neighborhoods. The bridges and tunnels to Canada were closed
as the city essentially shut down. In
this Armageddon, we see a couple policemen prowl the neighborhoods in a
convertible, like they were out for a leisurely Sunday drive, where one of
them, Officer Krauss (Will Poulter), pursues a looter carrying a bag of
groceries, defying standing orders not to shoot as he fires two shotgun blasts in
the man’s back as he attempts to flee, leaving him to bleed to death. When interviewed by superiors to explain his
actions, he casually offers the explanation that police have little choice, as
doing nothing allows rampant criminality to continue. He is allowed back on duty pending further
investigation, but he will be personally responsible for several more murders
before the night is done. In a two and a
half hour movie, Bigelow uses the street rebellion purely as a backdrop to her
larger story, adding another narrative thread about an up-and-coming R&B
group called the Dramatics warming up backstage at Detroit’s historic Fox
Theatre (not used, as a similar looking theater in Massachusetts is utilized
instead), as they are expected to follow Martha & the Vandellas who are
currently onstage performing Martha and the Vandellas -
Nowhere To Run - YouTube (2:53). But
instead, the theater closes due to security concerns based on the turmoil taking
place on the streets outside, with lead singer Larry Reed (Algee Smith)
heartbroken that he missed his big chance, as Motown record executives were in
the audience. Heading home afterwards,
the bus is attacked by a mob throwing bottles through the windows, where they
are forced to disperse, finding their way to the nearby Algiers Motel, which is
like an oasis in the storm, with guests relaxing in a swimming pool, playing
music, having cocktails, completely unaware there is a riot going on.
In another controversial move, Bigelow introduces a
storyline of Melvin Dismukes (John Boyega), a black security guard holed up in
a nearby store, hired to protect it from looters, a guy who ingratiates himself
with the nearly all-white National Guard stationed just outside. He will become a silent witness to what
happens next, though some will argue that he participated in the ensuing police
atrocities, led by a return of Officer Krauss, who strangely finds his way to
the Algiers Motel in response to reports of sniper fire coming from one of the
motel windows. At the time, much was
made of sniper fire, especially from military units, though there was scant
evidence any more than a few snipers existed, yet it becomes a buzzword, as
that was the excuse for unleashing heavy firepower directly into heavily
populated neighborhoods. Many believe
that the primarily all-white National Guard units had never set foot in the
city of Detroit or any all-black neighborhoods before, becoming trigger-happy
at every unfamiliar sound. With the
camera finally content to remain at the Algiers, this becomes the predominate
setting of the film, as a few more guests are introduced, including two out of
state white girls, Julie Ann (Hannah Murray) and Karen (Kaitlyn Dever), women
who are written into the film as the director apparently identifies with them,
who seem to easily mingle with the black guests, attracting the interest of
Larry and his friend Fred (Jacob Lattimore), who try and hit on the girls, but
realize they are connected to other guests at the motel, including a returning
war veteran, the greatly underutilized Anthony Mackie as Greene, who starred in
Bigelow’s earlier film The
Hurt Locker (2008), but barely makes a presence here, while another one of
motel guests has a toy starter pistol that makes a loud sound, but fires no
bullets. The commotion caused by its
noise, however, leads to a large-scale police assault, with the army firing
live rounds into the window where it came from, with guests rounded up by
police and lined against a wall, mirroring the opening sequence, but here there
are no paddy wagons taking them to jail, instead they are subject to the
monstrosity of Officer Krauss’s own home-grown brand of racist vitriol that all
but contaminates the remainder of the film, using grotesque intimidation
tactics, threatening to kill them all unless they provide the sniper’s
weapon. With this, he then holds the
viewers and the guests hostage for more than an hour as he threatens and abuses
them one by one in vicious attacks, a lengthy, overdrawn sequence that simply
derails the film, becoming another example of Hollywood torture porn,
undermining any remaining credibility, as this scenario is pure speculation and
probably never happened (actual witness testimony was inconsistent), but
creates such an indisputably despicable picture of a racist cop gone rogue,
whose beleaguered efforts are purely amateurish, yet the aftermath leaves three
dead victims behind, whose cold-blooded murders are hardly accidental, but
remain part of a sustained mindset where blacks are viewed as subservient,
where the white women must be prostitutes, in the cop’s eyes, as otherwise what
business would they have associating with so many blacks? This kind of Neanderthal thinking is the
heart and soul of the film, the moral centerpiece, yet is so atrociously
pathetic to endure in this day and age that the film can only be roundly condemned. Much like John Wayne’s Ethan Edwards
character in THE SEARCHERS (1956), his race hatred keeps him outside
conventional society, yet he’s the star of the film, a tragic figure, to be
sure, but still the action figure that, despite his flaws, endears himself to
the viewing public, where John Wayne remains the picture of a beloved American
hero, whose dirty business and questionable moral acts have been undertaken in
protection of his family, so in the end all is forgiven. That was the major flaw in John Ford’s film,
which despite its near universal critical acclaim remains one of the most
virulently racist films in history in its deplorable depiction of Indians, who
unlike the Irish, American settlers, or the cavalry, all beloved figures in
Ford films, are routinely portrayed as ignoble savages. The same can be said for this film, as it
drags viewers through the mud with one of the most despicable characters in
recent film history, who perhaps inadvertently, like Wayne, actually becomes
the star of the film, though viewers loathe what they’re forced to witness,
which is to project unapologetically the backward thinking of a confirmed
racist, one who believes in white superiority and places himself outside the
law and above all other people of color, yet his non-stop moral failings
couldn’t be more heinous and cowardly, fabricating evidence and implicating
others with Iago-like conviction, continually covering up his own murderous
criminality, yet in the end he’s the one, due almost entirely to his white
race, that gets off scot free. Shaking
our heads in disgust afterwards, one can only say, regretfully: Only in America.
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